Definitions:
Mahram = a person you can't marry, eg. your brother, father or uncle. Non-mahrams are marriage candidates and a muslimah is not allowed to be alone with them, have psychical contact with them or dress inappropriately before them.
Dirham = Arabic coin
Nine
The setting sun profoundly lowered against the ocean, reflecting against the water surface and sending a dazzling shimmering of light that left the Assassin with hardly any sight. The pounding of his heart sounded loudly in his ears, making him reluctantly aware of his distress. His breathing was heavy; it felt like something had clamped his airways close, causing every breath he took to be a great pain. His nostrils flared tremulously in the hot climate. Sweat slowly trickled down his temple. The white hood of his robe sheltered his eyes from the heat of the sun, though it could not protect him from the blazing light that was accumulated on the water surface.
Altaïr took a step forward, raising a hand to shield his eyes. A few moments passed when upon distinguishing a ship in the distance, his breath caught in his throat and he doubled over in shock.
Adha.
His heart throbbed painfully every time he thought of her. He stared at his bent knees in utter disgust. What in the Lord's name was he doing? He should chase them right now; follow them even to the depths of Hell to get her back. The Assassin blinked and dug his fingernails into his palms with enough strength to stretch the skin white over his tanned knuckles. His amber eyes slowly turned towards the water again before they caught a small sloop that lay comfortable by the shore.
In slow motion he could feel his body start moving again. He wanted to sprint towards the shore and feel the muscles in his thighs burn at the explosive exertion, but every step he took was miraculously absorbed by his surroundings. It was as if the ground opened itself up every time he would land his feet, swallowing his every one move and making it impossible for him to forge ahead.
Was time itself making fun of him?
Suddenly the Assassin darted forward as if violently thrown forward by an unknown force. In a quick motion, he vaulted off of the dock and straight into the freezing depths of the ocean. The cold sea engulfed his thrashing body and sucked him under with unmet strength. Altaïr felt like prey being swallowed by a snake's jaws as water pulled at his body from all sides in an adoring manner, never to release its newfound lover. It felt like there were rocks tied to his body; no matter how hard he tried to swim up, he would only sink.
The salty liquid burnt his eyes and invaded his lungs violently; panic started to overtake his mind. Was this the end? Was he going to drown to death?
Altaïr woke up with a start, his chest going up and down violently due to his heavy breathing. The rapid pounding of his heart beat deafeningly between his ears. In his surprised state he took a deep breath and oxygen swelled into his lungs in a sigh of relief. He rubbed a hand over his face and noticed the great amount of sweat on his skin. Releasing a huff of frustration, he glared to the bureau entrance. The pale moonlight slid inside the bureau discreetly, highlighting the sharp textures of the stone tiles.
It was just a dream, the Assassin thought to himself. Slowly he relaxed his face and looked down to the wound in his side. He traced his fingers over the bandages and noted in irk that his cold sweat had soaked the fabric. He closed his eyes for a moment and breathed slowly. When he opened them again, his glance shifted towards Malik. The man was sleeping soundly on his bedroll between the cushions. Altaïr rose from his bedroll and made his way to the storage box with the medical kit; with skilled hands he changed the bandages around his waist. He momentarily froze when he heard rustling, but relaxed again when he reminded himself that the sound could only belong to Malik. Despite his own reassurance, he found himself turn around to check up on his colleague anyway; still sleeping.
The Assassin quietly put the storage box back to where it had belonged and leaned against the entrance of the bureau. He looked to the sky, mesmerized by the miraculous beauty of it. Then his brows drew together. Did Malik hate him? He felt ashamed of the behaviour he had shown towards the brothers at that fateful day. It was not like he had killed Kadar; Kadar had himself killed in the first place because of his lack of skill, but if he, their mission leader, had implemented a more cautious approach that day... would Kadar still have been alive?
It was no use of being caught up with feelings of regret if they only slowed him down. But he could not shake off the feelings and move on as long as Malik was still beside him. Amber eyes turned to the dark-haired male on the ground.
Should he apologize?
الله أكبر
The heat of the afternoon sun fell warmly onto Esma's face. Today she went out without Maher again. While in the past she would have considered herself fortunate for such an opportunity, she was now in doubt over his lack of presence. The reason for her anxiety was because of the tight stationing of the city guards. Everywhere she looked she saw men with the same uniforms: Salah'al-Din's soldiers. Originally to protect the city and its inhabitants, but she had heard many stories of the corrupt soldiers and how they would take advantage of helpless men and women, coerce them into admitting they were wrong-doers while in truth they had been innocent. Or worse; rape.
She lowered her gaze as she made her way to the market. It was ironic how the so-called protectors of Jerusalem brought so much fear to her heart. Surely not all guards were corrupt, but the thought did little to subdue her anxiety upon seeing them.
She had considered asking Maher along, but thought that the request might arouse suspicion over what had happened to her the other day with Talal's assassination. Besides, it wasn't like she trusted Maher either. Whenever he was alone with her, he would get too comfortable with her. He knew very well that it was not allowed since he was not a Mahram of hers. Now... if it had have been the Assassin, he would probably have protected her with his incredible strength and chivalrous mindset.
Except that he had never shown up yesterday.
Esma sighed over her own silly thoughts. What had she expected? Altaïr wasn't like any other man; he was a killer, a piece of a political scheme. Even though he was a killer with noble causes...
"Lady, lady!" a woman's voice called out.
Esma did not recognize the voice and decided to ignore her. It could be directed to anyone, so there was no reason for her to draw attention to herself.
"Please, wait!"
Suddenly a hand clawed at her lower arm, making Esma immediately jerk away from the touch. But as she saw that the person touching her had been a poor beggar woman, she found herself in shock over the sight. The woman's clothes were ragged; the once red fabric of the dress had faded to a greyish colour. With her hands folded together in a pleading motion, she pierced Esma straight through her soul with her misty gaze.
"Please, lady, I'm sick and poor and hungry!" As the beggar's lips moved they revealed a yellowish, mismatching set of teeth. The strong, rotten stench hit Esma in her face, making her instantly step back. She had to force herself not to pull a disgusted face at the terrible breath.
Esma shifted back from the intense closeness of the beggar, but the woman immediately followed her. Esma took another step back and held up her hand so the woman would stop getting so close.
"I understand that you ask for aid, but please allow me my space," she said.
The woman hesitated for a moment, but eventually backed up. With calculating eyes she watched the young girl, perhaps fearing that she would run off if she would be allowed too much space.
Esma flicked her gaze around, noticing how other beggars began to assemble around them. She wanted to help people in need, but there was no way she could aid every beggar in the district. She pulled out her pouch, hoping to quickly overhand the beggar woman a coin so she could continue her way without being confronted by the other beggars.
"Please madam! We have nothing!" another beggar woman called out to her. With her hands outstretched she made her way to Esma.
Esma reached inside her pouch to search for a dirham, but just as she pulled the coin out she saw grasping hands in the corner of her eyes. The second beggar smacked against her hands, ferociously trying to pull the pouch from her. In a reflexive flinch Esma grasped her pouch tightly and snarled: "Stop that! What are you doing?"
She could feel her temper rise at the unjust of the beggar, but as she became conscious of her stream of thoughts she realized she was selfish for being angry with the poor woman. Unjust was something these men and women had experienced, not her, a young woman living a comfortable life with her father who ran a well-running saloon. But that still did not mean she had the right to steal her dirhams. Stealing was unjust in itself, no matter how you looked at it.
"Someone like you could get yourself a rich man!" the woman retorted with a sneer, "we need the coins much more than you do!"
"What are you talking about? Let go! You can't have it all!"
The beggar viciously lashed out towards Esma's face, causing the girl to flinch and screw her eyes shut. With an aggressively jerk the cord that held the pouch to Esma's wrist snapped, but the beggar woman failed to hold onto the purse and it darted into the air. Copper and silver coins flowed out and hit the streets with jingling sounds.
Beggars rushed forward, young and old, desperate and grateful, their dirty hands clawed at the coins, grabbing what they could. Esma staggered on her feet and watched the scene in horror. This was not happening.She could barely breathe due to the utter disbelief. What was she supposed to do? Should she go on her knees and search for her dirhams like the beggars? If she was going to wait any longer they would be nothing left. She shook her head and darted forward to try to at least retrieve her pouch, but as she moved, someone grabbed her by her hair and roughly yanked her back. Esma yelped in pain and surprise. In a desperate attempt to push the hands off, she blindly reached behind her and clawed at the tight grip. When the grip did not loosen, she fiercely lashed out to whoever was attacking her. Nails scraped along skin that she now identified as a face, unintentionally drawing blood.
A woman shrieked and the grip on her locks instantly loosened. Esma held her hair in bewilderment and looked to the beggar woman who had yanked her locks so hatefully. A trail of blood ran down the woman's cheek, painting a heartbreaking scenery to the outsiders. Was the ugly wound her doing? Esma's heart pounded painfully in her chest.
"I... I'm so sorry!" Esma called out in confusion. What in the Lord's name was she doing? She should be on her knees retrieving her father's hard-earned money. "It was not my intention to—"
She could not finish her sentence as the beggar woman lunged for her, pushing her to the ground with all her weight. Esma tripped over her own feet while trying to balance herself, her arms aimlessly grasped into the air, but none of her actions prevented her from falling. In a swift motion her vision turned from desperate beggars to the calm, blue sky. Then she hit the ground with a loud thud. Elbow first, then her back; a shock of pain shot through her arm, electrifying her with its intensive convulse. Esma gasped, short of breath and tears sprang into her eyes.
Before she could recover from the fall, the beggar woman started to beat her against the side of her head with her fists. "Take this, you terrible slut!" she cried with passionate anger.
Esma cried out in panic and tried to deflect some of the beating with her hands. The woman sat on her legs, immobilizing her effectively. She found herself more startled by the beggar's ferocity than the pain she caused with her inefficient punches. But the convulsing pain in her elbow was just enough to push her over the edge and start crying.
"Stop it!" Esma covered her head with her hands and squeezed her eyes shut, tears ran down her cheeks.
Guards! Guards!How she wanted to call these words, but she did not believe in the heroism of the soldiers anymore. She would rather endure the beggars' treatment than attract attention from the men who were supposed to protect the citizens of Jerusalem.
She could not help but wonder if she had called this beating upon herself. Had she been a fool to pull out her pouch among the beggars? Suddenly there was a shove, the beggar woman cried in surprise and a soft thud sounded. Esma's eyes darted open to see the beggar woman sitting on her backside and looking up with her mouth agape. Before Esma could look up, strong arms, clad in white with leather bracers, wrapped around Esma's wrists and pulled her to her feet with so much strength that the pop of a joint in her wrist dully sounded. Esma flinched at the feeling, but the familiar scent of sweat and iron quickly had her attention diverted. Esma held her breath as she looked up. It was not iron, but the smell of blood; the scent of the white hooded Assassin Altaïr.
"Brother!" Esma whispered in amazement. Her voice was so soft that only the Assassin could catch the sound. He acknowledged her recognition by giving her wrist a brief squeeze and then released the hold. Esma blushed furiously at his touch. She quickly wiped her cheeks dry with her sleeves. His mere presence was enough to deter the beggars.
"Why are you being shoved around by beggars?" Altaïr asked; his voice sounded cold, seemingly void of concern. But Esma knew that if he didn't care, he wouldn't be here.
"I knew you were an all-men's friend!" the beggar woman cried out loudly, pointing an accusing finger to Esma. She scrambled to her feet and glared to Altaïr. "You help a beautiful girl without hesitation, but beggar women you shove aside like we're inhuman! You should be ashamed!" she shrieked in frustration, tears mingled with blood ran down her face.
Esma pressed her hands together tightly and cast her eyes down. That was not true. She wasn't all-men's friend, she was no whore. Her body shook in anger. Suddenly Altaïr put his hand on her shoulder, urging her to start walking. The gesture was probably meant to console her, but to Esma it did not feel that way. Taking the Assassin by surprise, she roughly pushed his hand off her shoulder and turned away. "Don't touch me!" she snapped. The sharpness of her action made her take a step back from Altaïr in shock. A pang of guilt hit her. What was she doing? Why was she yelling at the man who had saved her countless times? Why was she so ungrateful?
"What in the Lord's name is going on here?" A soldier with a heavy beard came their way. Esma looked up in shock. Her heart skipped a beat at the sight of the notorious uniform. The man's eyebrows were turned down in a discontent way and his dark eyes were fixated on Altaïr.
The beggars scattered apart and hurried back to their hide-outs. Altaïr turned around to leave, but not before he said in a quiet voice, "Peace and safety upon you, Esma".
"Stay where you are!" the soldier cried. "That is an order!"
But Altaïr did not stay where he was; he started to run, away from the ruckus Esma had stirred. And Esma felt fear grasp her heart. She would be left alone with this soldier. He might try to blame her for picking on the beggars, for siding with an Assassin or write off other crimes to her that she hadn't committed. After that he would probably drag her back to their barracks and have his way with her, because that is what corrupted men did with young women; they covered and humiliated them. Her body then acted without her consent. She turned on her heels and ran after the Assassin.
Oh my Lord! What are you doing, Esma? You are confirming their suspicion over you! In utter horror she realized that the Assassin was too quick on his feet for her. Again without thinking, she reached out, trying to grab his sleeve, but instead she felt the knob of a weapon slide through her fingers; she clenched her hand around it and the short sword slid out of its sheath with a sharp sound. Esma's eyes grew large as she watched the deadly blade come out.
Oh Lord, no.She didn't want a weapon in her hands! Now she would only look more suspicious! What was she to do? Should she throw the weapon away? Or just keep running? She should call Altaïr, but surely he had noticed the mess she had caused already.
"ASSASSIN!" Salah'al-Din's soldier cried out in alarm.
الله أكبر
What was she thinking?Altaïr thought in irritation. He clenched his teeth at the pain in his side. If she had just quietly stayed behind, the guards would have completely overlooked her existence and set to pursuit him. Now she had not only shown the guards that she had sided with him, but also slowed his escape. He paused ever so briefly for her to catch up with him and snatched the short sword from her delicate hands to shove it back into its place. "Why did you follow me?" he asked gruffly.
The girl stuttered and flushed. "I-I was frightened. Please forgive me!"
Altaïr sighed. He couldn't stay mad with the woman as she had not purposely set to jeopardize his plans. "Don't apologize," he said and grabbed her arm. Again, she looked surprised when he touched her, but Altaïr couldn't care about it at the moment. He started to sprint while pulling her along. The exertion of movement increased the painful throbbing in his wound. Altaïr could feel himself perspire at the strain. Behind him he heard Esma gasp for air. It was obvious that she wasn't used to such explosive exercise.
When they turned a corner, the Assassin halted in his run. Esma bumped against his back with a small yelp. He could feel her trying to get some distance, but this time he didn't care about whether she disliked being held by him or not. He gave her arm a squeeze. "Don't struggle." His amber eyes darted around, taking in the new environment.
There was a pause in which he could hear the girl breathe. "I am sorry to have caused you so much trouble, brother," she then said.
Altaïr had heard her, but didn't answer as he was too busy with looking around. "There," he said and jerked his head towards a narrow alley, "we will go through there." He released her arm and made a gesture with his hand to her follow him. "Stay calm, do not act out of the ordinary," he instructed her in a low voice. "When we leave the alleyway, we will part ways. Do not look back."
"The guard won't follow us anymore?" Esma asked in a shaky voice.
"If you do what I say, he won't."
She didn't answer him and he started to make his way to the end of the alley. Suddenly he felt a hand lightly tug at his sleeve. "Wait, Altaïr," she said. He stopped. "Where will you go? Will you still come by the saloon? I... I would like to thank you for all your help."
Altaïr raised an eyebrow and turned to look at her. He was certain her gratitude would be in a form of treating him to a meal, but with looking at her, helpless and alone with him in the alley, it stirred up different –more shameful- feelings inside him. His eyes went down to her slightly parted lips, puffing from exhaustion. He brushed his sinful thoughts aside and gave a slight nod in understanding. "There's no need to thank me. We need to go now." He did not wait for her answer and left the alleyway with swift strides.
"But I—" she objected, but when she realized the man wasn't going to listen, she dropped her head and hurried after him.
She went the other way as he had instructed her. They managed to part without arousing suspicion. Altaïr felt a pang of relief for shaking off the soldiers from Esma's back. He looked back to see which way she was going and was pleasantly surprised to see her watching him, despite the fact that she had disregarded his advice. A warm feeling spread through his body, making him want to smile. But he did not. He did, however, feel a strong urge to visit the saloon.
He cast his eyes down and started to walk away. Having his mind distracted by a woman's charm was not a thing to get excited over. If Malik knew, he would not hear the end of it. His business in Jerusalem was done and he had no more reason to linger around. Except that his guts pushed him to go to the saloon to see the woman.Guts or male drive?he thought to himself in distaste. Pursuing women was clearly not what Assassins were meant to do, especially not during missions. Though technically he was done with his mission; he just needed to report back. Altaïr frowned in thought. He had already delayed his journey to Masyaf by one day, what would another few hours be?
With his mind made up, the man turned around and started to walk to Maghrub's Saloon, following Esma a few good feet behind her. His gaze grazed the outlines of her body, despite her loose dress. Suddenly he wondered why a pretty girl as her had not married yet. Was it because of that cousin of hers? Did people mistake him for her husband or did he scare the marital candidates away? He snorted in contempt at the thought which seemed ridiculous to him. As if anyone would be intimidated by that frail, pretty-boy.
Altaïr increased his speed till he had caught up with the girl. "I need to have a word with you, Esma. Follow me." His voice was a command, even if he had not intentionally meant it to come out that way, it was habit that took over.
His sudden appearance startled her and she looked frightened for a moment, but when she recognized him, her expression instantly softened, her cheeks rosy. "Peace upon you, brother. Is this alright?" He noticed that she shied away from his presence, preserving the distance between them. "Will my presence not make you appear suspicious?"
More the other way around, the Assassin thought to himself. "No, it would not," he answered her. "Follow me."
With confident treads he escorted her to a small garden, hid away from the crowd by its thick walls. It was the perfect spot to have a secret meeting. The woman clearly hesitated to follow him inside. Altaïr stopped to look to her. What was she afraid of? That he'd hurt her after saving her several times? It was clearly trust hard-earned. "You do not trust me," he stated coldly.
She seemed shocked to hear those words from him and quickly shook her head. "No, I just—"
"There's no need to lie on my behalf," Altaïr cut her off. "The Lord is watching and knows my intentions. I do not wish to bring harm upon you. Otherwise I would not have gone through the trouble to come to your aid." He hesitated for a moment, contemplating whether he should push her to come after him or just leave.
Esma nodded and her cheeks coloured. "I am sorry to have doubted you, brother, but I'd... it'd be probably more appropriate to meet in the saloon where my father is also present."
Altaïr swiftly looked around, making sure no one was looking, and pulled out the short dagger that Esma had yanked from its sheath earlier. To his surprise the girl flinched in fear. He saw the raw alarm in her eyes and felt confused for just the briefest moment. Did she think he was going to cut her down? He felt insulted at the mere implication. "Calm down," he commanded in a voice filled with irk, but immediately regretted his tone. He jabbed the dagger back in its sheath with a violent movement. What was he doing? "Never mind. Safety and peace, Esma. I won't take up any more of your time."
"You're leaving?" the woman asked in astonishment. She seemed to have forgotten her apparent fear from a moment ago.
"Yes." Altaïr momentarily paused in his movements and turned his head slightly so he could look at her. "It was not my intention to frighten you. It seems you feel rather uncomfortable in my presence, it would probably be best for me to keep distance."
Esma seemed at lost for words. "You jump to conclusions!" she accused not without anger. "I do not feel uncomfortable— I mean: anyone would feel anxious if an Assassin was pointing a dagger towards them! You seem to forget your intimidating stature, brother. But it does not mean I would rather have you gone. Please don't decide on your own."
Altaïr took his time to think her words over. His amber eyes then turned to her. "You are not frightened, then?"
"Not like an Assassin probably should, no. I'm wary because I look out for myself. It is nothing personal."
Altaïr noticed himself feeling relieved over her words. "I am glad to hear that, but I still think it's best if I take my leave now."
The disappointment could not be missed in her eyes. For some reason it made the Assassin feel good. Was it because he sensed she wished for his presence? It was a similar feeling when Al Mualim would confirm the need for his skills because he was the best of The Creed. These people fed his arrogance, which was not a good thing as it had led to many downfalls already.
"Please come by our saloon later. It's the only way I could repay you for all your aid..."
Altaïr breathed slowly. "Are you not afraid I will bring suspicion to your house?"
"If the Lord wills it, it will happen, but I'm willing to take that risk. It's not like you would kill anyone before our doorsteps." A small smile appeared on her enticing face, clearly showing the hesitation on whether to laugh or not.
Altaïr watched her face. He liked seeing that smile. If he'd go to the saloon, would that make her smile again? He had to refrain himself from touching her shoulder. "If the Lord wills it, I will see you today, Esma."
Her face brightened as if he had said something really good. "Will you be careful?" she asked in such a lively manner that it seemed she had already forgotten the guard's chase just a moment ago.
But it was her concern that took him by surprise. No one had cared more about his well-being above his mission before. "Yes," he answered and fiddled at the knob of his dagger. When he became aware of his senseless action he quickly dropped his hand. Focus, my friend. "There's no need for you to be concerned, Esma. Go home quickly. I will try to come by later, but I cannot promise."
"I understand." The girl nodded. It seemed like she was constraining a smile.
"Go now," he urged her.
She seemed surprised by his sudden haste, but nodded in agreement and went on her way.
Altaïr watched her go; her figure disappearing among the crowd. This woman was nothing like Adha, but somehow she awaked a similar kind of warmth within him. He put his hand against the wall, the cool, hardness of the stone pressing against his fingertips. Distracted by a woman. His hands clenched into fists. Was he weak to let desire overtake him? He owed Al Mualim his life and loyalty. Perhaps there was a chance to withdraw from The Creed once he'd settled down. Other Assassins had done it before, so why not him? Because you are the top of The Creed; they need you. He stared at the mass of people, passing the roads, living their normal lives. He mentally sneered at himself for his delusions. Why was he hoping for such a thing? He had already seen what it would lead to with Adha.
But that was different. Altaïr relaxed his fists. It was different; Esma was not linked to their battle in any way. Therefore she wouldn't attract the attention of their enemies. At least not on the scale which Adha had. He sighed and placed his hand on the wound in his side. Dizzy. Had he lost too much blood?
Beta reader: Novoux
Author notes: Hi everyone! I hope you're all still doing well! I am sooooooooo incredibly sorry for the delay on this chapter, oh my goodness, it's been three months since I last updated! Can you believe that? I had to change beta readers again and that also took some time before I finally could update. Kudos to Novoux for his/her incredible betaing speed! How grateful I am for that. Novoux also has a great fic about AC II called Birds Have Wings, which has a very nice atmosphere and is strongly written. You won't regret reading it, I promise. Well... I feel a little ashamed it took so long, but what can we do? Lol. I'm glad I was able to update so quickly after sending the file to Novoux, or else it could have taken four months before updating! Almost half a year! Lol. I'm exaggerating. Anyway, I really hope you liked it and don't feel too angry and decide not to review because of it, lol. Chapter ten will hopefully come a lot sooner. It's basically done and needs some editing and betaing. Just need to find the time. Alright, author out. Please take care of yourself!