Malik's eyes roved over the letter in his hand. Hildegard watched his facial expression change upon what he read; sometimes he'd quirk a brow, frown, smirk, or roll his eyes. She clicked her tongue in impatience and reclined in her chair next to the desk. There was an irritating little twitch in her foot as she tapped her boot against the floor of the study, waiting for him to finish.
Malik seemed indifferent to her struggle to grasp the concept of patience. Or, that was how it seemed to her. From above the letter, he could see her brown eyes glaring at him, her lip curled up as she scrunched her face in a frown. He had to turn around just to hide his amused expression from her. To add to her torment, he added some murmurs of, "Oh, really? That's interesting. Hmm, intriguing," and tiny gasps of surprise.
He shifted on his feet when he felt her glare sizzling his back into a little crisp.
After what seemed an eternity, he finally sighed and folded the letter back up. Hildegard leaned forward in her chair like a tiger ready to pounce. He glanced at her, then back at the letter in his hand, and shrugged. When the silence between them stretched too long for Hildegard's reputable forbearance, she growled out, "Well?"
When she received silence, she groaned and threw her hands into the air. "It's been over a month—almost two months—since those two were dispatched, and you want to keep your mouth closed tighter than a nun's legs? Here's little old me, occupying myself with the pathetic gossip around this place and watching Damiel train time to time. Not to mention helping here and there in his scheme to remove Tamam from sparring trainer—"
Malik raised an eyebrow at this and tilted his head to the side, sending her a challenging look. She crossed her arms and returned the expression, following his lead in choosing silence over words. She saw the faintest of twitches in his face and knew she'd won this little duel.
"And so I ask again, dear Malik. Well?"
"Well," he drawled out, as if he was being taxed by answering her, "it seems that all is going well, if not a little slow in Damascus. I suppose all I can do is follow the letter's instructions." He sat down in a chair and stared long and hard at the letter now secured beneath his fingers on the table.
Hildegard's eyes danced across his form, watching how his posture, once so calm and collective, morphed into one of deep concern and thought. She watched how his brow slowly creased into a frown.
He looked over at Hildegard and sighed before drumming his fingers against the letter. "But these instructions trouble me. Greatly so," he added in. He took in a deep breath before gazing into her eyes. "What I am about to entrust you with is of the utmost importance to Masyaf's well-being. Do you understand this, Hildegard?"
Dumbly, she nodded, entranced by the emotions of fear and trust playing through his face. She scooted her chair closer to him as he beckoned her closer. Not even the annoying grating sound of the chair's legs scraping against the floor drew her out of her trance.
He nodded once her chair was directly in front of his, their knees touching they were so close. He rested his elbow on his knee. "The Master seems to be enduring some difficult times in Damascus. He has encountered many hindrances, and so therefor, he must look to his adviser for assistance."
Hildegard nodded in encouragement for him to continue.
"Because he is burdened by other issues in Damascus, it is up to me to complete his greatest task, Hildegard. Do you understand this?"
"And what is this greatest task? Is he sending you out to eliminate Templars? Have they an Assassin in their midst as leverage over us? Are they planning—"
He pressed his fore- and middle finger against her mouth to politely quiet her. His face still lined with worry, he stared into her eyes. She found that she could not look away and that everything in the room other than him began to blur away into a grey smudge.
She'd always known that there were many different values to the color brown. For instance, Damiel's eyes had a shine of dark chocolate and caramel mixed together. Hers were burnt amber. But Malik's were almost as dark as his pupils. From a distance, she'd never noticed that they were so dark and so—dare she admit it—alluring.
Not in the way a woman would desire a man, no. But in the way that one is captivated by knowledge. Malik was an intelligent man—he frequented the libraries enough for her to notice him sitting at the table across from her—but she had never seen that twinkle of intelligence so personally. As if his eyes themselves held the world's greatest secret.
Maybe they did.
Her mouth involuntarily parted as his fingers brushed against her lower lip, tracing the shape and memorizing the feel of it. From somewhere in the back of her mind, she wondered how a hand, with knuckles red from chafing leather and palms so calloused from years of training, could display such tender actions against the fairer sex.
His stern expression cracked the slightest degree before he whispered, "My instructions are to carry on with watching over Masyaf and her activities."
If she wasn't ensnared by him, she would have seen the boyish spark in his eyes, the slightest movement at the corner of his mouth, the now-evident sarcasm in his voice.
Hildegard blinked, her mouth gaping open as she finally registered the feather-light touch of his fingers on her lips. She gawked and snarled in irritation as she swatted his hand away. Her eyes blazed with fury as he leaned back in his seat, looking as smug as the cat that ate the cream.
The fiery tango in her eyes seethed on as he couldn't help but elicit an entertained grunt from hoodwinking her.
She huffed and crossed her arms. She pointed her chin in the air. "You are unbelievable, impossible, and a little faking liar, Malik."
He smirked. "Quite."
"Yes, quite incorrigible," she pouted. "Riling me up, thinking that Masyaf was at risk, and then—"
"And then giving you a letter addressed to you from Maria?" he asked as he handed her another piece of paper. Her eyes glittered with happiness, and before he could even open his mouth to further stoke his victory, she snatched the letter from him and scurried away from the fortress. All seemed to be forgiven for now, but he if he knew Hildegard, he'd be correct to assume that she would find a way to score against him later.
And he knew her quite well.
He closed his eyes and chuckled, then tilted his head back. "Incorrigible, am I? Agreeable. But you? You are very corrigible. More so than you believe."
Damiel grunted and struggled to recover his footing as he brought his sword up to block Rauf's incoming attack. The older man smiled from the boy's fast reflexes and quickly shifted his weight to bring Damiel's guard down and stagger him.
Knowing that Rauf's strength outmatched his own, he pushed off with his sword and sidestepped away from the man, putting some distance between their blades. When Rauf made to attack him again, he twisted his body out of the way and tried to take a swipe at his right calf. But Damiel, still so accustomed to the length of Riva, misjudged his swing and ended up clipping the ground by Rauf's heels.
The boy gritted his teeth and cursed himself. He missed his spear dearly.
Rauf had the advantage as Damiel tried to find his balance again. He parried the boy's next desperate swing, sending the sword flying out of his grasp. With that threat destroyed, Rauf took a step closer to him and used the pommel of his sword to punch him in the gut. Damiel doubled over and fell to his knees when Rauf finished the duel by kicking him in the behind.
Rauf smiled and stuck his sword into the ground. "Your evasion has improved, but you still need work on blocking attacks. And actually landing them, Karkafian."
Damiel groaned and rolled onto his back. He rubbed his gut and licked his chapped lips. "It's always something, eh, Rauf?"
"But of course," Rauf shrugged. "No one is perfect with the sword, not even the Master. But our duels are lasting longer and progress is being made." He motioned to the fortress with a wave of his hand. "Yalla, pick yourself up and clean for supper." With that, Rauf left the Garden.
Damiel sat up and tore out clumps of grass. He let out a long, exhausted sigh, completely drained of energy. It had been a long day and long weeks of training. While he still received instruction from Tamam, once a week he'd seek out Rauf after training and tell him everything he'd learned that day. Sometimes Rauf would ask him to demonstrate what he learned, other times he'd request a duel with him to learn firsthand his progress.
But when practice came to a close an hour before the dinner bell and Rauf was nowhere to be found in the fortress, Damiel would have to satisfy himself with accompanying him at dinner. He'd heard from Mustafa that Rauf worked in the armory as Masyaf's blacksmith. The thought of another smithy sent terror through Damiel's body. It was as if he could feel those coals burning through his flesh again.
He wiped his face and pulled himself up from the ground. It was strange how he came to rely on Rauf's presence after a difficult practice. Tamam still found a victim in Damiel after his first incident in the courtyard. While Tamam did not physically punish Damiel anymore, there were still acts of humiliation brought upon the boy. He'd berate him with words or forbid him from the supper hall.
While this seemed cruel of Tamam, Damiel was always a step ahead of him. Tamam had the power and authority of trainer, but Damiel had the power of connections. Thanks to Asiya, Damiel never went to bed hungry after receiving discipline from Tamam. The healer would leave a plate of whatever was for dinner that night in the infirmary for him. In return, he would help her crush herbs into pastes and salves for Masyaf's sick and wounded.
It was interesting seeing Asiya work. It was clear she was passionate about her role as healer, and he'd learned much about what plants would heal or hinder.
Jogging back to the infirmary, he was delighted to find a basin of water and rag already prepared for him on a table by his bed. He knew this not to be of Asiya's doing—though she liked him, she'd in no way pamper him like this. Again, he was grateful that Rauf was always watching and lending a hand whenever he needed it. Damiel had nothing against bathing publicly with other men, but after the first time he decided to join the other novices at the bathhouse, he immediately regretted it. They had stared at the scars of torture decorating his body.
He hated the looks of sympathy they'd given him.
Not even Mustafa, who he'd come to consider a close friend, knew of his fear of the bathhouse or how he'd use the infirmary to clean himself. The infirmary wasn't equipped with in-ground tubs like the bathhouse, so he needed to plan carefully. He'd wash his face, hands, and any part of him visible while wearing comfortable sirwals and tunic. Then, when night would fall and the novices would be fast asleep, he'd sneak on out either to the bathhouse or waters surrounding Masyaf and scrub the grime off of him like his life depended on it. A few times he foolishly thought that if he scrubbed hard enough, the scars would come off, too.
Tonight was no different. He would wash his face, hands, arms, neck, and hair, then head on out to the dining hall.
Well, the only difference about that night was the scream that tore through the fortress.
Damiel jumped from the sound, almost upsetting the bowl of water, and bolted into immediate action. He forgot his exhaustion as he sprinted through the halls, trying to distinguish where the scream came from.
It wasn't until he heard the scream again and recognized the voice that he stopped in his tracks. He shook his head, certain he must have heard wrong, but blushed when that shrill squeal sounded once more.
Hildegard, more than a little breathless, pranced through the fortress, a letter clutched tightly in her hands. Her face was flushed and hair windblown, and maybe her dress was wrinkled. The crowd of novices making their way to supper parted as she skipped through the mob.
Their faces turned beet red when she cried out again.
"Orgasm, orgasm!"
The boys who had enough shame blushed and looked away from her, while others tried to keep a straight face on and pretend they didn't even hear her. But with her shouting at the top of her lungs, it was impossible not to hear her.
"Oh, rompy goodness of Heaven above! Orgasm!" She stopped suddenly in her tracks and held her stomach as she laughed in triumph. She righted her posture as if she'd just notice she had an audience. She scurried over to the boys, smiling as how some cowered behind others in fear of the bubbly, bursting-at-the-seams orgasm woman.
She turned an eyebrow up and addressed the group, "Is there something amusing, gentlemen?" In answer of her own question, she tutted, "Oh, pish posh! Of course there's something amusing!" Her eyes darted through the crowd, and when they settled on Damiel, her face lit up and she flung herself at him.
He caught her around the waist to keep her from slamming him into the wall. She clung to him as she cackled hysterically into his shoulder. "Oh, Damiel, dearie. Dearest, dearest, sweet little dearest Damiel dearie of mine," she managed to choke out between bouts of laughter.
"You're making a scene, Hildegard. Everyone's looking at you like you've two heads," he whispered into her ear.
She smirked from his words and used him to balance herself. "You silly little boy, only males have two heads!"
He willed himself not to smirk or blush from her words, but utterly failed.
"Oh, but you should have seen it.' She put emphasis in her words by grabbing onto his shoulders. "It was a scene, Damiel, and everyone saw. And if I'm not mistaken, there were far more than just two heads, given how many men there were!" She wobbled before wandering away from Damiel, swaying side to side as she still murmured "orgasm, orgasm," to herself throughout the entirety of the fortress.
Before long, the scholars in the library were wondering if a certain blonde woman who was known for her gossip was touched in the mind.
During supper, whispers of "orgasm, orgasm," floated through the dining hall, baffling the trainers and higher-ranked Assassins. When Malik heard "What's an orgasm?" echo back and forth between a few novices, he buried his face in his hand, trying to drown out his groans of distaste.
Maria sat back in her lounge at the Umayyad, wriggling into the cushions for the most comfortable position. She sighed and helped herself to the bowl of vegetables that Ahmed gave to her. Normally, she wouldn't eat vegetables without the accompaniment of a main dish, but this was a rare exception. Ahmed had called the long green food mikti, also known as the Armenian pickled wild cucumber. At the first bite, it seemed to be a sweet pickle, but it sent a sour tingle up one side of her jaw.
She was immediately drawn to the sensation of clashing flavors and had eagerly accepted more from Ahmed.
But that was an hour ago when she was still in his company. Ghalib was with Bashshar and the other merchants on a little field day through Souk Saruja. Ahmed had insisted that the other merchants go on without him so that Saraj wouldn't be left all by herself at the Umayyad, and Ghalib had allowed him to stay with his wife, even if his eyes had narrowed into a glare upon the request.
She sighed and ruffled her hair and helped herself to another pickle. It was still early in the afternoon, but Maria felt no need to rise from her spot and make the most out of the day. Maybe she'd consider it when Ghalib returned; maybe they'd stroll Damascus' streets again.
She'd taken to spending much more time with him. Under Ahmed's persistence and insistence, Ghalib treated Saraj as a level higher than property. Once, when she was invited to attend a walk with several merchants, Ahmed had insisted that Ghalib dance with his wife when he saw her looking forlornly at a group of merchants playing for children.
Ghalib, feeling all the expectant looks from the other merchants, begrudgingly complied and half-dragged half-escorted his wife to dance.
While Maria enjoyed it and Saraj felt compelled to obey her husband's every command, she didn't know for certain how Altair or Ghalib felt about it. He'd shown no happiness while they danced around that fountain, nor had he been disgusted with the act. He'd been impossible to read, like a book written in a foreign language.
She twirled a pickle in her fingers and was just about to leave her room and pay Shihad a visit at the stables—maybe he liked pickles, too?—when her bedroom door opened and in came Altair.
She sneered at her pickle. No, Shihad didn't deserve it. More for her.
"I believe the more time I spend with those buffoons, the more I want to dive into concrete instead of hay," he muttered as he sat down beside her. He seemed too absorbed in his own musings to pay her any heed. Not that she minded, considering he'd ask about her pickles and possibly confiscate them if she told him Ahmed gave them to her.
"Every day, they haul their weight around Damascus—Bashshar especially, though he has the most trouble with this, considering he is the definition of obesity—quietly sneering at the people and turning a blind eye toward their struggles. How sickening it is to see such disregard for commonfolk."
Maria watched him as he continued his rant. These complaints of his were becoming more and more common, and she was becoming more and more disturbed by this new uncharacteristic trait of his. She interrupted his fuming by turning his head toward hers.
His nostrils flared as his body still shivered with rage, but his shoulders eventually relaxed as she rubbed her fingers along his jaw and cheek. He waited for her to speak—to say anything, anything to banish whatever anxiety that still lingered in him and distract him from his thoughts.
How strange it was for a Hashshashin to want distractions!
"You haven't shaved," she offered casually. "It's picky."
He let out a breath and nodded. "I've been preoccupied, Maria."
"How long has it been? A week, week and a half?"
"Three days." He found himself smiling with her when she chuckled. His face soured as he reflected on his past three days. "Three days of Shêtân's Hell, filled with the merchants and their useless meetings. I wonder if they even genuinely enjoy this convention, or if they find it an opportunity to gain more power."
She pulled his turban off and toyed with the unruly brown locks of hair. "This grew back, too, I see."
"And when Ahmed decides to neglect a meeting, it is always Bashshar who takes the lead. Instead of accomplishing anything, that putrid swine offers us women and wine. What of the men who do not wish to be stuffed like game hanging on a wall, or to fill their needs with those sharmutas?"
She ran her fingers through his hair. "Be careful, Altair," she mused. "Some of those merchants might grow jealous of your appearance."
"It's maddening hearing their petty little squabbles, Maria, and ingrains headaches upon headaches into my skull—Maria," he growled. She wasn't even paying attention to him! She was too busy tugging and playing with that annoying lock of hair that rested on his forehead. He found his temper flaring again, and he had the sudden urge just to cut the piece of hair off to spite her.
"Oh, don't give me that look, Altair," she huffed. Ignoring his indignant expression, she cupped his face in her hands and started kneading her fingers against his temples and behind his neck, just as he'd demonstrated on her before. His body tensed momentarily before recognizing her actions, and he had no power over himself as the creases in his forehead smoothed over and the taut muscles in his jaw relaxed.
Her ministrations earned a small relieved sound from the back of his throat, and he closed his eyes. When she finished soothing his headache away, he was barely aware that she was leaning her head on his shoulder, her pickles long forgotten.
"I visited the Bureau today," he murmured into her hair. His arm wrapped around her and pulled her closer.
"Oh?"
"Butrus sends his regards. He says that any time you want, you're free to visit him as well. He's taken a liking to you."
She smiled. "He seems to like you as well, Altair."
"He's an understanding person, Maria. But I received… interesting news from him. Malik sent me a letter."
"About Masyaf's welfare?"
"That, and how only a few nights ago, Hildegard was seen and heard traipsing through the fortress, shouting rather implying and inappropriate words. Any idea why she would be doing this, Maria?"
Maria's breath caught in her throat. She knew she never should have sent Hildegard that letter detailing about her time in Damascus as Saraj. It was an innocent enough letter, until she mentioned overhearing the Merchant Committee Orgy in the palace courtyard. Apparently that's how Hildegard handled the delicious news.
"That sounds like something she'd do," Maria answered in hopes of dropping the conversation.
"Indeed," he chuckled. She wasn't fooling anyone. A comfortable silence hung between them as Maria snuggled further into his shoulder, satisfied only when her nose brushed against his neck.
"Butrus and I also discussed Clarence and his Armenian bodyguard, this 'Tagvoryan' man," he started. "If I continue to yield no results from my investigations, I'm considering asking Malik to send in reinforcements."
She glanced up at him. "Reinforcements? Are you planning an invasion?"
"No," he shook his head. "Assassins will only resort to invading a city only if there are no other options available, Maria. I will ask Malik to send in a few men to help gather information and perhaps conduct an assassination on either Clarence or his protector."
"That sounds logical, but be careful with how many men you require, Altair. You may have the merchants' trust, but Clarence is no fool; he does not trust anyone. He is suspicious of every one of those men, yourself included, Altair."
"I'm aware of this. This mission has proven to be the most time-consuming one I've ever embarked upon, Maria. I believe that because of the merchants and their ridiculous mannerisms, it's been more unpleasant—" He swallowed his words when he felt her shifting against him. She cupped his cheek as she nipped his neck and planted soft kisses against the flesh, not minding his picky stubble in the least.
"Enough of these merchants," she breathed into his ear. "Hush now, my little eaglet." She continued her kisses, trailing them up his neck and to his jaw. Her lips closed around the tender flesh, and she gently began to pull and suck on the curve of his neck. Heat pooled between her legs when he gave the softest of moans and fisted his hands into the fabric of her jalabiya. She would have left a mark, but he pulled her to him so that she straddled his waist.
Her body immediately reacted to their proximity, not wanting to waste a moment of having his solid warmth so near her. Her arms wrapped around his neck, her elbows resting on his shoulders. Her fingers traveled up the back of his head, sliding through his hair and teasing the short locks of hair. She kissed his brow before her lips ghosted along his temple.
His hands slowly ran up her thighs, unsure if his motions would be welcomed or not. When she sighed and lightly tugged on his hair, he lost himself to the desire of feeling and kneading her strong legs. He gasped when her tongue traced the shell of his ear. When it reached the lobe, she nipped and nibbled on it, eliciting another moan from him.
Even without his sounds of approval and arousal, she knew the effects that her affections had over him; the evidence of his desire was quite noticeable from underneath her.
She pulled away from him to stare into his eyes, humbled beyond words from the naked adoration evident in his hazel eyes. It should have frightened her, knowing that he always kept his thoughts and feelings guarded behind a steel gaze, but she knew without a doubt that such looks of unguarded lust were only reserved for one person.
A person who found no reason to continue blocking his advances.
He brushed her hair behind her ears as she toyed with that stubborn curl on his forehead. Her eyes flickered between his and his mouth. He saw a look of uncertainty pass over her face—whether it was from her own indecisiveness or his, he was not certain—and he was adamant to banish whatever doubts occupying her mind.
He cupped her head and closed the distance between them. Their mouths met hesitantly and with the faintest contact. He wasn't even sure if they were kissing, but the way their lips tenderly brushed against each other was enough to make every nerve ending in his body alight with fire.
Her lips traced his scar. With her eyes closed, she couldn't see him watching every subtle change in her expression. She puckered her brow as she reminded herself of how that scar felt under her mouth, and she pulled back just an inch to give a smile that said, "Ah, yes, I remember now."
They met again, the kiss chaste and simple. The stubble along his lips and jaw tickled her, and her fingers moved over his jaw, enjoying the feel of the prickly hair.
He was not sure how long they exchanged these small kisses, as they were both content to block out the rest of the world for now and focus solely on the other. He found it a fitting reward for having to endure the stupidity from the merchants for so long.
Perhaps he should complain about them more often if it meant Maria would lavish such attention upon him.
Their small blissful moment almost resulted in a compromising position, though, and their eyes shot open at the same time. They hardly had enough time to register the sound of footsteps just beyond the door before she scrambled away from him and made herself presentable in just the space of a few seconds.
Maria, knowing that her hair was probably in tangles because that buffoon of a man just loved to knot his fingers in it, quickly tried to brush out the knots with her fingers. She paused to glance over at him to make sure he was trying to conceal the proof of their actions as much as she was. Her mouth went dry as he still laid in the cushions, breathing heavily—almost panting—and staring at her with a smolder that would put hot coals to shame.
Obviously, he wasn't worried about anyone walking in on them in such a thought-arousing situation. After all, was Ghalib not permitted to kiss and fondle his own wife, even in a mosque?
Her eyes darted to his sirwals. 'And not only thought-arousing,' she thought.
His lips parted and his voice dropped an octave as he whispered, "Maria."
She frowned in frustration, half of her wanting to coax more moans out of him. Allah knew she was quite talented at that, but there was a more pressing matter than that of his need for her.
And his erection's need.
The footsteps stopped right behind their door, and Maria, knowing that she'd be utterly damned if anyone saw the lustful look on Altair's face, found no other option than to grab a pickle from her discarded bowl and shove it into his opened mouth. Stunned, he accidentally bit down on it, cringing from the sudden sour tingle that shot up his jaw.
She settled beside him, holding the bowl in her lap to pretend she was feeding him, just as the door opened and in came Ahmed without a single knock.
"Ahmed," Saraj said in a surprised voice, obviously delighted to have him in her company, "what brings you here, friend?"
He inclined his head to her. "A pleasure to see you again so soon, Saraj." He turned his attention toward Ghalib. Ahmed smiled when he saw the pickle dangling out of his mouth. "Ah, Ghalib! I see Saraj found it in her heart to share. I trust that you are enjoying them?"
Maria smiled and patted Ghalib's arm before replying, "He's absolutely taken with them, Ahmed. Isn't that right, Ghalib?"
Ghalib grunted.
Ahmed, ignoring Ghalib's bulging eyes and cross-eyed glare directed at the pickle, beamed and clapped his hands together. "Excellent! I will have some of my servants send more over later, if you'd wish."
"That would be most splendid, Ahmed," Maria purred, pointedly ignoring the glower Altair gave her.
Ghalib, finally recovering from the initial shock of that ridiculous pickle, pulled the blasted thing out of his mouth, contemplating whether or not to throw it at Ahmed. He settled with snapping it in half, only a little bit satisfied of teaching the pickle a lesson—oh, Allah, now there were two pickles. He cleared his throat. "I trust there is a reason for this visit, Ahmed?"
"Yes, yes, pardon my forgetfulness," Ahmed chuckled. "I came to tell you, Ghalib, that Bashshar is holding a meeting in an hour specifically reserved for those merchants who are serious about our cause. It is mandatory that you attend, Ghalib."
Altair's heart plummeted from the news. How lovely: more time with that over-stuffed hog. He tried to lift his spirits by thinking of the possibility of learning more about Clarence and Tagvoryan.
"Ghalib will be there promptly, Ahmed," Saraj said when her husband made no move to reply.
"Excellent! And as for you, Saraj, there is someone whom I'd like you to meet tonight. He's an Armenian musician, and I know of your appreciation for music, so I made arrangements to introduce you to him."
Saraj lifted her eyebrows at this and smiled. "That is very thoughtful of you, Ahmed. I'd be honored to meet him—who did you say he was, again?"
Ahmed nodded, pleased with her response. "He's been in Damascus for a couple months now. Armenia's King Levon is well aware of his musical talents and sent him here to share the gift of rhythm with the world. I believe his next destination is Libya."
Failure to mention the man's name did not go unnoticed by Altair.
"Then it would be very rude of me to decline this invitation, Ahmed. A man who's traveled so far and has spent much time away from home deserves recognition, no?" Saraj smiled again.
"Very good, I will tell him immediately. Please be ready to leave just before sunset; I will escort you to the Palace and properly introduce you two. And Ghalib, it would be wise to leave now, if you are ready."
Saraj followed Ahmed as he led the way through the Palace. Ghalib had already returned to the Umayyad, and she bade him goodnight after he'd lamented what a waste of time the meeting was.
She knew he wanted to come with her, and knew that he was just itching to follow her. But what would he say if he was caught? That he was just casually roaming the Palace?
Altair's worried look still flashed through her mind, and Maria was adamant to keep those hazel pools from distracting her. Already, she'd almost crashed into Ahmed's back. He'd have probably started clucking and coddling her, thinking she was ill, if she hadn't caught herself at the last possible moment.
Ahmed smiled and inclined his head to the other merchants and servants they passed, most of them returning the gesture and sending Saraj approving glances. She despised how she'd become Ghalib's little decorative ornament, as if she was there solely for the purpose to look pretty and accept praise on her beauty. It sickened her, almost as much as the sounds she currently heard.
Maria's eyes narrowed and her muscles bunched together as Ahmed walked down a corridor with closed doors lining both sides of the hall. She wasn't too fond of the narrow space, but was even more upset by the sounds coming from behind the doors.
Oh, Hildegard would love to know that she'd discovered the whore pens of the Palace. At least she knew one of the musician's hobbies.
She steeled herself in case Ahmed's sincerity was all but a ruse to have her beneath him. Oh ho ho, if that was what the man was planning, he'd be sorely disappointed to find that he'd have more than just a pickle shoved into his mouth.
"Here we are," he said at last once they were at the last door in the hall. Maria could hear the telltale sound of a duduk behind the door, and some of her tension dissipated. He held the door open for her and motioned her inside.
Maria had always known that instruments reflected their players; emotions from the musician would be brought out for the world to hear through their talents. And at that moment, when she heard the nostalgic tune, she knew more about this man than words could ever describe.
It was the sound of a man who had lost everything—no, everyone—in his life and was reminiscing in his life before the world turned on end. She knew that feeling all too well, as she spent her last year in that misery.
Ahmed moved past Maria and smiled at the man whose back was to them. He didn't look up from the sheets of music in front of him or turn around. "Ah," Ahmed said, "Sarkis Tagvoryan, always a pleasure to hear your playing!"
Maria's heart froze. She was a sheep led to slaughter! She had no doubt that she'd be able to keep Ahmed from harming her—the man was as skinny as a twig—but... but!
But Tagvoryan—Clarence's bodyguard, Tagvoryan—would be a different scenario completely. Her fingers twitched as she contemplated whether or not to take out her hidden knives and gain the upper hand on them right there and then.
But Tagvoryan did not seem alarmed in the slightest. He placed his reed in a case and wiped his duduk with a cloth. Once he was done making sure his duduk was secured in its case, he stood and turned toward Ahmed. He blinked, as if he'd just noticed them there.
"Voghdzuyin, Master Ahmed," he said with a polite bow. "Forgive me, I was not expecting you tonight."
Maria raised an eyebrow at Ahmed.
"Ah, well," Ahmed chuckled, "I promised Saraj that I would introduce her to you, and she had no plans this night." He stepped to the side and motioned between Saraj and Tagvoryan. "Sarkis, this is Saraj bint-Mikhail, wife of Ghalib ibn-Jibril. Saraj, this is Sarkis Tagvoryan, King Levon of Armenia's chief adviser."
Saraj inclined her head and took a step back when Sarkis held his hand out to her. She looked at him in bewilderment.
"It is only proper that women be treated the same as men," he murmured. When she still stared at him in shock, he cleared his throat and let his hand fall back to his side. Maria quickly stole the last opportunity to shake the man's hand.
"It is a pleasure, Sarkis Tagvoryan—"
"Please, just 'Tagvoryan', if you will," he whispered. Maria glanced up at him, curious as to why a man would feel so inferior with a woman that he'd keep his voice so quiet and submissive. She was even more curious about this man when she sized him up. She'd expected Clarence's bodyguard to be a gruff and impeding man with a hole in his chest where a heart should have been. She even expected him to be covered in filth from battle.
Tagvoryan, however, was none of these things. He was a handsome man, at most having thirty-some years on his shoulders. His shoulder-length curly hair was just a shade from being black, and he kept it tied at the back, but that didn't stop a few curly locks from hanging at his forehead. No matter how handsome he was, his entire frame looked tired and weighed down by something, as if he was a man haunted by nightmares.
It would explain his duduk's voice.
She wondered how a man so skilled with music found himself as a bodyguard to someone as vile as Clarence. She looked into his eyes and swore that gold began to leak into his irises, but when she blinked, she was staring into the same hazel that she lost herself in earlier that evening. Her hand fell out of his and she knew she was looking at him with the dumbest expression. If he noticed, those sad eyes betrayed nothing.
"I've heard much about you, Saraj bint-Mikhail. Ahmed speaks highly of you. And Ahmed, before my mind forgets, Bashshar was looking for you earlier. He came to me once he was finished with... searching the hallway."
"Oh!" Ahmed seemed conflicted—be rude and leave Saraj with Tagvoryan, or keep his brother waiting?
"He said it was of the utmost importance," Tagvoryan added, seeming to know what the other man was thinking. Saraj gave Ahmed a reassuring smile, and the man, having his mind made up, excused himself from the room.
Silence hung between Tagvoryan and Maria. He sat down and gestured to another seat. "Please, sit. I am sorry that I am not able to provide more entertainment, Saraj bint-Mikhail. I was unaware I was to be a host tonight."
She adjusted her skirt and placed her hands in her lap. "There is nothing to apologize for, Tagvoryan. I'm grateful that you are not insulted by my intrusion."
"Surprised, but not offended, no. I rarely receive guests in the Palace."
His voice was quiet from disuse, she noted, not because he was bashful. He'd have to swallow and clear his throat before uttering a word—just how long had it been since he had a conversation more than two words with someone?
"I suppose the entertainers just down the hall have nothing to do with it," she said in hopes of diffusing some of the tension in the room.
He raised an eyebrow at this. "Do you take me for a man who seeks such base pleasures?"
"No," she said immediately, berating herself for unintentionally upsetting him.
He nodded, welcoming the silence that once again crept in on them. He stared at the floor, his eyebrows creased together as he waged war with his mind. Maria kept her eyes on him, knowing that she was not out of the woods just yet.
He rested his elbows on his knees and leaned toward her. "Tell me," he began, even more softly than before, "what did you think when you heard my music?"
Maria narrowed her eyes, wary if this was some sort of trap. He was affiliated with Templars and the enemy, even if he was a troubled soul. "May I be frank?"
"You need not permission to speak your mind."
Refreshing. "Then I'm sure you know that your music paralleled your very being. It's impossible for a musician to hide himself in his music. What are you really asking me, Tagvoryan?"
"Ahmed did not lie when he said you were intelligent," he mused. "I'm curious to see if you're capable of using that wit to answer your own question. But please," he hastily added in, raising his hands in light mockery, "do be frank."
Ah, so he had a viper's bite to him. She was obliged to return the venom.
"I heard the wails of a man who had everything dear and precious to him ripped from his grasp—a man who found comfort in the memories of his beloved life before he faced the wrath of reality and the sting of betrayal."
'A wail so similar to mine,' she thought dismally.
A small twitch in his temple told her that she'd presumed correctly. He exhaled and stared at his hands. "Very bold words," he whispered.
"Bold?" she challenged. "Or frank?"
He stared her down, his eyes flashing for just a moment.
She stood from her chair and looked down at him. "Did you honestly think that you veiled yourself so cleverly by taking up the duduk? The callouses on your hands betray you, Sarkis Tagvoryan. The despair in your eyes speaks volumes of your sorrow. There is much more to you than what meets the eye."
He looked up at her, not unnerved at all. "Then we are very similar, are we not, Saraj?"
She held her ground, her eyes narrowing at him. "How dare you—"
"You may leave now," he interrupted. "I am sure you did not come down here to quarrel with me. Forgive me for stoking your fire. Please give my regards to your husband."
Maria turned on her heel, not even bothering to excuse herself, and slammed the door behind her. The bang did not mute the moans coming from the other rooms, nor did it drown out the sound of Sarkis Tagvoryan's duduk.
"I do not like this," Altair finally whispered as he paced the length of Maria's room. "I had a feeling that it would be Tagvoryan. You could have been compromised, Maria; anything could have happened."
Maria leaned back against her cushions, her eyes closed. She shook her head slowly. "I never expected to meet our enemy face to face and have a conversation with them." She paused and stared at the ceiling. "Altair, there is something wrong with that man."
"What do you mean?" He sat beside her, and when she didn't respond, he placed a comforting hand on her knee. "Maria," he murmured.
She swallowed and exhaled heavily. "There is great sadness surrounding that man. It's consuming him, like a disease. And yet I felt that he did not want to pull himself from his grief, as if he was content to let it slowly kill him." She looked Altair in the eye, worry evident in her face. "What drives a person to such isolation? How can someone want to be left alone to wither?"
He pulled her to him and rested her head on his shoulder. "Sometimes it's easier that way, Maria," he breathed into her hair. He placed a kiss on the top of her head. "Sometimes people want to wallow in their mistakes and let their world become veiled over with their grief."
"I feel sympathy for him," Maria confessed. "Is this healthy for me? He aids the Templars, and yet I cannot find one bone in my body that loathes him."
Altair smiled and tucked her head into the crook of his neck. "I felt the same when I met you."
She wrapped an arm around him and nuzzled into him. "And look at us now," she breathed. "Look at us now."
One month later...
Damiel leapt to the side just in time as Mustafa's training sword sliced through the air, and he swung a fist at Mustafa. Damiel intended the blow to land on his cheek, but Mustafa was very lithe on his feet. He moved so that his fist slammed into his shoulder, and used Damiel's outstretched arm as leverage. He pulled him toward him, aiming to smack him on the back with his sword, but yelped as Damiel's foot hooked on his ankle and sent him tumbling to the ground with him.
Malik watched with interest from the top of the stairs as the boys continued their duel in the courtyard. He rested his chin in his palm, his eyes following the movements of Damiel and Mustafa. He had to hand it to Damiel: the boy had improved significantly in the last month. Even Tamam was showing reluctance when punishing the boy, as he was a hero amongst his fellow novices. They looked up to him, Rakin especially, and followed his lead of confidence in their fighting.
His swordsmanship was improving, but still needed work. Rauf spent more time with him, helping him execute maneuvers without losing balance or misjudging the length of his sword.
Damiel was a charm to Masyaf, both in the fortress and out of. He'd heard from Hildegard all about how the boy helped carry old women's goods as they continued to shop unburdened. Soon, Mustafa had joined him, and a few times even shy Rakin braved the marketplace.
But Nabil had separated himself from Damiel and his former friends. Malik always noticed the guilty look spread over the boy's face whenever he saw Damiel or heard his name in conversation. It was understandable that Nabil would feel that he didn't deserve anything from Damiel; after all, he publicly humiliated him. But Malik saw their strenuous relationship as a weakness to Masyaf. Perhaps separating the boys so that they didn't have an opportunity to even spare a glance at each other would be the best for both of them.
"Ho ho, Master Aden, did my ears hear correctly, or were you insulting a woman who isn't even here to defend herself?"
Malik's ears perked up and he turned his head to the side, subtly eavesdropping on the conversation just inside Masyaf's foyer.
Aden crossed his arms and raised his chin high. "But it is only true, Hildegard. She is alone with him, no? Then it's only a matter of time before she is in another situation that involves lack of clothing."
Hildegard snorted and swatted her hand at the man. "That's rubbish and you know it! Maria is no whore to throw herself at a man—it will be him that falls for her, you fool!"
"Oh?" Aden scoffed. "And are you inferring that men are mindless beasts that latch onto any woman they see—"
"—it would explain many a thing, Aden—"
"—and that we have no backbone? Hah! Hildegard, listen to yourself. That woman has been lonely for over a year now, and it's only expected that she relieves herself of that."
"Oh, Aden," Hildegard said sympathetically. She patted his cheek. "And how long have you been alone, now? Oh, dear," she mused, recoiling her hand from him. "Lord only knows how often you relieve yourself, hm?"
"That's hardly appropriate, Lady Hildegard!"
"Oh, tush! Don't you give me speeches on what's appropriate and what's not appropriate—who are you to lecture such things when you, Master Aden, have been hiding this from me?" She waved a sheet of parchment in front of his face. Her cheeks were flushed with excitement and triumph as he looked away nervously.
"I-I, err... while I was making my way to Masyaf with Olivia and my sister, we passed through a town, you see, and there was a man..."
"Yes, do go on, do go on."
Aden cleared his throat. "I believe his name was 'Halim', and he seemed obsessed with the 'blonde fair maiden'. Naturally, I investigated, and I discovered that sketch in his belongings."
Halim. Hildegard felt something inside of her shrivel and die. She remembered that idiot of a man. "And so you took it upon yourself to snatch Altair's hand-drawn picture of Maria from him? Why?"
"Because it was not Halim's," Aden said in his defense. "And I thought to myself, 'Perhaps Maria wants this back?'"
"And why would you care about Maria so?"
"I don't," he laughed. "The woman is worth more trouble than she is worth. Allah help her lover! She's probably clawing at him now, forcing herself upon him—"
"Master Aden," Hildegard growled, "you will do well to stay your tongue from saying such nonsense about my friend."
"You still wish to challenge me on this, Hildegard? Very well, I will humor you. Let us take a gamble, then, shall we?"
She snorted. "I thought most Arabs frowned upon gambling?"
"In my defense, I am not most Arabs. So, what say you?"
Hildegard crossed her arms suspiciously. "And what are the terms of this 'gamble', Master Aden?"
"It is simple: if Maria remains untouched by the Assassin, then you will win our little game." Hildegard grinned at this. "If, however, she whores with him, then I win."
"And what are the stakes?"
"If I win," Aden said, "then you will accompany me every night to the dinner hall." Hildegard frowned. It was an odd request, yet she knew what he was up to. Everyone was in attendance during supper, and everyone would surely see her clinging to Aden's side like a leech. Normally, she sat with Malik and Rauf—
"Ahh," she chuckled with a bob of her head. "So jealousy is what drives you to be clever, Aden. Good to know. But if I win," she added in before he could say a word, "then you must allow Mustafa to court your sister." She held up a hand when he made to protest. "Is there any real harm in letting them share a meal together? Buy goods in the marketplace together? I know he's been sending her letters, Aden. In fact, I've managed to acquire some of them from Zaina.
"Mustafa is a perfectly fine young man, Aden. You should see him with the bow and arrow. I daresay he will best Olivia one day."
Aden glowered at her and quickly squared his broad shoulders. "Mustafa is an orphan who chose the life of a killer in order to survive. He is naïve, foolish, and still a little boy."
"Oh, see? You two have so much in common!"
"Hildegard," he warned, "you have no right to ask for such a reward."
"So the big and mighty Aden is afraid of a little bet? Oh, what news this will be to the novices! Who knows, my tongue might just slip during dinner tonight," she lilted while rocking on her heels. She eyed Aden, knowing that she'd conquered him.
"I am not afraid," he snarled, "for I will win, Hildegard." He offered her his hand, and she shook without hesitation.
"Then it's done," she stated firmly.
'Indeed, it is done,' Malik thought, the gears in his brain turning with mischief. He had every intention of seeing Aden and Hildegard lose their little bet. Thwarting those pesky novices have bored him, and now he had bigger fish to fry.
His eyes settled on the two boys in the courtyard. A smile crept over his lips. He knew exactly what to do.
"You want us to what?" Damiel gawked as Malik's words registered in his brain. He sat at the opposite end of the study with Mustafa next to him. Malik sighed as he once again repeated himself for the umpteenth time.
Damiel shook his head and gave Mustafa an uneasy look. Mustafa chuckled and continued to wipe the sweat from his brow with a towel. "Master Malik," he started with another chuckle, "would it not be wise to send another Brother who has more experience than us? After all, Damiel and I are only novices. Perhaps a 'Mediate would be a better choice, no?"
Malik shook his head. "I agree that our intermediates have a plethora of experience that the novices do not, but I believe you two to be our best candidates." He paused and watched as Mustafa passed his towel to Damiel to use. "Mustafa, I'm well aware of your archery skills. You have a happy talent for felling a foe from a distance. I also know that you organize every scandal involving my kibbeh and your sticky little fingers."
Mustafa blushed and chuckled.
Malik grunted in amusement. "And as for you, Damiel, you've made good progress in the fortress, and I believe it would do you both to be sent on this mission."
Damiel busied himself with drying his armpits. Eugh, these novices reeked to high heaven! Malik knew he should have made them bathe before approaching them.
"And you just want us to help the Master in any way, shape, or form? Aren't there already Brothers in Damascus, Master Malik?"
Malik nodded. "You are correct, Mustafa. But I've received word from the Rafiq that he needs them just to gather enough information so that he stays in tune with Damascus' atmosphere. Those boys aren't the most... productive of sorts."
"So, let me see if I have this correct, por favor." Damiel held his hands out, palms up. "You want us to go to Damascus—one: a boy who has been tortured for God knows how long, and the other: a chuckling novice who qualifies for this mission because he steals your precious kufta—to assist the Master in slaying Clarence?"
Mustafa shifted in his seat and coughed. "You make kibbeh-stealing sound to be such an easy feat, my friend."
Damiel rolled his eyes. "That's because it is easy—"
Malik made a sound from the back of his throat, interrupting their little banter. He glared at Damiel, that little culprit! "That is correct—Damiel Karkafian, if you ask that question one more time, I will glue your fingers together with honey and tie your tongue in a knot!"
Damiel clamped his mouth shut and whimpered.
Malik sighed in relief. "You will leave as soon as possible. Gather whatever you need for the ride there, and make for Damas with all haste. The Master has already been dispatched there for three months without any results. I'm hoping you boys can change that. Ah, yes, and one more thing..."
Damiel and Mustafa both listened intently.
Malik's nose wrinkled and he waved the boys away. "Bathe yourselves before Masyaf crumbles just from your stench alone!"
Damiel frowned and crossed his arms in embarrassment, while Mustafa had the decency sniff an armpit and to chuckle lightheartedly.
Mustafa double-checked his saddlebag, making sure everything was in its proper place. Satisfied, he grinned, and, when making sure no one was around, chuckled. He was rather excited for this mission. Usually he was given the task of courier boy whenever it was too risky to send word by pigeon.
He secured his bags on the saddle, patting the horse's neck and back in reassurance. The beast whinnied softly and nudged him with its nose.
Just then Damiel came clambering along, followed by a skittish Rakin.
"But do you have to go? And what about me? T-Tamam will surely see this as an opportunity to berate me," he sniffed. Damiel sighed and gripped the boy's shoulder.
"Oyé, don't fret, Rakin. We'll be back before you know it! And if Tamam pesters you, go to Rauf. He'll set him straight for you, don't you worry."
Rakin nodded and sniffled again. He bowed his head and it seemed as if his entire body was caving in on itself. His knees shaking and his shoulders heaving, he fell to the ground, unable to keep his tears and cries away.
"But what if something happens?" he sniffled. "What if you two are killed?"
"Hey, hey, hey," Damiel whispered. He knelt in front of the boy and lifted his chin up. "We'll come back, Rakin, I promise you that!"
Rakin rubbed his nose and shook his head. "No, you won't. That's what baba said to me before he left, and he never came back."
Something in Damiel's eyes changed, and he wrapped his arms around Rakin. His small frame shook fiercely in his arms before he buried his face in Damiel's chest and continued to sob. "Your papá probably wanted to come back to you, Rakin. How could he not? He has a very strong, brave son. Mustafa and I will come back, Rakin. You like walnuts, yes? We'll bring you back an entire bag of them, Rakin, just you wait and see."
Rakin pulled away and looked up into Damiel's eyes, finding comfort in the sincerity there. "Y-you really mean that?"
Damiel smiled and gave a firm nod. "Of course I do, Rakin. Although, Mustafa and I might have to help you eat all of them."
Mustafa chuckled. "Well, I do like walnuts," he mumbled. Rakin giggled before letting Damiel help him to his feet. Mustafa smiled and turned his head away from his friends as something caught his eye.
He felt his heart do a little leap at the sight of her. He sighed and gave a small wave. Damiel and Rakin looked to see what caught his attention.
Damiel smirked. "Afraid that's as close as you'll be to her, Mustafa, before Aden runs you out. Trust me, I know."
Mustafa exhaled and slouched his shoulders. "I only wish I could see her more often. It's a shame how she keeps herself hidden from the world. Almost like a princess in a tower," he mused.
Damiel laughed. "There isn't anything regal about Zaina." He didn't notice Mustafa frown.
Rakin quietly joined them and toed the ground. "Mustafa's sweet on her, Damiel," he murmured.
"Eh?" Damiel whirled his head to Mustafa. He never told Mustafa of his small infatuation with Zaina. How could he? Word would spread like wildfire and Aden would push him off the mountain.
Mustafa gave a sad smile. "It's true. But who am I trying to fool? I'm just a lowly novice, and she already has a family." He hung his head, but then brought his spirits back up with a chuckle. "Nevermind me. Damascus awaits."
Damiel didn't bring Zaina up in conversation during their ride to Damascus. He knew that Aden despised him with every fiber of his being and that Zaina never saw him as more than an ally. He was content to step aside and let Mustafa try to woo her.
"So, what's Rakin's story?"
Mustafa looked over at him. "He grew up without parents. Well, he never knew his mother, and his father left him at a very young age. His abusive uncle took him in after that, and after deeming Rakin useless and just another mouth to feed, he dumped him on Masyaf's border. Rakin only had eight summers on him when the Hashshashin took him in."
"Is his father alive?"
Mustafa shrugged and urged his mount into a faster pace. "Who can say for sure?"
Altair let himself into Maria's room. He promptly shut the door behind him and strode over to the window.
She looked up from her cushions, curious as to why he felt the need to barge in on her privacy.
"We must make haste, Maria," he said at last.
"And what is the rush, Altair?" she asked while stretching her arms and legs out.
He walked over to her and pulled her to her feet. She hissed and smacked his hands off of her. Before she could chew his ear off, he said, "Clarence will be visiting the Umayyad in just two more bells. He's planning some sort of statement to show the people that he is a man not only open to the Bible, but also to the Koran."
Maria placed her hands on her hips. "Another Templar attempt to make an alliance with Muslims? I remember very clearly how their last attempt played out."
Altair smiled as he, too, remembered that event quite well. "Whatever he is planning, we must be prepared."
"Will we be under the guises of Ghalib and Saraj still?"
"No, Maria, and that is the tricky part."
Butrus silently fumed behind his counter, watching those two noisy novices with beady eyes and a flushed face. He watched as how they completely disorganized his already unorganized mess. Oh, this could not continue any longer! How dare they seek refuge in his sty and then completely destroy it!
"Alright, you two," he growled through gritted teeth. "I am putting my foot down right here and now! Remove your belongings from my tables and kindly place them somewhere else!"
Damiel and Mustafa shared a blank look before shrugging and continuing with their conversation. Butrus felt his temper skyrocket, and he wouldn't be surprised if steam was shooting out of his ears and nostrils.
"By order of Rafiq Butrus," he declared, "I command you to listen to me!"
Damiel blinked and almost choked on his breadloaf. "¿Perdón? " he asked in wonder. He swallowed his bread and stood from the cushions. "Did I hear correctly?"
Butrus narrowed his eyes at the boy. "You heard me—"
"Your name is butt rust?" Damiel's bread fell out of his mouth as his jaw went slack. "Did your mama not like you or something, friend?"
Mustafa joined him. "Oh, poor Butrus. I never noticed that about your name before—nicely done, Damiel," he chuckled.
Butrus' shoulders shook and his eyebrows almost touched his hairline. He was livid! "No, no, no! My name is Butrus, not—"
"Butt rust, or butt rest?" Damiel murmured to Mustafa. The other boy shrugged. "Is it even possible for a butt to rust? Maybe Hildegard knows! We'll have to ask her when we return to Masyaf."
Butrus blanched as he recognized the name. According to his novices, Hildegard was a woman who had established a gossip committee of some sort in Masyaf. Whatever news the woman heard—be it of importance or regarding a new pair of slippers—the whole of the Brotherhood was aware of it in hours.
Abbas had complained often to him, saying that a goat who bleats too much attracts unwanted attention.
And now the current condition of his hiny was to be circulated amongst those blabbing novices! Not that his hiny was in any condition, really, but—ohhh!
"Enough of your little chitchat!" Butrus warned. Damiel still seemed to be in deep thought while Mustafa looked back and forth between them with that silly little grin on his face. Butrus, deeming the situation to be futile, stalked away from them.
They followed him. Damiel placed a hand on his shoulder. "I've never heard of the condition before, but it must be serious! Are you alright?"
Butrus looked at the boy, finding poorly contained laughter behind his eyes. There was only one solution to deal with these novices, and only rarely did he ever have to resort to it. Turning on his heel, he rummaged through his pantry.
Once he found what he was looking for, he chased after the novices, swatting at their heels with a broom until they climbed up and out of his Bureau.
Translations:
Arabic:
Yalla: Come on/let's go/hurry up
Shêtân: Satan/Devil
sharmuta: whore/prostitute
baba: dad
Armenian:
mikti: Armenian wild cucumbers
Voghdzuyin: Hello (formal) **Parév is informal (just a Fun Fact)
Spanish:
por favor: please
Oyé: Hey
papá: dad
¿Perdón?: Pardon?
A/N: Yes, Loving Hate is still alive. No, I am not giving up the story. Yes, it took a long time for me to update. Life's a bitch, what can I say? And I needed some inspiration. Now, as I eat my Armenian pickles and take sips from my ayran, I have a few things to say. One: this chapter will be divided into 2 parts. I planned on making it one chapter, but then it seemed as if I was crowding too much into one chapter, and I felt uncomfortable with it. Two: while I appreciate people staying in touch with my story, please do not send me messages asking me when I'm going to update or why I haven't update. I'm not talking about innocent messages where people just want to know if I'm still alive and working with Loving Hate; I mean the messages where people are rude, berate me for not updating, and then promptly demand me to update. Excuse me? I have a life of my own, and I have absolutely no qualms about postponing a chapter for another month or two. So please, take my life into consideration before you start treating me like a two year old. Thanks.
Anyways, now that that rant's over and done with, I feel confident with this chapter. We learned a bit about some characters, like Tagvoryan and Rakin. I really like Tagvoryan's character, and I'm hoping to 'wow' people with his backstory.