Disclaimer: Obviously, I don't own Assassin's Creed. Because if I did, Altaïr would be serving me warm cookies in an apron. In only an apron.

Rating: M for Mature

Content: Violence, obviously, language and some adult situations.

Summary: I stared long and hard at his hand, exactly where his ring finger should have been but for God's eternal love I could not fear him. AltaïrOC

A/N: I didn't like my original story. Something felt, well, off about it. So I've scrapped it and started over. I want to flesh Nazirah out a little more and make the chapters a little longer, so here I go.

---

To Love and Curse the Son of None

---

Chapter 1: Lessons

---

I was nine when my mother died of fever. I remember bits and pieces of her; a smile, her perfume, the scars on her hands. She was not from a wealthy family but my father married her anyway, because he loved her. She told him stories every night and when I was born, she told them to me as well. I was supposed to be a boy; at least that's what my father's older sister constantly reminded me. Since I was supposed to be born a boy, I asked my father to teach me things he would teach a son. My Aunt Khaanam was shocked when he complied. I believe my Uncle Tahal laughed. I was four after all; what was there not to laugh at?

"Teach me to be a boy," I demanded to my father at the pertinent age of four. He had been in the garden with my mother, resting on a cushioned palanquin. My parents had raised their eyebrows and glanced at one another,

"Why such a request, Nazirah?" My mother's black eyes were kind when she humored me,

"Because I was supposed to be a boy!" I had stamped my foot, ever the child,

"Who told you that?" Father asked. I told them that it had been Aunt Khaanam before saying,

"And Malik and Kaddar said they wouldn't play with me until I can do boy things,"

Of course, Malik and Kaddar probably said that to make me go away. Two boys, eight and six, wouldn't play with a four year old girl. I was too slow, too weak to keep up. Even when I would run to catch up with them, I would trip and fall on my dresses and skirts. But Malik would always come back, Kaddar trailing awkwardly behind him because both boys were uncomfortable with my crying. Malik would begrudgingly carry me on his back to his father's room in the servants' quarters and dress my scrapes and cuts while Kaddar asked me questions to distract me from the stinging pain. I was proud when I told them that my father was going to teach me to do boy things. Kaddar was the first to exclaim his disagreement,

"Girls can't learn to do boy things!"

"Why not?" I demanded,

"Because!" He snapped, impudent,

"Because what?"

"Because they're girls!" I kicked him in the shin for that,

"Girls can do things too!" I shouted at them before running back to my mother. Malik and Kaddar's father worked as the captain of my family's guard. We were not royalty, but my father controlled the trade routes out of Jerusalem to Acre, Damascus and Masyaf. Merchants had to bring their goods before my father to inspect and approve of before they were taken to the marketplace. Many men wished to be in charge in my father's position so guards were a necessity. After my father agreed to teach me the things men knew, I pestered the guards to show me their weapons. My mother often rescued them from me,

"Nazirah," She would begin, gentle but firm, her hands on my small shoulders, "Do not bother the guards. They must do their job,"

"But they have swords and knives," I whined, "If I learn to be a boy, shouldn't I learn of their blades?"

I was nine when my mother died of fever. Perhaps I remember more than bits and pieces of her. After she and my father agreed upon my tutelage to boyhood, she told me that she would teach me things, things that would make me a person. I had frowned, utterly confused,

"But I am a person, Ummi," I insisted, "Just like you and Abbi," She simply smiled and shook her head and dressed us both in rags. Taking my hand, she snuck us out into the streets of Jerusalem. I was awed by the height of the other buildings, the different people, the smells of the market and the babble of Arabic, Hebrew and, later I would learn, Frankish. Although I didn't know it then, the tall men with pale, pale skin and chainmail and robes of white and red were Templar. Soldiers marched along, women stood close together holding baskets and gossiping. We went to the slums and my mother showed me what it meant to be a person.

She handed beggars and other poor people golden dinars and offered to help an old woman with her baskets. I tottered after her. When we returned home, I was washed and clothed in loose pants and a tunic, my hair brushed out and hidden by a turban, just like Abbi's. That same day, I began to learn my letters. My father took me to his library and showed me books and maps and scrolls. He introduced me to Aarif, a scholar and his accountant,

"Aarif will also teach you," Abbi had informed me,

"Will he show me how to wield a sword?" I asked. They both laughed,

"I will show you how to wield numbers," Aarif promised me. For the days and months to follow, Aarif and my father taught me reading, writing and arithmetic. They told me the importance of money, what it meant to trade goods and how tax affected the people. In turn, my mother told me stories, showed me what plants not to put in my mouth and how to give bread and water in the ghettos of Jerusalem. Between these odd lessons, I played with Malik and Kaddar. Well, it was more like Malik watched Kaddar and I played and insured that neither one of us got into much trouble.

At dusk, I would retell the stories my mother told me the night before, reciting them as best I could for Malik and Kaddar. Sometimes I would finish, sometimes I would not but the times I did not soon grew few and far between. I listened harder to Ummi when she would hold me and reiterate poems and legends and histories of kings and great wars. Malik and Kaddar seemed to like those stories the best; after all, they were boys.

Aunt Khaanam, who sometimes came to stay with us, did not approve of my lessons in boyhood but she could not say anything as a guest in her brother's house. Uncle Tahal, who also stayed with us sometimes, laughed and eagerly asked me what I had learned so far. I would solemnly recount my numbers and tales of epic, bloody battles. When I asked him how to use a knife, he easily complied,

"I always wanted a nephew," He told me in secret, "But a niece who wants to learn like a boy is fine too," He gave me an ivory handled blade I hid from my parents. I would take it out late at night and peer at the inscriptions on the silver metal and wonder at the smooth and intricate carvings on the handle. I showed Malik and Kaddar with unbridled pride,

"Look," I boasted, "See how it shines?" Kaddar eyed it with a newfound respect for me. Malik merely shrugged,

"My father has knives deadlier than that,"

---

Ummi and Abbi mean "mom" and "dad" respectively.

Reviews are Love,

The Author