AN: I may have snagged the opening bit of blatant anachronism from the almighty time-suck that is tumblr. May have. Further research suggests it's a lyric from Lebanon's first gay pop song?! So that fits. The band is called Mashrou' Leila and you should all go listen to their music and then buy it because it's so gorgeous.

The Meeting

'"Smell the jasmine,'" Malik hums. '"Remember to forget me."'

In Al Masyaf there is a garden. It sits perched on the edge of a steep cliff: below it is a river and beyond are endless mountains. It's lovely, lush with flowering plants and grass that never dies for too clear a sky. There are tiled fountains and tiled bowers thick with creeping vines. There are shaded spots kept cool regardless of season. The breezes sometimes bring the scent of flowers, sometimes the murmur of voices. There are women in the garden, and they know who wants their company and who does not, and they are very lovely too.

In the garden there is a gravestone.

Not a grave, no, not without a body. But a stone nevertheless, with name and date, a simple thing nestled in a thicket at the garden's far end, past where most visitors go. Not that there are very many visitors, because few people are allowed past the gates into this little slice of Paradise. Usually when Malik visits, and he visits as often as work allows him which is less and less these days, he's alone but for the women, who smile kindly. Who keep to their own business.

It's as he requested. To sit in front of the stone and talk as though it were listening, to pass on daily gossip or sing in a voice off-key though not unpleasant, would be impossible under watching eyes. It would strike others as too silly, too sentimental, for a fierce assassin primed to rule the Brotherhood.

Malik is sometimes ashamed of himself. Others can move on from loss, yet it is destined to be his shroud.

But it isn't wholly bad. It can't be, in such a place. Malik wonders how much he'd already figured out, when he requested of Al Mualim that a marker be placed here. He'd been delirious, ignoring that assassins don't usually warrant graves of their own in an Order that worships the whole, but still, a part of him must have known his self-exile wouldn't be forever. Masyaf would come to claim him again.

Masyaf will never again feel like home, except for in the garden. He can come here and sit, maybe prune the surrounding bushes a bit, then pull off his cowl and shrug off his Dai's robes and talk. About Altair's latest tantrums, or a novice that hid from Instructor Rauf's ring, or how the local brothel has had its windows broken yet again.

About how uneasy he's made by the Apple of Eden. Altair won't listen and Malik won't betray him by fretting in front of others, so this is his compromise. The gravestone can't spread his fears.

Today the sky is so clear it reaches past blue for purple dusk. Today the jasmine is in bloom and the wind carries no voices. Today he talks of songs instead.

'"Brother, just don't forget me'…I don't remember the last verse," he says, keeping his voice low. Tazim is sleeping on a blanket after a loud, cranky night; the outdoors seems to calm him, so Malik put work aside to watch him out here, to the wet nurse's relief. "It's that same wandering singer. Every time I visit Jerusalem he has a new song picked out. Next time I return I'll have to ask him how this one ends."

He reaches out, brushes a fallen leaf off the stone. "He's not bad with the oud, either. That's one thing Jerusalem never lacks. Music."

A flower floats down and lands neatly on Tazim's face. The baby sneezes and stirs awake. Malik smiles and brushes off the blossom, but his son grabs for it and starts when his chubby fingers rip it in two. "Bah!" he says with surprise.

"You have to be careful with things so fragile," Malik tells him. "Here, look." He plucks another blossom free from a nearby bush and props it in Tazim's hand. "See? Gently."

Tazim drops the flower, rolls himself onto his stomach and gurgles with delight at his new trick. "Abaaa," he says, and grabs for blades of grass.

"You have a real hatred for plants, don't you?" Malik picks him up, sits him on his lap. "If I can interrupt your path of destruction…" He puts his hand to Tazim's back to keep him steady and says, "I want you to meet someone."

Tazim squirms. "Bababa."

"Not Baba. 'Am. This is your uncle. 'Am Kadar. Can you say it?"

"Baba!"

Malik chuckles. "Sorry, Brother," he says to himself. "He'll get it."

He puts his son down and lets him go back to attacking grass. To the gravestone he says, speaking in more formal tones, "I haven't visited much. It's been very busy lately, worse than ever…Altair won't say so but he's worried about the Mongol attacks. We both know what it sounds as though they're looking for. But half the time he won't focus on our defenses, or on the fact that Abbas is due back any day, no, he's too distracted by fool's gold."

Malik sighs. "I complain about him a lot," he says. "I make it sound as if he were a terrible leader. But he isn't, Kadar. He's the best Master this Brotherhood has ever had. It's amazing the things he's done. We have assassins in cities Al Mualim never heard of, and they're wielding weapons the enemy's never seen. You'd be awestruck to see him. You really would."

The headstone doesn't answer. Malik feels a tad foolish. A chipped stone mounted over an empty grave. Why does it give him comfort?

"I don't know why I visit at all, actually. 'Am Kadar. Pathetic."

He's pulling out grass himself now, to keep his hand busy. "It's not that you died. People die. And it's not that you died young…you didn't really, not compared to others. Just last week we buried a journeyman two years younger, and he didn't get his own stone. So why do I need such an extravagance?"

The grass falls from between his fingers, leaving thin traces of dirt. "It's not just that you died," Malik says. "It's that I promised." He works his words past a closing throat. "If there is an afterlife, then have you met Father?" he asks. "Is he furious with me?" But he sounds young and stupid. When has there ever been an afterlife?

"Ahhh," says Tazim suddenly, eyes wide. He's found an ant.

Malik distracts himself making sure the baby doesn't eat any insects. It becomes possible again for him to smile. "A shame you'll never meet him for real, Kadar. I think you'd like your ibn akh. You could teach him how to climb walls and only fall half the time. Although," he admits, "I'm not one to mock these days. Sometimes my joints are starting to feel stiff."

"Dai Malik?"

He almost hears it in Kadar's voice, almost responds to the call as he might have done years ago, with a warm smile dipped about the edges in brotherly concern. But Kadar never called him Dai. So he's able to save face in time.

"Yes?"

It's a journeyman standing there, nervous in a place usually banned, glancing awkwardly at the uncovered women. "The Master has asked for you," he says. "Abbas has reached the bottom of the village. The Master wants you there to receive him."

Malik nods. He climbs to his feet, and scoops up squirming Tazim with a practiced motion. Steadying him against his body he says, "I want you on your best behavior, understand? No fussing. The A-Sayf family should look every bit as kingly as Altair's."

"Baba," says Tazim clearly, and rests his head against his father's chest. Malik's eyes soften.

"Well," he shrugs. "If nothing else I'll aim you at Abbas when you spit up."

He starts to turn back to Kadar's gravestone, but the journeyman is still there. Instead he spares it a glance. The journeyman says, "Were you busy with something? The Master said I should interrupt you if you were, but…"

"I wasn't," says Malik. "Just indulging in foolishness in my old age."

-i-

Altair receives Abbas in the same room he receives squabbling peasants. He sits in his heavy chair, with a frown bearing more impatience than malice. At his left shoulder stands Darim, stiff-straight with his arms clasped behind his back. He seems to hold every breath as long as he can, puffing out his chest. Earlier Altair noticed his boots were scuffed and scolded him; appearances are everything, something his heir must realize. But Darim had gone sulking to change boots, and now that he is where and as he should be Altair ignores him.

(And in the far corner, a ghost. But the ghost is keeping quiet and Altair ignores him, too.)

He taps one finger against the chair's armrest. A journeyman has gone to fetch Malik, under Master's orders. They have been waiting for some minutes, and they'll be waiting for minutes more.

As Altair has designed it.

Abbas kneels before him, head tilted towards the floor. He's changed since Altair saw him last, on the outside from stress and life in desolate villages. But Altair suspects the real damage happened the minute Abbas touched the Apple. It is not kind to those it disdains, that he knows. Who knows what wretches it shoved before the man's confounded eyes, as its impossible heat scorched his fingers?

Altair flicks his eyes over Abbas again, without changing expression. The man's dark beard is flicked with grey now. He still wears his journeyman greys, and it's delicious to see someone who once called Altair half-breed reduced to such an insult of a post. Guard this border, yes, guard this forgotten border filled with shepherds and sheep shit! While the rest of us tend to the Templars. While the one of us takes control.

And then come back, when we decide you're harmless. When age has taken the bite from your curses and shame the strength from your sword arm, come back and bow before us. The Brotherhood cannot be shaken by the likes of you.

Abbas has always been tall, well-built, but he looks diminished in the Grandmaster's eyes. He also looks grey, the dull grey of unimportant background clutter, when Altair uses his eagle's sight, turning it on and off with a blink. Not that it's infallible. Al Mualim was blue, once, and infuriatingly Malik remains a cryptic gold. Eagle's Vision is tainted by emotion, Altair has decided, and grows less accurate the farther in the future the treachery lies. One day he must demand cures for such problems from the Apple.

Still, Abbas is not red today. Today he is grey nothing.

The man behind him, now, he is puzzling. He stands a step or two behind crouching Abbas, shoulders bent in a respectful sort of half-bow. He's lightly bearded, the skin underneath red with irritation. His eyes are the same light brown as Altair's own, his coloring a shade darker. He too is outlined in grey.

He has not introduced himself, because Altair has not yet bothered asking him to. His manner of dress is strange: white, baggy salvar trousers and a multicolored vest cinched at the waist with a fat belt, in the fashion of the Seljuk Turks. But underneath the vest he wears a tunic common with Arab peasants, which is too long for the vest and has been bunched to fit. And he'd be the only Turk Altair has ever dealt with who walks around bare-headed.

"I asked for Abbas alone," Altair says to the stranger, prompted to speech by curiosity. "But he comes with a retinue. Is your name Abbas as well?"

"Your pardon, sir, but it is not." The stranger's voice is high, his accent as hard to place as his clothing, as though he was created out of bits of others' cultures. But then, Kapısuyu was once a port, and its faded borders are fluid. Perhaps this is not so unusual.

"My parents were merchants who traded throughout Anatolia," he continues, "but I have given up that life. I've settled in St. Symeon, and in fact it was during a trip to the markets in Kapısuyu that I first met Abbas and he—"

"I didn't ask you about your parents or your address," Altair interrupts. "I asked you your name."

The man grins, uneasy maybe, and when he does a scar under his chin is brought to sight. "Ali."

Altair gestures impatiently. "Son of?"

"Oh, Ali Ibn Berkant. Yes."

(The ghost stirs, damn the hateful thing. But what it says this time is less cutting remark than idle nonsense: "Ali. Huh. That's a good name.")

What it is, is unusual: Arab and Turk both. But understandable if he comes from trader stock. Altair looks at him through Eagle's Vision again and sees nothing of importance. Only another figure shrunk into the background, colored in the way of those who do not matter.

Abbas is still kneeling before him. Altair considers letting him stand. Then the door opens.

Malik walks in, holding his child. He steps past Abbas and takes his place at Altair's right shoulder, ever the loyal second, even if Altair sometimes thinks it's a game the Dai is playing. Malik is not one to drop his grudges. Couldn't his mercy be just another delusion…?

(The ghost says, "D'you ever wonder if my brother would leave you if you stopped having sex with him? You two are both so strange." No one hears but Altair, of course, and even he is able to keep from glancing at the far corner for more than a second before turning his eyes to better views.)

Abbas has tensed his shoulders and Malik is giving Altair a bemused look he knows quite well: one that reads, stop staring at me, novice. For that is what he was doing. Malik can call him dense all he'd like but Altair is smart enough to recognize the fixation.

"Safety and peace," he says, and only after Malik frowns and breaks off eye contact does he smirk and turn away. Many things in life have changed, but making Malik squirm will always be a pleasure. The man is so cautious about some things, whereas Altair…

Altair would like very much to bend him over right here, in front of Abbas and Ali Ibn Berkant and every guard in Masyaf. Wouldn't that be thrilling? Fucking him, bringing him to a loud and messy orgasm in front of a crowd of horrified faces, proof that Altair is the only one worthy of Malik because Altair is the only one who understands—

But according to some people that wouldn't be wise. And there's still the ghost crouching nearby. So he contents himself with knowing that in one small but crucial way Malik's easy to fluster: he's probably already hard underneath all those robes.

Feeling quite as though he's been crowned sultan, Altair finally motions for Abbas to stand. The man does so quickly, with relief, his expression easy to read. Something else that hasn't changed.

For when he looks at Altair his jealousy is plain. Here sits the Grandmaster of the Brotherhood, with his heir at one side and Malik at the other. How powerful he must be! It is, muses the Master, a sight enough to make anyone hard.

"Abbas," he says, damn near gracious. "And how was your stay on our northern border?"

"I did as my lord commanded," answers Abbas. He sounds drained. "I established a new bureau, as I wrote to inform you."

"Did you?"

"During the first year. I sent you pigeons."

"Did you." A slight cough from Malik tells Altair he's starting to sound overly glib. "If you sent them than I must have read them," he allows. "But we have been very busy here."

"I see that. The village, ah, it looks to have grown since I left."

"We're planning to extend the gates. People throughout the region know that Al Masyaf means safety. And your Kapısuyu bureau? How does it fare today?"

Abbas stares at him. "Five assassins," he says. "Local recruits."

"Five?" Altair forgets the warning cough. What's the point in pretending amity? He's hated Abbas since childhood. "Five assassins. I am not impressed."

(Grins the ghost, "You're never impressed. Better than everyone, right? In both title and ability!")

Altair digs his nails into the armrest. Darim looks perplexed, Malik exasperated, the Turk stranger thoughtful. Abbas outright glowers.

"I did my work. Maybe Kapısuyu isn't as busy as Damascus or Jerusalem but it's still a border. Don't ignore its people because they are pious peasants and not flashy atheists like some."

"I've no quarrel with the peasants. I asked you to explain how you dealt with them."

"I sent you detailed reports. Frequently."

"The pigeons must have gotten lost."

"A shame I wasn't sent to Jerusalem, eh? They know the way back from there well enough!"

"Many things happen in Jerusalem."

"Many things," spits Abbas, "and many sins also—"

Altair is on his feet at that but Malik interrupts before Abbas can insinuate his face into the Master's fist. "You both sound like children," he says calmly. "Abbas, need I remind you to mind your tone? You were banished for such conceit. Kapısuyu cannot be so interesting that you are in a hurry to return."

"…No. Forgive me," Abbas grinds out.

Malik continues, "I read your reports, Abbas, in the Grandmaster's stead. Anatolia is a crucial region. You did well."

"Thank you."

"Your old guard post is taken but the Grandmaster will find you another one. Until then, you might work with Rauf in training the novices. We need instructors with an understanding of how bureaus are run."

"A good idea. I'll do that," Abbas agrees, trying for friendly. Altair, sitting again, his head on his fist, watches the charade with barely-concealed disgust. As if those two were ever such great friends!

"Malik, actually…"

"What is it?"

"Nothing, only, that child you're holding is your…?"

"My son. Tazim."

"Mashallah! Good, yes, it's good to have a son to carry your name." Like a man wanting to die, Abbas glances towards Malik's missing arm. "I, ah, didn't realize you would…get married."

"Indeed, I haven't," says Malik without much inflection.

("I really wanted to get married," says the ghost, picking at its grey sleeves. "There was this village girl who had the best smile. Bet it's nice, huh, Altair? Getting married? If even you ended up with a wife.")

Abbas twitches an eyebrow. "But your son must have a mother."

"So he must. I never had the chance to know her." Malik still sounds calm, almost cheerful, and Altair is having a hard time keeping the grin from his face. People hear of the Dai's legendary temper and fear his rages, but Altair has had the full front of that rage brought against him. It isn't Malik's shouting that he dreads.

"I am raising Tazim on my own," Malik tells Abbas in that same cheerful tone, and only Altair recognizes the danger.

Abbas moves on, fortunately for his neck. "And this is your son?" he asks Altair, who grunts.

Malik coughs again. Only louder.

Altair says, "This is Darim. My eldest."

Darim nods. "Safety and peace."

"And with you." Abbas spares him a quick look. "Altair—"

"Grandmaster."

"Grandmaster, I heard you have two sons."

"Sef and his mother are returning from Acre."

"I see. His mother, she's…well, to put it plainly I heard that she was a Templar. But that must be false rumor."

"Maria was a Templar. Now she is an assassin."

"Oh. And…you thought that was wise. To marry her."

("Doesn't he ask such silly questions? You're always very wise.")

"I wanted her to be here for your arrival," says Altair, disregarding them both, "but her work in Acre was too important. She wasn't able to leave early."

"Of course," Abbas murmurs, clearly vexed.

Malik looks past him, at the stranger. "Who is this?" he asks, and Ali Ibn Berkant hastens to bow his head of frizzy hair a second time. Altair can see Malik trying to make sense of the outlandish outfit.

"This is Ali," says Abbas, freshly emboldened. "He was one of my first recruits, and he's very talented. I thought it would be best to bring him to Masyaf for training."

"Abbas told me of the Brotherhood and I was intrigued," says Ali. "I'd met him several times in the markets but never knew what his robes symbolized. I'm nowhere near his skill level, of course, nor yours, but it would be an honor to truly join the Order. To fight for this cause."

("It's a good cause!" The ghost beams. "Better be careful, Grandmaster," it sings. "Better watch your admirers well.")

Malik looks at Altair, who shrugs. "We always welcome new Brothers," he says. "You'll have to learn the Creed and its tenants, follow our rules, dress as one of us. And you'll owe your allegiance to the Grandmaster. Whatever orders he gives, you must follow."

"Of course. Abbas has taught me a lot already. He is a fine teacher."

"Go with him to the training ring, then. Rauf can give you rank once he sees your swordwork."

"I look forward to it. Abbas has spoken of your mission with such passion, it was hard not to—"

"It's easy to speak of the Creed," says Altair, "but harder to live it. We'll see how flowery your praise is after a month of training."

"I understand, I do. But Abbas has made a strong convert out of me. You must be proud of him. He worked very hard."

Altair looks from the newcomer's eager face to Abbas's smug one and is consumed by boredom. His palms itch. Abbas works hard? Abbas begs forgiveness? What a chore it is to care. There are countless weapons to build, countless warnings to be given—the Apple, the Order's real work, is waiting. The ghost nods.

Darim says, "Father?" and he notices that everyone is looking at him.

"Fine," he says, too loud, and stands a second time. "Go and train. I have work to do elsewhere."

"You have a meeting of the local village elders," Malik cuts in. "An hour from now, as I reminded you yesterday—"

"Go in my stead."

"Altair, I am not the Grandmaster."

"You have more patience for coddling tribesmen. So you handle it."

Malik thins his lip into a tight smile. "We can discuss this in private," he suggests.

"There's nothing to discuss." Altair waves his hand at the rest of them, impatient. "You all have other things to do. Do them."

Abbas hesitates a minute at the abrupt dismissal, then lowers himself in a bow for as long as he can stand it, which is half a second. Ali bows longer and with more fluster. Darim says, "Goodbye, Father," and waits for a response. Altair, though, is watching the corner of the room again. Instead it's the Dai who nods at him, holds out Tazim and asks Darim to take him to the wet nurse. Finally the Master's son must stiffen his shoulders and follow the other two out of the room.

The door closes. Altair takes a step towards his right-hand man.

Malik says, "I'll say nothing of how you treat your son."

"Good, don't."

"But you cannot pawn off all your unwanted tasks on me. I have my own. And as the Master of the Brotherhood it is your duty to attend these councils. They're important, Altair! Where would we be without the locals' support?"

"Just as we are," he answers. "We are strong enough for that."

"Don't be so proud. They're expecting you, not me. You know how closely these men guard their honor, why risk offending it by sending the wrong man?"

"You're my second in command," he says. "Whatever you decide has my approval. If you need me to play nursemaid while you bicker with villagers then you aren't fit for the role."

Malik bristles. "You, a nursemaid? You can't even remember your own tasks."

"Because I'm busy. There is a lot to do, as you keep reminding me."

"There is a lot to do, and you aren't doing any of it," Malik says icily. "You don't attend meetings. You don't follow up with informers. You don't eat or sleep. You sit in this dungeon all day and night looking into that goddamn ball."

Altair widens his eyes. "I haven't mentioned the Apple once today."

("You shouldn't lie so much, Grandmaster.")

"Novice, you might have everyone else fooled into thinking you're a mysterious demigod, but I'm not so blind."

"Then this is a pointless argument." He takes another step forward. "A waste of time."

"What exactly would you like me to say?" Malik asks, his eyes flashing.

Altair smirks. "Nothing," he says, and then he is on him, pushing him hard so that his back hits the wall. He keeps Malik there with one arm across his chest, and shoves his free hand under the man's robes, pulling the fabric off so hard something tears, ignoring Malik's hissed protests. He stops only after he finds what he's searching for and squeezes. Malik chokes mid-curse and arches back.

Altair snickers. "I knew it."

"Not, nh, here, Altair, you idiot. Anyone could walk in-!"

"Let them." Altair does not look behind him. The ghost in the corner is silent, giving him hope that perhaps it's left.

"Do you want a rope around your neck? Do you want to—damn it—swing?"

"Name one person in the entire Levant who could overpower the two of us. Name one person in the whole world."

But Malik is beyond naming much of anything. He bucks in Altair's grip, and as ever he demands as much as Altair is capable of giving, if not more. As ever it is a contest of wills, and to lose it is to win.

Malik is grabbing him now, and rubbing against him. Their robes are both askew. It's hard to say who's closer, or whose breath is more ragged. "Did you see him?" Altair says in a voice gone husky with need. "Did you see-?"

"See who?"

"Abbas."

"Of…course I did."

"How jealous he was. Of me, of you."

"Oh," says Malik, "is that why you're in heat?" And with a wicked half-smile he tightens his fingers and sends the Son of None right over the edge. Altair starts to pull away but Malik's grip is unbreakable. "Finish what you started, Master," he orders. And the Master, exultant, does.

-i-

It is late, and Al Masyaf is quiet. A few scholars walk to the Master's library, a few novices are being put through night-training by their instructors. A few villagers stir in the houses at the foot of the hill.

Abbas stands guard at the gate.

Behind him is the fortress, ahead the village proper. He is surrounded by what was taken from him, in the same spot. As though he was never gone. As though nothing has changed.

But Altair Ibn La'ahad has changed everything.

Abbas touches the sword strapped to his waist. He'd carried it the day Altair overthrew Al Mualim. The day their Master burned. And no one said anything. There were murmurs of discontent, there was anger, certainly no one tried to stop Abbas from doing what he did that day. But no one stood beside him, either. And no one else was blamed.

"I am not alone," he says to the night air. "You are with me, God. When I was a child You led me here. You gave me respect."

He clenches his hand against the sword's hilt. "But You gave Altair more. He has scorned You all his life, but You gave him talent and adoration and strength. He made me leave, he…he kept the Apple…! Damn him, what was I meant to do in Kapısuyu? What was I—"

He stops at the sound of footsteps behind him. Turning, he sees Ali, still dressed as an eccentric peasant-traveler, though he holds the red sash of the Order in his hands. Idly he winds it around his wrists, saying, "Masah al khair. A fine evening for a new beginning."

Abbas waits as long as he can before saying: "So you have met him. The great Son of None, Grandmaster of the Order."

"I have."

"And what did you think?" Abbas says bitterly, "Isn't he magnificent? Fearsome? Don't you want to grovel at his feet?"

"What do I think?" Ali cocks his head, unraveling the cloth off his hands. He holds it to the weak torchlight and studies the silk's patterns, smiling. "I think you're the man who interests me, not him. I suppose he is unique…did you notice how he kept looking to an empty corner?"

"Was he?"

"Mm. I think this Order is very strong, and it could get stronger yet."

"Inshallah," Abbas manages.

"And also," Ali says, lowering his voice, turning to smile, "I think you should introduce me to the rest of your Brothers."

It is late. Al Masyaf is very quiet. And the guard at the gate nods his head.