It was Darim who was born first between the two of their chaotic lives. When Altaïr brought the bundle of cloth out for its first time into the sun, Malik hastily stood up to greet them. The Assassin had that smirk, a whisper of cat-like knowing that typically crooked the corner of his mouth. The distance between them closed, a cavern between two puzzle pieces' edges locking together. "Darim," Altaïr announced.

Malik peered into the bundle using a finger. The tiny baby inside—he is so amazed by how small a newborn could really be—looks just like Altaïr, even with the wisp of bang curled down over his forehead. His tanned fingers were so different from the smooth, milky whiteness of the baby's cheek, and he curled one finger under the baby's chin until it was taken with a tiny hand and squeezed. "Darim," Malik repeated, and then, in a breathy sigh: "He is beautiful, Altaïr."

With gentle movements, Altaïr was attempting to get Malik to hold the baby, and there was no complaint on Malik's end, though there was a little bit of uncertainty. It was a weight Malik wasn't sure what to make of really; the baby was both so light and so heavy in the crook of his arm. He couldn't stop staring at what miracle he held, what common-occurrence-suddenly-turned-marvel he supported in the only arm he had left.

"Now it is your turn," Altaïr whispered, and it was.

Next in line, like doorsteps, was Tazim. Admittedly, Altaïr thought he would never see the day Malik became a father, as the dai appeared to have little time to deal with women, or little want. Older age had softened Malik's harder edges, though there was still that ever-present bite. (Altaïr pegged the diluted harshness as old age, never thinking that a simple apology, a simple discovery of Truth could have anything to do with it.) Luckily, the woman was firmly gentle in resolve, and she could quickly and easily put out the flame inside Malik, the one that Altaïr always loved to stoke. The balance was extraordinary.

With Altaïr and Darim, there had been a sense of wonder for Malik; however, with his own son, with Tazim, there was a swelling pride, a swelling joy that he could not begin to comprehend. Altaïr had been impatient with his own son's birth, but he had never seen someone has highly strung about the ceremony as Malik. The dai paced furiously back and forth for over an hour until Altaïr pulled the man to himself to hug and console. They finally got a nap in during the lengthened labor, amazingly, with Malik leaned against Altaïr's shoulder, and Darim asleep across Altaïr's lap.

By the time Altaïr awoke to noise, it was the sound of Malik exiting the room with an all-too familiar bundle of cloth in arm. Malik looked so proudly stunned, and Altaïr smirked, remembering the feeling, remembering the emotions behind the expression, the smile, like a secret, like a gift. The two of them sat together to talk and coddle the stubbornly fussy baby while Darim continued to nap.

"He looks like you," Altaïr said, and then added, "Acts like you do as well."

"As any son of mine should," and with the words came a congratulatory kiss from Altaïr to Malik's temple.

Now that Malik and Altaïr were older, the years seemed like mere days. Seasons melted so fast into other seasons, and soon Sef was joining his brother, Darim, joining also their childhood friend, Tazim. The two Assassin men frequently voiced their befuddlement on being unable to comprehend the time before the children; it seemed as if the boys had always been there somehow. This time around, there was no real amazement with a second child, not like the first, but there was just as much celebration and pride. Two boys. It was an honor, Malik had told Altaïr, to have two boys.

Sef looked the most like Altaïr now, as Darim had slowly melted into the lines and color of his mother. Even as just a baby, Malik had said that Sef reminded him of "yesterday," and Tazim, curious in their gathering with the bundle, had asked what his father meant by that. Yesterday; Altaïr liked the sound of that, liked the reflection of himself in the baby's round face and amber eyes, so he named the boy Sef.

"You will understand when you are older," Malik told Tazim.

The two of them, their personalities, their views, had been mingled together amongst three children. Little Sef was as cocky as Altaïr, was as much of go-getter, persistent, sore when he lost at childish games between the three of them. Darim had a little gung-ho, but with a little brother tailing him, he had resigned himself to cautious action, to protection, strength. Tazim, of course, was devotedly snarky, married to rules, stubbornly hard working, the spitting image of Malik with his short, dark hair and brown eyes.

There was a hierarchy to them, the two men noticed; it fell into place as they ran through the morning dew, prodded their lunch, and chased shadows in the evening. There was a right-hand-man: "I think we should…" to which Sef would blurt out, "Who cares!" and then Darim would have to mediate.

(A funny story relating to this, which Altaïr loved to tell: There was a large, finely crafted tome on the top of one of the shelves in Masyaf, high up and out of reach. It was a Bible, but Sef and Tazim hadn't known that, and Sef was intent on seeing the contents. "Fairy tales," he told Tazim. "There has to be fairy tales inside, secrets or something, wisdoms beyond all recognition." They were both still under ten, Altaïr always reminded the listeners, much to adolescent Sef's embarrassment. Tazim insisted that Sef should not climb the bookshelf, said it was "disobeying the Creed," a creed he knew hardly anything about yet, only small talk between his father and his father's friend—it seemed so important, though, so that moment was a good time to use it.

Undeterred, Sef climbed the shelf, and it was old and worn. Close to the top, just before his fingertips could grace the book that he would have never been able to lift anyway, one of the rickety shelves gave way. The crash, Altaïr enjoyed saying, could have been heard in Jerusalem most likely. As punishment, Sef and Tazim had to rebuild the shelf. Tazim contributed because he was stubborn, and Sef couldn't do it alone.)

Even when there was a break from the mountain of work that must be done, Malik and Altaïr still reminisced in quiet voices over the birth of their sons. It was such a change, a good change, a calm before the storm, a tranquil moment that made them sickeningly nostalgic for the boyhood they spent with Kadar in Masyaf training.

Those really were good times, Altaïr often murmured, almost regretfully.

"Yes, they were," Malik would agree.