Not much to say here :D Other than enjoy and let me know what you think!
All original characters belong to Ubisoft. Everyone else is mine.
"I-I look…" Maria struggled to find a word that appropriated what she was wearing. With only candles lighting the infirmary, she couldn't tell if she liked the colors of the clothes Hildegard had forced her in.
"You look feminine," Hildegard laughed as she tugged here and there on the gown Maria wore.
"My thoughts were similar to 'ridiculous' and 'foppish'. But, I suppose that's one way to put it," Maria sighed. She stared at herself in the mirror, not believing what she saw, and not once recognizing the woman looking back at her. "That can't be me," she moaned.
Hildegard hummed and ran her fingers through Maria's hair. "Oh, yes it can too be you. Why would you think otherwise, Maria? You're a very beautiful woman; you just hide it with a snarl and caked on sweat all the time. But look at you." Hildegard turned Maria's head back toward the mirror.
And Hildegard, for once, was right. The woman staring back at Maria had long, dark curly hair that almost reached her elbows. Eyes, outlined with black powder—she believed Hildegard called it kohl—blinked back at her.
"Even if the tan didn't go according to plan," Hildegard mused, recalling how only certain places on Maria's body actually tanned (while the rest burned), "no matter! You still look as radiant as ever. In fact, I must say I'm fairly jealous that no one bothered to buy me these silks. Oh, what do you call this dress again? A jelly biscuit?"
"Jalabiya," Damiel corrected from his spot on the bed. For some reason or another, the two women had decided to turn the infirmary into a dressing room without any complaint from Damiel. After all, the boy had a most pleasant wakeup call when he peeked his eyes open to see Maria partly nude. Lucky for him, the two women thought he was still sound asleep.
If only they knew.
"Ah, yes, forgive me. I could really go for a jelly biscuit, though. Feels like years since I last had one," Hildegard moped. "Oh, listen to me, prattling on and on about cuisine when there's work to be done!" She bustled away from Maria, fussing over another garment.
Maria contemplated what she was wearing. While it was nowhere near revealing, as was an honest man's honest wife's custom, she thought the color to be provocative. Red suited Hildegard far more than it did her. Especially deep reds like the one she was wearing, but she hardly had a say in the matter. Patterns threaded in gold and black ran across the bust and skirt. She sighed, wishing she was wearing something blue instead.
She could tell from the envious glint in Hildegard's eyes that she thought the same.
She came back, carrying a long, golden, silk cloth in her hands. "Now, I believe this is somewhat like a shawl, though I forget the fancy term for it. Either way, you have to wear it."
"It's a hijab wrap," Damiel sighed. His head still spun with confusion—just how did he end up here in all places? And where was here, anyways?—and his eyes were heavy with need of sleep. Though he wanted answers more than anything, some part of his foggy brain knew that he was in no condition to deal with the responses he'd earn. On top of wanting explanations, he wished his body wouldn't scream in protest from every small movement he made. He'd tried coaxing Maria and Hildegard to giving him more medicine to dull the pain, but to his dismay, the two women shook their heads and refused his request.
Damiel supposed that women had a better understanding of medicine than men; he'd probably overdose to the point where he'd numb his brain. Then he'd really be a numbskull. Blowing his lips out in frustration from being a useless, aching lump, he decided to keep quiet and to observe, or as Maria would put it, sit down, shut up, and listen.
He watched as Hildegard wrapped the silk around Maria, tucking her groomed hair here and there in the headdress. From what he gathered, Maria was leaving. Where she was leaving from and where her destination was, he was still trying to figure out.
"Oye," he coughed. "Turn around so I can see, por favor."
Maria slowly spun around. He smiled, trying to reassure her and have her stop slouching her shoulders like that. She was beautiful, he had to admit, but she didn't look like Maria. She looked like some divine seraph sent to lure men into their seductive, sadistic clutches. And oh, what a paradox Maria was!
If it wasn't Maria, he'd probably be slurping drool back up and tripping over his own feet just to know her name.
"Bonita," he grinned. "Muy bonita."
She scowled and picked at the hijab. "I don't understand why I have to keep my hair covered, though. This is bound to itch my neck and make me feel as if I'm roasting in an oven."
"Some form of cultural custom, I believe," Hildegard yawned. "Don't fret about it; it'll help conceal your identity, won't it?"
Maria grudgingly nodded in agreement. "I suppose you have a point. I just feel like a foreigner in my own body." She stared at the mirror again, and stated with a blank face, "I look like I'm wearing a rug."
"A very cute rug," Hildegard smiled.
"You could always take the clothes off," Damiel suggested. He shrank under his covers when Maria threatened to burn a hole through him. "It was only an idea," he murmured from under the blankets.
"An idea that you'd best keep to yourself," Maria hissed back.
The infirmary door swung open as Benjamin invited himself in. "The horses are saddled and ready to—blessed Mary and Joseph!" His eyes almost popped out of his sockets when Maria turned to him. She looked ready to explode.
"Tell the truth, Benjamin Mills. I look like a pansy, don't I?"
Hildegard scoffed and shushed Maria with a wave of her hand. "Don't lie just to agree with her, Benjamin Mills. Yes, do tell the truth. She looks beautiful, doesn't she?" She eyed the jalabiya, wondering how much pestering Malik would need to escort her on another shopping spree.
Benjamin's lips flapped together as he stuttered. "W-well, I-I, y-you, oh, for heaven's sake! Maria, you look absolutely stunning, my dear!" He held her hands in his and seemed to swell with pride. "What did I say, Hildegard? I have two beautiful daughters, that's what I said!" He puffed his chest out, his eyes closed and a smug, paternal grin on his face. "Heartbreakers are what you two are."
Damiel popped his head out from the covers and grumbled. "Care to know what else is breaking? My arms, my legs, even my toes!"
"Oh, you hush up," Hildegard pouted as she floated over to him. "You look adorable, too. I must say, you pull off the mummy look nicely, Damiel. Can you name anyone else who wears bandages with such poise and grace?"
"Hysterical, Hildegard, hysterical," he muttered.
"And I must say," Benjamin cut in, "that if you don't stop with this meaningless chit-chat, you'll never leave this fortress. Now, Maria dear, if you're ready, then come along."
"Just one more moment, Benjamin lad." Hildegard scuttled over to a small box and pulled out necklaces and bracelets adorned with fine jewels. "She needs a few more things to look the part, don't you agree?"
Maria felt her insides boil as Hildegard forced the bangles and pendants on her, even attaching some to her headdress. She never minded jewelry—in a small sum, of course—but wearing all these gaudy, clinky things reminded her of a whore.
Has the Assassin's sharmuta decided to lavish her attentions on me?
Her teeth clenched together from remembering Mashhur's taunt. She told herself that no, the woman staring back at her in the mirror was no whore or sharmuta or whatever the word for it was.
It was a woman forced to be someone she wasn't.
Maria sighed. She'd need therapy after this, she knew it.
Benjamin shrugged from the jewelry. "If you insist, Hildegard. I thought she looked splendid without them, but I'm sure women have more of an understanding of fashion."
"That we do, Benny, that we do," Hildegard lilted.
"But you'll come back, sí?" Damiel shifted on the bed so that he was sitting up. He stared into Maria's eyes, a small frown gradually pulling his lips down. "You'll be back, yes?"
Maria smiled and held Damiel's hand when he reached for her. "Of course I will, you oaf."
"I can count on it?"
She nodded. "You can count on it, Damiel. I promise." She gave his hand a final squeeze before following Benjamin out of the infirmary.
Maria walked side-by-side with Benjamin, occasionally shooting him curious glances. The corners of the man's mouth were twitching and his eyes were misty. She exhaled and tugged on his arm.
"Whatever it is, Benjamin, you'd best be out with it before I force it out."
He blinked away tears and covered his mouth with his free hand. "You just have no idea, Sarah, how much you look like Emily." He cupped her cheek and smiled, his lips quivering. "You make this old man proud, Sarah. You make her proud, too."
Maria knuckled his shoulder and returned his grin. "Would she really approve of this, though?" she motioned to her attire. "I thought she despised dresses almost as much as I do."
Benjamin chortled and shook his head, his eyes bright with memories. "Oh, yes, she did. But she'd be proud knowing you'd put up with that confining fabric for the greater good. She'd be proud." He linked Maria's arm in his and continued walking. He thought she couldn't see the tears falling down his face.
The marketplace was just coming to life as they neared the gates. Merchants were setting up their stalls and making small talk with one another, waiting for the crowds to leave their homes. Maria's stomach dropped as she saw what the wife's duty was: stand, smile, and pretend to be thrilled to be by their husband's side while he sold wares. She had half a mind to hike her way back up to the fortress and disguise Hildegard in her ridiculous clothes.
But no, Hildegard's hair had to be blonde. The woman had been plotting against her even in the womb!
Stopping just at the gates, Benjamin placed both hands on Maria's shoulders. "Now, you listen to me, Maria. I know being docile and submissive isn't part of your everyday routine, but for the Rose's sake, please, please don't do anything out of character that may alert anyone of who you and the Grandmaster really are."
Maria nodded, her head turned away from Benjamin. He clicked his tongue and tilted her chin so that she had no choice but to look him in the eye. "There's just one more thing, my dear." He glanced to and fro, then leaned his mouth toward her ear. "A little bird told me you and Hildegard made a pact yesterday—don't ask me how I know. But promise me something."
"Anything, Benny, just say it."
Benjamin smirked and whispered, "You give that man Hell, Maria," before placing a quick kiss on her forehead. "Now," he grunted, shrugging his shoulders and gesturing toward the gate, "off you go."
Maria smiled and patted Benjamin's arm, then walked toward the small cluster outside the gates. It took every bit of willpower not to laugh at the sight in front of her.
Shihad stamped his hooves and nipped at Altair's hand. The man smiled and continued to tease the poor horse by hiding a carrot in his palm. Shihad's lips smacked against the man's fingers, trying to pry them apart to gobble up the vegetable.
Maria nodded at the three novices off to the side. They murmured greetings and inclined their heads while trying to hold back their giggles for the same reason Maria was. She glanced at Altair, who was now pacing back and forth around Shihad, earning more annoyed snorts and small whinnies from the horse. Maria rolled her eyes and gave the boys a smirk. One chuckled, the other shuffled, and the last one raised his chin and returned Maria's expression.
"Why don't you just give the poor beast his treat," Maria offered as she walked toward Altair. "I think he deserves it, no?" She patted Shihad's side and leaned back to see Altair staring at her next to Shihad's head. Unlike the Templars at the caravans raking their eyes across her form, trying to mentally disrobe her, his gaze didn't unsettle her in the slightest. It resembled a man passing by in the marketplace, his eye caught on an item that he'd think his wife would appreciate, and dare she admit it, she did appreciate how he was looking at her new clothes.
She quirked a brow and followed suit in his examination. He wore the same grey sirwals of his regular Assassin attire, though this pair had obviously been scrubbed down and had any tears or holes mended to perfection. His boots were of a different design and polished to shine even in the dark. He wore a dark blue tunic (that immediately brought envy to her) embroidered with gold around the collar and, she guessed, at the sleeves. She couldn't say for sure, as he also wore a regal-looking coat the same color as his tunic with fur trimmings.
To top it all off, a white turban wrapped itself around his head.
"And who are you to suggest such a thing?" His endearing expression vanished in half a moment, and the new one replacing it was not one of disgust or anger, but rather of disapproval for her even asking.
She tilted her head to the side and narrowed her eyes, taken aback by his question. "Excuse me—"
"Why should I consider your words? A man knows his property best, and as the wife, she should stay her tongue and be a quiet little piece of property."
Maria's eyes flared and flashed from his words. Her entire body tightened from anger as her fist shook violently at her side. Shihad gave a nervous whicker as she made to sling her fist at the man.
He, however, sighed and removed the berating expression from his face. "There is no reason to take offense—"
"Take offense?" she spat.
"It was practice, Maria," he explained as he soothed Shihad by finally giving him the carrot. "If you're to be a wealthy merchant's wife, you'll need to learn how to respond to your environment correctly without rousing suspicion."
She looked back and forth between her fist, her frustration toward him slowly depleting as she admitted to herself that what he said was true. Still, she contemplated slugging him one. Ultimately, she decided that that was for another time—specifically when they were done with this ridiculous mission—and let her fist fall back to her side.
'For Satan's Hell,' she thought, 'just who am I trying to jest? My frustration toward this man has no limits.' Maria crossed her arms and frowned.
"And that," Altair continued, gesturing toward her with a wave of his hand, "is exactly what I mean. Your body language cannot be so rebellious—"
"Rebellious? To who?"
"To Ghalib."
"Ghalib?"
"Your husband," Altair said. He noted her brow twitching and hurried to try to salvage their conversation. "We must use aliases, Maria. I'm playing the part of Ghalib, and you will be Saraj, my wife."
"Hn," she grunted. She turned toward Shihad and twisted her fingers in his mane. "Wife," she hissed in a whisper. "So, you are a man, and I am a wife."
He blinked, then replied with a cautious voice, "Yes, that's what we are to complete this mission."
"Man and wife," she mused as she pet the horse. "You never hear 'husband and wife', now do you? Oh, no, it's always 'man and wife'. This is why I didn't stay married." She bit her lip and stepped away from Shihad as Mustafa, Rakin, and Nabil made the final preparations to the saddlebags.
With the boys occupied with the gear, Altair moved to stand behind Maria—not that he wouldn't approach her if the boys decided to watch. He cleared his throat. "You know that you are still Maria to me," he murmured just loud enough for her to hear.
She pursed her lips and turned to face him. "Buried beneath the wealthy merchant bravado, I'm sure," she snorted. "Don't worry yourself over my feelings, husband. As your wife, I will retain what little dignity I possess while serving my husband's every frivolous need." She offered a brief, curt smile before moving past him toward the saddle. She stood with her head inclined and waited for him to climb into the saddle.
She certainly wasn't expecting him to pick her up and lift her onto Shihad's back before he hauled himself up behind her. He squeezed her hips, and she swiveled her head around. She opened her mouth to retort, but the soft, apologetic look in his eyes made her clamp her mouth shut. She scanned his face, seeing that he wore that rare, genuine self that was purely Altair, the man, and not Altair the Assassin. It was very subtle, but she could just make it out in the dark: one corner of his lips turned upward in the smallest degree, his bottom lip not jutting into the upper one in deep thought, and his forehead not crinkled in irritation or dominance.
She peered closer at his forehead, her eyes squinting then practically bulging out of their sockets. Maria peeled back his turban just enough to expose a bit of the top of his head. She bit her bottom lip as she stated with complete incredulousness, "You're bald."
"No," he shook his head, "I assure you I'm not bald."
"Where is it then?"
"I shaved it off with a knife."
"I want to ask why, but then again, I'm questioning your sanity."
He shrugged. "It's part of the guise, Maria."
"Should I have shaved my own head, then? Since I'm your wife, I should match my husband, yes?"
He smirked and snapped the reins, sending Shihad into a light gallop. "No, Saraj. You misunderstand, as is usual for the female mind. You are unequal to me, wife. You will never match your husband in any aspect."
She harrumphed and faced forward in her saddle, crossing her arms in stubborn indignation. "I hope you aren't expecting me to just take what you say and leave it at that. Mark my words, this won't be a picnic for you, husband."
Just the ride to Damascus was troublesome. Saraj would coax her husband with whimpers and complaints to pull the horse over.
She had to pee, she'd say.
She needed water, she'd say, and then an hour later, she'd have to pee again.
She needed shade to rest under after baking in the sun for a few hours.
She wanted to trade seats in the saddle ever so often.
And Ghalib would clench his jaw, jerk his head in a nod with one mechanical movement, and comply with her requests. And then ignore her for the remainder of the day—until she had another dire need to see to immediately.
He suffered this torment for three days.
Shihad clip-clopped through the canyon that led to Damascus. Maria sighed in her spot behind Altair, knowing that soon her freedom of speech and action was to become very limited very soon.
She could hear the hustle and bustle of the outer marketplace before she caught sight of the city. Even with night falling, the city still seemed to be teeming with life. The echoes of ouds, darbukas, and zumaras resounded about the canyon.
And then they saw it. Glorious Damascus, standing straight and tall like a king observing his subjects. Altair pulled Shihad to a stop as they stood at the top of the winding slope leading to the marketplace.
"Remember what I said," he said to Maria.
She nodded. "I'll remember to keep my tongue in a knot, husband."
"And not just that."
"Oh?"
He clenched his hand around the one that was resting on his waist. "Remember that you will always be Maria to me." He didn't offer her a chance to reply, as he let her hand go and dug his heels into Shihad's sides.
The gates of Damascus even crawled with life. Saraj watched the commotion through her headdress with squinted eyes, glancing to and fro between the people scurrying back and forth to market stalls and her companion. He held his head high and shoulders square, not once bouncing in the saddle as he imitated the air of a monarch. Saraj, though, jostled up and down on Shihad's rump. Wisps of her hair peeked out from her hijab. She knew that if she so much as removed one arm locked around Ghalib's waist that she'd fall on her bottom—damn that man!
If Ghalib noticed Saraj's predicament, he paid no attention to his meek, loving, and obedient wife. After all, as a man, he certainly didn't want any part in a woman's problem; Allah shame her for distracting herself from her all-powerful husband, and shame her even more for wearing that pout!
Shihad's hooves thudded against the sandy ground as he meandered through the crowd. He snorted and tossed his head high in the air. Even the horse carried more dignity than Saraj.
Buyers parted and formed a walkway for the horse and his riders as they neared the gate. Ghalib leapt off the saddle in one fluid movement, his outer robe seeming to move with him. He glanced about himself, indifferent to the stares and murmurs coming from the crowd. He turned back to his wife, and held his hand out for her. Saraj glared at him and held down the urge to roll her eyes when he shot her a warning. She accepted his hand and slid out of the saddle. As soon as her slippered feet hit the ground, he let go of her hand—as if he had just grasped a rattlesnake by the tail—and carried himself into the gates. With just one curt jerk of his head, a stable boy came running to tend to Shihad.
Saraj gave the horse one last pat to his forehead before he was led away. Turning, she saw her husband waiting at the gate with his back turned toward her. She flared her nostrils when she realized he was waiting for her, his ever-doting and clumsy wife.
Scurrying toward him, she kept her head bowed, feeling the eyes of the crowd burning into her back. He clicked his tongue as she sidled up next to him. She paused for a moment, not comprehending the irritation plastered on his face. He tsked again and walked into the city. The guards patrolling the gate either smirked or scowled at her behavior. Saraj curled her toes inside her slippers as she corrected her stroll, making sure to walk along Ghalib's side, but a few paces behind him.
As they made their way through the Poor District of Damascus, Ghalib moved closer to his wife. He sent glares toward any man that dared to eye her, yet he did not put a possessive arm around her or even hold her hand. Saraj could feel her heart throb painfully in her chest.
The stalls inside the Poor District couldn't even compare to the stalls outside the city. It was a horrible hoax, Saraj noted. The Poor District buildings crumbled from negligence and disrepair. Beggars and peasants filled the streets. Saraj and her husband stood out like two sore thumbs, what with their extravagant clothes noticeable amongst the sea of dull browns and yellows.
Prior to their 'marriage', Saraj knew her husband to despise the effects the wealthy had on the general populace; he hated how one party thrived while the other suffered and was forced to survive life with the least resources. But the man beside her was a complete and total stranger. All Saraj could see was Ghalib the merchant, a wealthy man with matters more important than the common rabble on his mind.
It was remarkable how the scenery changed when they passed through the Poor District. Damascus' citizens wore respectable garments that weren't tattered. The streets were so crowded that the two of them had to squeeze their way past the mobs. Ghalib led his wife over one of the bridges connecting Damas' different halves, careful that no pickpocket or thug tried anything with them. Unconcerned with her husband's worries, Saraj looked up in utter awe at the structures before her.
"Umayyad Mosque," Ghalib murmured from the corner of his mouth.
"Remarkable," Saraj breathed out. She stared at the mosque. It resembled a plaza, with four corners making it into a rectangle. Two corners had viewpoints that seemed to touch the sky, and the side opposite the entrance had one viewpoint directly in the middle. She shook her head, not able to grasp how Man could have built such an extraordinary building. With the mosque behind her, she looked over her shoulder, still admiring it. Ghalib had to elbow her side to make her face forward again.
She turned her head to the right and looked over her husband's shoulder at the cacophony near a long dome-shaped building. "What is—"
"Souk Saruja," he explained, "Damascus' greatest marketplace yet."
"I suppose we can't take a look?"
He was quiet for a moment, the mask of Ghalib faltering for just a few seconds. "Later," he promised. "When our business is finished."
Maria smiled and settled her gaze on him, but frowned from what she saw. He was once again taking on the persona of Ghalib, uncaring for the excitement and commotions around him. Saraj sighed and lowered her eyes.
What was formerly the Merchant King's palace came into view. Saraj swallowed a lump in her throat as her husband walked through the Palace's entrance. Vines climbed up the pillars on either side of the entryway, and pots containing flowers and other exotic plants lined the perimeter. She'd been in the Palace before while under Robert's command, but she'd never taken the time to admire the courtyard. A fountain of a woman exposing the curves of the upper portion of her body stood, a jar held above her head with one arm.
Water flowed through the vase into a pool surrounding her plinth. Saraj lost herself in the water, mesmerized by it as if she was a vintner surveying wine. She was pulled from her reverie by the myriad of multiple languages cascading throughout the courtyard.
Merchants. Everywhere. From different lands and customs, different clothes and different tongues. Saraj willed her feet to stay rooted to the spot so that she could take in her surroundings, but Ghalib confidently ventured further into the Palace. She followed him obediently.
She swiveled her head side to side, glancing at the small clusters of people, curious as to what their home countries were. Not only did she notice the different cultures, but she noticed the lack of wives.
Ghalib noticed her curiosity and stomped down on it by giving a swift tug to her wrist. She scowled and kept her head straight.
After passing the merchants, Ghalib and Saraj climbed a flight of stairs to the second level of the Palace. He pushed open the doors to step into a room filled with more merchants. Saraj smiled while her husband blew out of his nostrils. The room was a long corridor, as if it was the Great Hall of King Richard the Lionheart of England's castle—though she'd never been in his palace—with tables and stands of food and heirlooms set up on either side of the chamber.
At the far end of the hall were two figures overlooking their guests. One of them was the biggest man Saraj had ever seen—bigger than Abu'l Nuqoud—while the other was slim and trim. Ghalib spotted them just as she did, smirked from the corner of his lips, and strode over to them, Saraj having no choice but to follow at his heels.
Ghalib bent one arm around his torso and bowed his head in greeting, mindful of the calculating and uncertain looks the two merchants gave him and his wife. "As-salam alaykum." Saraj clasped her hands in front of her and bowed as well.
"Salam," the smaller man said. He had between thirty and forty years to him, that much Ghalib could tell, and had probably closer to forty years on his shoulders. His dark hair was pulled back from his hairline; the man had already begun balding.
He glanced to the bigger man, their confusion evident in their faces. "My brother and I wish to know who you are, and why you are here, if it is no trouble, of course."
Ghalib nodded his head and stood from his bow. "Forgive me for the intrusion, good men. I am Ghalib ibn-Jibril, and this—" he didn't even bother himself by looking at her—"is my wife, Saraj bint-Mikhail."
The brothers murmured their greetings and nodded toward Saraj. The bigger one stared at her.
"We apologize for our inconveniences, I assure you. We stole away into the country and visited family in Tal Abyad, and were away from our properties in Alep. Our couriers were delayed due to our sudden vacation, and could not inform us of the merchant meeting being held in Damas ahead of time." Ghalib tilted his head and looked around the room before turning his attentions back to the brothers, as if making sure he was in the right building. "You are Bashshar and Ahmed ibn-Dhakir, no?"
The slim man seemed to sit as straight as a pin in his chair from realization. The fat one sat reclined, content on staring at the newcomer's wife. "Yes," the slim one said, "yes, we are! Forgive me for my lack of manners earlier. I am Ahmed, and this is my brother, the merchant Bashshar. It's always a pleasure to find another one of Syria's brood at our doorstep." He smiled.
Ghalib returned the expression and bobbed his head. "I was beginning to worry that due to our tardiness, you'd refuse us."
"Oh, no," Ahmed drawled, shaking his head. "This is a business after all, and the more employees, the better, don't you agree?"
"Yes," Bashshar finally said, never taking his eyes off of Saraj. "I'm sure your wife hasn't had anything better to do than listen to her husband bicker and worry over a meeting. The poor thing's probably in desperate need for some comfort and… pleasure."
Though Saraj kept her eyes on the carpet, she heard the suggestive pause in his voice and was glad that she wasn't looking at him; she could only imagine the lecherous glint in his hungry little eyes. But Ghalib saw it. The only form of discomfort he showed was through a small twitch near his temple.
"Forgive my brother," Ahmed said to break the silence. "We have been in many meetings today and are both exhausted from debates and suggestions. But not as tired as you two must be."
"Indeed," Bashsar whispered. "She looks in need of a massage. I could arrange one if necessary."
Ghalib pursed his lips.
"Come," Ahmed said, ignoring his brother, "we will show you to your rooms." He and his brother stood and started walking out of the hall. Ghalib made sure that Bashshar was in his line of sight (though it wasn't a difficult task to accomplish) and away from his wife.
"Unfortunately," Ahmed continued, "there are no more rooms left in the Palace due to the number of our guests—we weren't expecting so many people to arrive. But do not worry; we will have you stay somewhere just as comfortable."
"The Umayyad Mosque," Bashshar clarified once they were out of the Palace. "We've negotiated with the imams in case we needed extra rooms, and have gained their consent."
"For decency's sake, you will have separate rooms, naturally." Ahmed led the way into the mosque's courtyard. Bashshar stole a glance at Saraj, who was busy taking in the sight of the gazebos and gold pillars and archways. Once inside the mosque, she kept her admiration hidden as she scanned every arch and design in the main hall. A rich red carpet spanned across the entire length of the room, and chandeliers with intricate details hung from the ceiling.
She preferred the mosque over the Palace without a doubt.
"Clothes of the finest quality will be provided for you. No doubt that the both of you made haste once receiving word of our gathering and wasted no time in such necessities," Ahmed informed them with a smile.
They took a staircase to the second story. Ahmed stopped in front of a doorway. "This is your room, Ghalib ibn-Jibril. I hope you find it to your satisfaction and feel at home in it." Ahmed opened the door and ushered the man inside. Ghalib turned his head, noticing that Bashshar did not follow. The merchant seemed to have plans to escort Saraj to her quarters.
"If you will follow me," Bashshar offered. Saraj tasted bile in her throat as the man's eyes lingered on her form, and she looked to her husband for support. Their eyes locked together, and he marched straight out of his room, ignoring Ahmed explaining the schedule the following morn, and accompanied Bashshar.
"My wife finds it distressing if I am not near her when introduced to new surroundings," Ghalib bit out as he purposely stood between Saraj and Bashshar.
"Of course," Bashshar nodded, "I believe you. The stress and tension is quite apparent in her; perhaps she just needs to lie down and let someone alleviate her troubles."
Ghalib's eyes flashed. "Or maybe a good night's sleep will do just the same."
"Or a night without sleep," Bashshar smirked. When Ghalib's eyes glowed a piercing hazel, he quickly scurried as fast as his plump feet could carry him to one of the doors in the hall. "Here we are. She will be staying in this room, just down the hall from yours. Now if you will excuse me, my brother and I must retire to our Palace now. Please, enjoy your stay, and know that we appreciate you coming to our convention."
Ghalib inclined his head as Bashshar left, but not without stealing one final glimpse of Saraj. When the ibn-Dhakir brothers finally descended the staircase and left the mosque, Ghalib opened the door to his wife's quarters and motioned her inside.
He immediately began searching the room, tossing the cushions and rugs this way and that. His wife stood silently in a corner.
He pushed aside the curtains and squinted out the window. "Wald el qahba'," he muttered beneath his breath. Bashshar had placed Saraj in a room accordingly—right outside the window was the Palace. Though Ghalib doubted there was an object that could magnify vision, he still felt that lines of privacy were being assaulted.
"Yla'an," he cursed. He clenched his fist, tightened his jaw, and made to storm back to his room when he noticed Saraj.
"Have I done something to upset you, husband?" she murmured while staring at the floor with listless eyes.
He blinked and shook his head. "No, Maria, you haven't," Altair stated, confused by her words. "Why would you ask?"
"You seem upset, husband. I am merely wondering if there is anything I can do to brighten your mood."
"Maria," he sighed, motioning toward the door. "We're quite alone, do not speak to me as if I am above you."
"I do as my husband says," she said in a whisper.
He slumped his shoulders and moved in front of her, placing his hands on her shoulders. "Please, do not do this to me."
"Do what?"
"Do not practice being Ghalib's wife now. There is no one to fool here."
"Practice?" She cocked her head to the side. "I know no such thing as practice. It is my ambition and duty to serve you."
"Maria," Altair whispered. He pulled her hijab down so that her hair sprung free of the headdress. He pulled her closer to him, noticing with a tight chest that she didn't even bother resisting. He wrapped his arms around her and rested his chin on her head.
"This is quite inappropriate, husband," she murmured into his chest. "We disgrace Allah by this sign of affection."
"Then tell me when we will be free to display our feelings to each other."
Saraj shifted her head so that it rested on his shoulder. "I do not understand what you mean. I am property, and it is foolhardy to feel anything for an object."
He wished she'd do something with her arms other than keeping them at her side. He wanted her to do something—anything. He wouldn't even mind if she shoved him away or punched him off of her, so long as it showed that Maria Thorpe was still present in this Saraj bint-Mikhail.
"I see," he said after a long pause. "Goodnight to you then," he whispered against her ear. He cupped her cheek for a brief moment before leaving the room.
As soon as the door clicked shut, Maria heaved a breath of relief and slumped against the wall.
The next morning began with Bashshar barging his large self into Ghalib's room. The merchant cleared his throat, thinking Ghalib to still be asleep—who could not hear the elephant marching up the staircase?
"Dreams about your wife, I presume?" Bashshar asked with a lewd grin stretched over his round, plump face.
Ghalib, who was sprawled across cushions and pillows and who only wore his tunic to bed, groggily opened his eyes, peering about the room. He glanced at Bashshar without any emotion, still feigning to become accustomed to the bright sunshine filtering through the curtains.
And also accustoming himself to the flabby hippo standing just five feet from him.
Ghalib glanced down, noticing what Bashshar referred to. "Yes, in all honesty. I've been dreaming about my wife." He scrunched his brow at the merchant before stretching his arms and legs out.
"No doubt," Bashshar agreed. "It'd probably take a woman gifted in all areas to please an intimidating, strong-willed man such as yourself."
Ghalib nodded and pulled himself off the floor. "Forgive me if my attire insults you."
"Forgiven," Bashshar said as he handed Ghalib the bundle of clothes in his arms. Ghalib didn't appreciate that the merchant's eyes never left him as he undressed and pulled the fresh garments on. "My brother and I would like to inform you that we will be holding a meeting in the Palace dining hall for breakfast as a way to introduce yourself to the other merchants."
"I will wake Saraj, then—"
"That will not be necessary," Bashshar dismissed. "As lovely as she may be, her gender still conflicts with the presence of men. It would be unwise for her to attend as well. I suggest allowing her to sleep further; she must be very tired due to your trip from Tal Abyad."
'So that you will know exactly where she is,' Altair thought bitterly. "Indeed. It would be unwise of me to offer other men to stare at her with eyes full of desire. It's my duty as her husband to protect her from such sins."
Bashshar narrowed his eyes at him. "And what an incompetent husband you'd be if you'd allow your wife to stray."
Ghalib smirked as he finished wrapping his turban. Finally dressed and ready, he followed Bashshar out his room. As they stepped down the stairwell, Altair spared a glance at Maria's room.
'I should let her know—no, it'd compromise us.' He twisted his lips as he and Bashshar left the Umayyad Mosque.
"It's always a sight to remember when witnessing Damascus first awaken every morning," Bashshar mused. He was so bulbous that Ghalib needed to walk behind him so that they didn't take up the entire street. "Is this your first time in Damascus, Ghalib?"
"No," he replied. "I've been here many times before, mainly for business trips."
"You have never taken your wife to Damascus to enjoy it with her?"
"No, this is her first time here."
"How long have you two been married?" Bashshar pressed.
"Just over three years now," Ghalib answered with a smile, his head raised high.
"And has she given you any successors to your business?"
Ghalib's insides twisted at the question. He purposely gave the merchant a noticeable, annoyed look before biting out, "We have not concerned ourselves with heirs over our time of marriage."
"Ah," Bashshar nodded. "I see. It is a shame to let a woman like that go to waste. There are plenty of men who would enjoy having her beneath them."
Ghalib rolled his eyes and would have given the fat man something else to enjoy, but thankfully, they arrived just in time at the Palace before he could squish Bashshar and his rolls of fat.
Ahmed turned his head toward them, smiled, and motioned for them to come into the courtyard. Ghalib strode far ahead of Bashshar, grateful to have some distance from the sweaty swine.
He bowed his head in greeting, and Ahmed's smile widened.
"It is good to see you again, Ghalib. I trust your night in the Umayyad was pleasant?"
"Again, I appreciate your efforts to provide for me and my wife."
Ahmed chuckled. "There is no need to thank me, man. Your wife was just telling me of your home in Alep."
Ghalib stood from his stoop and cocked his head in baffled curiosity. "My wife?"
Saraj sauntered over to them carrying two bowls of tea and wearing a humble yet smug grin. She offered one of the bowls to Ahmed. "Yes, Ghalib, or have you forgotten me yet again?" she whispered in a sing-song voice.
Ahmed accepted the bowl and slugged back the tea. "Your wife is a very interesting woman to speak to, Ghalib. Forgive me for my speculation, but the other day she seemed awfully terrified and meek. But she has proven me wrong—very wrong. I'm delighted by her sense of humor and view on the world around her."
"And what view has she shared with you?" Ghalib narrowed his eyes at Saraj, not liking the confident air she sported.
"Oh, mainly dealings with your business and family," Ahmed said with a wave of his hand. "She says that your late father—bless his soul—was a potter. Remarkable how you went from rags to riches!"
"He owes it to his method of acquiring what he wants," Saraj remarked with a bob of her head. She smiled at Ghalib.
"And I can see that what he wants is unobtainable," Bashshar grunted as he finally caught up with Ghalib. The pudgy man eyed Saraj, enjoying the way her jalabiya wrapped around her figure and the way the blues and gold accentuated her eyes. With his beady eyes on her, she regretted keeping her hijab open and displaying her hair. "A woman with such vigor must be hard to keep in his grasp."
Saraj lifted a brow and tucked a stray curl behind her ear. "My thanks for the compliment," she dryly said.
"My compliments could only range from head to toe for you," Bashshar smiled, his round, greasy face creasing with wrinkles.
Ahmed cleared his throat. "Yes, well. The breakfast is just about to begin. Bashshar, if you would be so kind as to take Ghalib?"
Bashshar nodded, his eyes still on Saraj, and beckoned for Ghalib to follow him as he waddled his way into the Palace.
"I will stay with your wife, Ghalib, if you do not mind, of course. I am sorry if it seems rude to you."
"Not at all," Ghalib said. He didn't trust either of the brothers, but he supposed that Ahmed was more capable of keeping to himself than Bashshar was. "She feels the need to exercise her tongue, I understand."
"That is because my husband suppresses me from using it on him." Saraj shifted on her feet, bringing Ghalib's eyes to the small sway of her hips and shoulders. Her husband swallowed.
"A sad thing it must be to not have any chance to converse," Ahmed sighed, oblivious to the knowing glint in Maria's eyes. "But delay no further, Ghalib. There are many intriguing merchants from far lands eager to meet you." Ahmed watched the man follow his brother into the Palace before turning to Saraj. He smiled again. "Come. Walk with me, won't you?"
Ghalib forced himself to keep his breakfast in his stomach and not put it back on his plate. He sat on a cushion inside a large room filled with the other merchants, and, unfortunately, with Bashshar to his right.
No, that was an understatement. The hippo was practically on his lap, for Allah's sake.
Ghalib listened to the different languages around him, irked beyond belief that no one from two different countries could understand each other. The whole room was divided by culture, it seemed.
To him, there was nothing intriguing about these merchants. From the Arabic ones, he gathered very little information on the Templars—nothing he didn't know already.
And from the lard beside him, he gathered that he had no dining manners or concern for his appearance. He still ate from his plate, piling more and more food until he made a small mountain of it, and then forced it all into his mouth. Bits of it clung to the sides of his fat lips, some of it slipping under the folds in his neck. He licked his fingers, adding more grease to his oily body, before wolfing down more food.
'Gluttony is a sin after all,' Ghalib thought with distaste. He hoped that every morning wouldn't be spent with Bashshar's rude eating habits.
Saraj was probably having a most sublime time strolling around Damascus with Ahmed.
Mustafa nudged the infirmary door open with his foot. He balanced a tray of food with one hand while the other kept two bowls of ayran from spilling over. Righting himself from teetering over, he scurried as fast as possible into the infirmary without making a mess.
Sighing once the trays and bowls were safely on the table beside the bed, he held his hands out, making sure that they'd stay on the table and wouldn't spontaneously sprout legs to spite him.
He chuckled from the thought and rubbed the back of his head. For stubbing his toe several times in the training ring that day, he'd done a damn decent job with his balance—even if he had to hobble and hop his way to the infirmary.
"Oyé, estupido."
Mustafa peered over at the bed, chuckling again as the bandaged boy did his best to glare at him. Mustafa never knew that mummies could be so facetious with their facial expressions.
"Don't laugh at me," the boy huffed. "You should be apologizing. With all the racket you made, you woke me up from a good dream."
"Apologies, friend," Mustafa grinned. "I thought you'd be hungry, though. Master Mills said that you hadn't eaten since this morning, and it's almost evening—"
"Sí, pues, Benny always worries." Mustafa handed him a plate of kibbeh—many thanks to Allah that Malik didn't reach the kitchen before he did—and watched as the boy's eyes widened in merriment while he gobbled the food down.
"So," Mustafa began, "there's been much talk of you around here. Is it true that the reason you were found in the Kingdom is that you ate your horse's legs?"
"Qué?" Damiel asked, his eyes glittering with fascination. "I've never eaten a horse's legs in my whole life, and I don't plan on doing so any time soon—wait, wait, wait."
"So, you have eaten horse's legs?"
"What—no! I told you no!"
"Oh," Mustafa sighed. "Here I was hoping to prove a rumor right."
"Rumors? What rumors?"
The novice chuckled and offered Damiel a cheeky smile. "Well, you see, the lesser-ranked of my Brothers occupy themselves with stories and tales—myself included. Around these parts, rumors keep us going throughout the day.
Damiel narrowed his eyes and wiggled his toes from beneath the blankets. "Where is here, then?"
"Didn't anyone tell you? I would have thought that Hildegard or Miss Maria—"
"Oyé, Maria's no Miss, trust me. She has more balls than a testosterone-fueled lion," Damiel smirked while crossing his arms.
Mustafa gawked. How could the Master find interest in a woman with man parts? Oh, Rakin and Nabil would die from the news. He added another chuckle. "Well, either way—does she really?—I'm surprised by this. You are in Syria, friend. Well, Masyaf to be exact—the Eagle Nest."
When Damiel stared at him with a slack jaw and an unimpressed face, Mustafa sighed and elaborated, "The nest of the Hashshashin? The Syrian sect of the Assassin Brotherhood?"
Any confusion Damiel had was sapped away and replaced by horror. "Uré?" he murmured with a thick tongue. He could feel bile build up in his throat and he almost choked on a kibbeh. Why would Hildegard and Benny leave him in an Assassin fortress? More importantly, how could Maria just leave him behind as a sheep amongst wolves?
He closed his eyes, too many memories resurfacing. 'I don't want to relive this.'
When Mustafa blinked, not understanding the language, the Damiel groaned. "Where?"
"Oh," Mustafa chuckled, shaking his head in good nature. "As I said, Masyaf. I know I don't seem like much—I'm only a novice, after all—but believe me when I say that you're in the Eagle's Nest. Well, you're in a branch of the Eagle's tree. The main nest is in Alamut, but that's not in Syria, so—" Mustafa paused as he noticed how blue Damiel's face became after each word he spoke. "Are you feeling ill? Should I call for the healer?" Mustafa reached over and felt the boy's forehead.
"I'm fine," he managed to croak out.
"Are you certain, friend? You look mighty pale to me—"
"Sí, I'm fine." Damiel whimpered and held the bowl of kibbeh out for Mustafa. The novice wasted no time in taking the bowl and setting it back down on the table.
"Have I done something to upset you, friend?" Mustafa asked with a heavy heart. He'd just met the boy—properly—and already he blundered! He felt a physical weight push his shoulders down.
"No," Damiel murmured. "Just… tell me something else, please."
Mustafa shrugged his shoulders. "There isn't much to tell, but I do have questions."
"About my diet again?"
"Oh, no," he laughed. "There are other guesses as to how you were in the Kingdom, very colorful ones too, but none that I'm interested in. But prove this rumor either right or wrong: is it true that you're the son of Jenaro Karkafian?"
Damiel wished the bed would swallow him up and hide him from the hopeful eyes of the novice. He held his breath waiting for the covers to strangle him. When that didn't happen, he fell back against his pillows and exhaled with the weight of a man carrying all of the world's troubles. Eventually, he whispered, "I haven't considered myself his son in many years."
Mustafa frowned at this. "You don't ever stop being someone's child, I believe. You're part of his lineage, aren't you?"
Damiel opened his eyes and stared at the ceiling, as if he could see passed it to another time—a better one, filled with the laughter of Estela, Alejandro, and himself running along Andorra's riverbank, tossing stones into the water and watching them skip across the surface.
"I am forced to be, yes," Damiel said. He looked over at Mustafa. "May I ask my own questions?"
"Of course, friend!" Mustafa smiled. "Anything you want to know, I'll tell."
"A name would be nice." Damiel forced a weak smile on his face.
Mustafa blushed and chuckled. "I suppose a name would be the first start to a conversation, wouldn't it? Forgive me. I am Mustafa ibn-Rashid, novice of the Assassin Brotherhood."
Damiel chuckled with the boy. "And I suppose it's no surprise as to who I am, is it? Damiel Karkafian, spawn of Jenaro Karkafian and member of the Rose." He held his hand out for Mustafa, and the boys shook.
"A pleasure, Damiel Karkafian. Welcome to Masyaf," Mustafa beamed. Damiel grinned back and was about to reply when a man donned in a loose tunic and sirwals came barreling into the infirmary.
"Oh, there you are, Mustafa! Shame on you for making me scour this fortress top to bottom. The furnaces aren't going to feed themselves wood, you know. Now, back to the smithy."
Mustafa stood and bowed. "Many apologies, Master Rauf. I promise you it will not happen again!"
Rauf crossed his arms and shook his head. "You're sure right it won't happen again—the next time I catch you trying to sneak your loud self out of my armory, I'll degrade you to linen duty!"
Mustafa's eyes widened in terror. Rakin and Nabil still complained how their fingers were healing from all the needles picking at the sensitive flesh.
Rauf eyed Mustafa and motioned for the boy to return to the smithy. The novice sighed, spared a glance back at Damiel, and bumbled his way out of the infirmary. He stopped in the doorway when Rauf gasped and noticed the conscious boy in the bed.
Damiel returned Rauf's gaze, watching how the older man rubbed the greying stubble on his chin and jaw. Rauf blinked at Damiel before venturing closer to the bed. He leaned in close to the boy so that their faces were just inches apart. Rauf studied Damiel's face, and unfortunately for the boy, there was nowhere to run. His pillow wouldn't swallow him, either.
"Just as I thought," Rauf nodded. "He has the color of Siran's eyes, even the warmth of them, but the intensity of his father's. And has inherited Jenaro's unruly hair, I can see." He tousled the boy's curls and smiled a lopsided grin. "He has Siran's eyebrows, too—bushy."
"Don't insult my meres," Damiel warned, "if you never had the opportunity to meet her."
Rauf laughed and stepped away from the bed. "Oh? And what makes you think that I never knew your mother or father? You even have Siran's sense of caution and warning about you! Though, I can see Jenaro's spark of insanity in you, too."
Mustafa waddled over and squinted at Damiel. "Insanity? I don't see anything crazy about him."
Rauf elbowed him out of the way. "Of course you can't! You're just a whiny, gossiping novice. He is The Karkafian!"
"You speak of me as if I'm a god," Damiel moaned. "And this is why I hid myself from you people."
"Hid yourself?" Rauf boomed. "Why on Earth would you want to do that? Why would you turn your back on your father's legacy?"
"Because my father," Damiel snapped back, pushing himself up into a sitting position, "was too busy chasing down Templars in España to bother himself with rescuing his son from slavers! Do you know how distressing—no, that isn't even the correct word to use—it is for a little boy to cling to the hope that his father, a man capable of dispatching a gross of men, would find him, hold him in his arms, and bring him back home?
"I suckled that hope for years, and he never came for me. Why should I choose the same life my father did if it means forfeiting love for duty?"
Rauf's entire frame hardened from Damiel's words. His fists shook at his sides and his eyes hardened into stone. Mustafa glanced back and forth between Damiel and the Assassin, nervously slinking closer to the bed if Rauf decided to pummel the boy.
But Rauf swallowed his anger down and sighed. "Is that what you were taught to believe? That your father refused to allow his love for you to interfere with his identity?"
Damiel scoffed. "It isn't what I was taught. It's what I learned from the nights spent being whipped by slavers and burned by their brands. And I don't believe that my father ever had any love for me."
Rauf looked away from the boy and stared at the wall. "That is a harsh thing to say about him," he whispered. "Jenaro would have done anything for you."
"Except riding after the traffickers," Damiel clarified. He sank back into his bed and bundled the blankets around him. "But I'm content with the life I currently lead."
Rauf grunted and furrowed his brow at him. "And what life is that? Being part of an unstable faction?"
"No," Damiel said in a low tone. "Being part of a faction that has love in it."
Rauf threw his hand in the air and clicked his tongue. "Your mind has been ruined by your ill thoughts. Jenaro would spear me if I let this illness continue any further. It is settled, then."
"What's settled?" Mustafa asked with a characteristic chuckle.
"Starting tomorrow," Rauf replied with confident finality, "you, Damiel Karkafian, will put yourself in your father's shoes. Even if I have to strap those boots to you for you to see the truth, then so Allah help me, I will."
Damiel closed his eyes and smirked. "I'll enjoy seeing you try."
Maria collapsed in her cushions back at the Umayyad Mosque. She sighed and wiggled her arms and legs in the soft fabrics. She'd spent a lovely day with Ahmed, who had explained most of the landmarks in Damascus to her and even went as far as to buy her meals. He was a marvelous speaker as well, his voice flowing with crescendos, accents, and pianos; he knew how to weave fascinating stories that enraptured his listeners.
It was music to her ears.
'He certainly knows how to treat a lady,' she thought with a sleepy grin. 'At least, more than my husband knows how to.'
She shifted on her bed, rolling her shoulders and stretching her legs out. She winced as her back nudged against something rough. She turned over her side and looked at what had given her such discomfort. She rolled her eyes and blew out of her lips.
She picked up the outfit, scrunching her nose up. She didn't even need a note to know who sent her the provocative garbs.
Ghalib opened her door and invited himself into her room. He looked worse for wear.
"Do you require something, husband?" Saraj asked from her spot on the cushions.
He nodded and shut her door. "How could you chance everything on our second day—what is that?"
Saraj glanced at the clothes in her hands. "I'm quite sure that dancers of this country—belly-dancers, no?—wear these while performing. Surely you knew this?"
Ghalib exhaled and bobbed his head in impatience. "Of course I know what it is. Why do you have it?"
Saraj shrugged. "My suspicions are that a merchant by the name of Bashshar—you remember him, don't you?—purchased and left them here for me. Or maybe he didn't purchase them; maybe he had it stashed away somewhere. A fetish, I suppose."
Ghalib groaned and rubbed his eyes with the back of his hand. Bashshar. He'd had just about enough of that pig for the rest of his life—and it was only the second day! He was always eating. Eating, and eating, and eating! He could see the fatty's body become bigger and bigger after every bite! And the pudgy ball of kibbeh followed him everywhere!
Saraj tilted her head. "Is something wrong, husband? You seem upset."
Altair laughed a miserable scoff. "Oh, I assure you, your husband is quite alright."
"Well, that's a delight," Saraj said while placing the outfit beside her cushions. "I'd hate for you to fall ill in such circumstances."
"Speaking of falling," Altair said, "don't let Ahmed persuade you to trust him. He's sided with the Templars, remember that."
Saraj waved a hand at him and relaxed against her cushions again. "That won't be a problem, Ghalib. Ahmed merely shows kindness to me when you don't."
Altair shook his head. "Don't fall in love with the enemy."
Maria locked her eyes with his, a catlike smile spreading over her lips. "Oh, I already have, Altair. I already have."
Wohh, boy! We have a lot of FF, Fun Facts for this chapter! First off, the place where Ghalib and Saraj vacationed at, Tal Abyad, was where my father spent his summers while he lived in Syria. Ghalib's and Saraj's home in Aleppo was also inspired by where my dad lived when it wasn't summer.
Second FF, Fun Fact, is when Maria states that she looks like she's wearing a rug. My good and dear friend, Fate Likes Fools, had a conversation with me regarding Maria's outfit in AC: Revelations. We both think she's wearing a rug. Altair likes rolling his woman up in them. Cough.
Third FF, Fun Fact. I was listening to Shrek the Musical soundtrack for this entire chapter XD. Alright, that's a lie. The Damiel scene, I listened to 'The Mystic's Dream' by Loreena Mckennitt (I think I spelled that right?).
Fourth FF, Fun Fact, is this: I had so much fun writing this chapter. I love the banter I made between Ghalib and Saraj. I take pride in Saraj's teasing comments toward him =D
And this isn't a FF, Fun Fact, but what the hey! Hopefully all of you can see more of the reason why Damiel is protective about Maria and her tower lover. And I'm adding this in here: I change Maria's and Altair's names back and forth between Saraj and Ghalib for a reason. Hopefully my readers will catch on why I do that.
Translations:
Arabic:
Sharmuta: whore/prostitute
Jalabiya: a form of Arabic dress
Oud: an Arabic lute/banjo
Darbuka: an Arabic hand drum
Zumara: an Arabic flute
As-salam alaykum: formal greeting in Arabic
Salam: informal greeting in Arabic
Hijab: a form of Arabic headdress
Wald el qahba: son of a bitch
Yla'an: dammit
Spanish:
Oye: hey
Por favor: please
Muy bonita: very pretty
Sí: yes
Estupido: stupid
Qué?: What?
Pues: Well
Armenian:
Uré?: Where?
Meres: mother