Living Despite It All

A Word: Recovered my files off a corrupt hard drive, and found a WIP I started for one of the original kink memes. I never finished it, but have quite a bit invested into it. I can't find the prompt now, but a request was made for always a girl Malik. Will add characters as they come into the fic. Yes, eventual Altair/Malik. There will be F/F and F/M though the story.

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Malik is old enough to understand that her name is odd. It's a boy's name and she is teased mercilessly about it until she learns how best to silence the taunts with a closed fist. She is not old enough to understand why her mother gave it to her. The steel-eyed woman provides food, shelter, clothing, and nothing else for the two children she rarely acknowledges.

Malik is old enough to understand why their mother does not come back one day. Kadar does not though and cries for days. She is not old enough to understand what she must do about it. They stay in the small room they have lived in all their lives until the food runs out.

Malik is old enough to understand how to get food. She watches in the markets for hours until she is able to walk through and grab a piece of bread or an untended coin. She is not old enough to understand why leaving Kadar alone to get food is bad. When she returns there are two men looking at Kadar's teary blue eyes and debating how much he will sell for.

Malik is old enough to understand that she needs to run. Kadar cries at the scratches on his face, but Malik has enough to deal with trying not to drop her brother as the shouts begin behind her. She is not old enough to understand why it is only a group of children that helps them escape. The bread she still clutches is enough to buy Kadar and herself a spot in the hovel they are led to.

Malik is old enough to understand that spot can be kept, that Kadar will be watched and safe, if she works. She is brought to the market again and taught how to steal more than she thought possible. She is not old enough to understand fully what she is doing. Not nearly old enough, but that does not last long.

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The pain is horrible and Malik screams. It sounds high and reedy even through the pounding in her own ears. She sobs as it ends, drawing in great gasping breaths of air to replace the air that has rushed out of her.

"Filthy little thief!" One of the guards yells. Malik sees his booted foot draw back again through her tears and cries out as it connects with her side. "Think we would not see your thieving little hands!?"

"I did not!" Malik sobs, curling up around the blazing ball of pain in her side. Lying for all the good it will do her. She tries to make herself smaller on the ground as another blow comes from behind. "I- I swear! I did-!"

One blow hits her head, and her sight swims at the pain. Malik does not realize she is screaming again until she cannot breathe. Her vision goes white and there is nothing else in the world for Malik. The pain is so intense she does not notice the individual kicks. Nor does she notice the surprised shouts or the gasps as the guards fall. She only slowly notices that the pain is fading from sharp blows to a spreading ache when a man kneels next to her. Dark eyes peer at her from the depths of a white hood and Malik tries to scream again but chokes on her own tears and the salty tang of blood.

"Shh," the man soothes, picking her up despite her weak struggles. His hands bringing more pain, not one inch of her body free of it. "Easy, child. I will not hurt you."

Malik whimpers as something shifts under the man's searching hand sending new waves of pain across her chest. It is enough to make her stop struggling. Enough to make her not care who the man might be or what he might want. She just wants the pain to stop.

"They made a real mess of you," shouts echo behind them and the man shifts his grip to hold her tighter. "It might be best for you to pass out, boy."

Malik gasps as the man starts to run. The pace jolting every ache and wound on her. Fortune favors her though, and Malik loses consciousness within the first three steps.

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Malik watches the man from behind a crumbling wall.

He is sitting on a bench with his hood drawn low to shade his eyes. She cannot see his face properly, but even if she could Malik would not be able to recognize him as the man who saved her weeks ago. She remembers very little of the incident besides pain. All her knowledge of the event after the first few kicks comes from the scholars who had tended her wounds until she could crawl out of the pallet they made for her, and the rumors that had circled so briefly on the streets.

Gamal assures her that he is the same man though. That there is no mistaking the dangerous air of a man who kills for a living.

Malik swallows and sinks down into a crouch, lacing her fingers through her toes as she tries to convince herself to run away.

Gamal is older and knows of the Assassins very well, and has told them all stories of the ruthless men who turn the streets into their own personal hunting grounds. They fly from high buildings to rip their victim's hearts out with their own hands. Hearts they give to their master who holds regular bloody feasts. The Assassins ran through the night, looking for unwary children to kidnap. Cutting the throats of anyone unlucky enough to see their faces.

And they save little thieves from vicious guards.

Malik owes this man a debt. If not for her very life then she owes him for saving Kadar from losing the last of his family. Against that all of Gamal's stories are meaningless. She gets to her feet and looks to be sure the man is still there before entering the crowded streets. Winding, unnoticed through the mass of people as quickly as she can. Not allowing herself to think about it anymore.

Her heart still pounds a harsh beat against her aching ribs as she nears the bench.

"I've heard you are looking for Jumah," Malik says as soon as she is seated. Her words shake just a little and she bites her lip as she feels the man's attention swing toward her.

"Did you?" The man does not shift at all. Giving off all the appearance of being asleep. "And why would you be so interested in this?"

The answer to that is very easy and very obvious, calming her just enough to not stutter, "Because I know where he is, and you saved my life."

"Ah," the man hums thoughtfully. Head finally tilting enough for Malik to see under his hood. A surprisingly lined face peers down at her, and Malik is so shocked at how plain he looks she forgets that she should be afraid. "It's hard to recognize you without all the blood covering you, child."

"The bruises aren't enough?" The sarcastic question slips out past Malik's nervousness.

The man laughs. A rough sound that matches his worn face and dark eyes. It's a kind sound, something she has never heard except out of her own mouth towards Kadar.

"Well then, little one," the man reaches out, slowly as if to a skittish animal, and rubs her hair in a gesture she's seen some fathers use with their sons, "tell me what you know."

And, with an oddly pleased feeling, she does.

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The man's name is Hamid.

Malik doesn't know if that is his real name or an alias. It doesn't matter much to her though as Hamid becomes a familiar figure around Jerusalem. She sees him at least once a week. Sometimes, he seeks her out, and for a bit of food -or even coin sometimes- she tells him what she knows. Sometimes, she only sees something flutter high above the streets, or a white robe in front of her that always disappears before she can catch up to Hamid. Sometimes, she sees him peering down from the ceiling when she sits with the scholars continuing the reading lessons started when she was recovering.

Malik should be suspicious of the regard, but she cannot force herself to be.

The scholars know Hamid and his kind well. They gently correct many of the exaggerated stories Gamal has told her. She learns of the Assassin's true nature then, the nature of their work, and begins to go out of her way to find information for Hamid. Listening to the rumors as she filches a coin from a talkative merchant, or paying attention to which of the guards were more inclined to vices. Looking for and anticipating the things that will draw Hamid out of the fortress in Masyaf.

She begins to notice the white robed men more often. Their hoods marking them as much as their red sashes and the air about them as they walk with their heads bowed down like the scholars do. Malik watches them and is often watched right back, but only Hamid ever speaks to her.

Kadar adores Hamid. The few times he seeks Malik out while in the company of her brother he has always had an extra sweet for the boy. It's a little gesture that endears him to Kadar a little too easily but makes something ache in Malik's chest when she is given her own sweet all the same. Were it anyone else she would be suspicious and ready to lash out, but Hamid has proven himself to be trustworthy in many ways.

Malik's gender comes up exactly once.

It's something she keeps hidden by choice because it is easier that way. Gamal is getting older and the way he looks at the few girls that run with them is growing increasingly dark, the way men used to look at her mother, and Malik knows nothing good can ever come from that look.

Kadar knows her gender, but is still too young to understand why it matters. The scholars know, but they keep silent for their own reasons. Reasons that have everything to do with Hamid, but Malik does not know that until the day the older man expresses something that sounds like concern over the developing curves and lumps she has taken to hiding clumsily behind even more tattered clothing.

Malik stammers and feels her face heating as she looks around the room they are in. She knows not what to say, having long been convinced that Hamid thought her a boy.

"The Master," Hamid says that day, and Malik goes silent because she has learned to respect the reverence in the man's voice when he talks about the old man, "has taught us that nothing is true, and everything is permitted."

Malik squirms in her clothes, feeling the cloth brush her chest which is starting to deform and ache oddly. "Everything?"

"Everything," Hamid states with a finality that is reassuring to hear. He picks up the tome they had been reading from and hands it back to her. Dropping his concern and demanding she read the next part aloud. Gently correcting her when her words stutter until Malik is once again reading fluidly.

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Malik sits in the untended garden of some widow too old to climb the ladder and tend it properly. The brittle plants twist and snap under her weight and she methodically snaps the branches off of a long dead bush. After a few hours the plant is almost completely destroyed. The bells have stopped sounding and Kadar will be worried if she does not return soon.

Malik starts to break the pile of branches up into even smaller pieces.

"There you are."

She jumps up at the voice, whirling to see Hamid climbing over the wall. Making no noise as he settles himself in beside her. Palming the hood of his robe back far enough for her to see his laughing brown eyes. "Do you know how much trouble I had because of you, little one? It's hard enough to terminate a target without the bells sounding for some foolish child."

"Sorry," Malik apologizes though she knows that Hamid means his words in jest. She still feels like she's been chastised. She goes back to her pile of twigs, shoulders hunching in as she feels Hamid's eyes settle on her.

"You are upset you had to kill him," Hamid says, though the lilt of his voice turns it into a question.

She stares at the dry soil under her feet. An ashen grey that contrasts with the red-brown dirt on her feet. She does not want to answer Hamid's question. She does not even want to think about it. It's why she has stayed hidden so long after the search has been called off. But now she cannot ignore it and the answer that comes to her is simple. Horrible but still simple.

"No," Malik finally says, her voice so low she almost hopes Hamid did not hear it.

"No?" Hamid doesn't sound upset or outraged, simply curious.

Malik chances a look at the old man. He looks serene and removed from the world around him. She hates that look, because it means he already knows the answer to something and is waiting for her to reach the answer on her own. It is irritating yet comforting in its familiarity.

"No, I am not upset. I am-" Malik struggles with the words. Trying to pin down what she had felt as the knife had sunk into flesh, as dark red blood welled out, as the guard had collapsed and died. "I do not feel anything."

Hamid hums. It's a neutral sound that gives her no indication about his thoughts.

"Hamid," Malik feels a stir of panic, the same one she had felt only when hiding from the guards earlier, "is that alright?"

The older man turns his head to look down at her. The hint of a smile touching his lips and not matching the solemn words he says in the least, "No, not at all, little one."

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Kadar loves Masyaf.

To be truthful, Malik does too, but she doesn't admit it out loud. Not after the fight she put up when Hamid took them both away from Jerusalem. Spiriting them away from the only city they had known in the darkness after the sun went down. Thrusting them into a strange new world where a man like Hamid draws no attention no matter what he does. Where men and boys from all different places learn to fight and kill in the citadel above the city.

Where she learns now.

"Nothing is true, everything is permitted," Hamid often quotes his -their- Master's words to her. Dark eyes laughing even though he shows no other sign of being amused when she spits vicious words about having to reveal her gender to the Brotherhood. It hasn't escaped her attention that the only women in the Order spend their time in the well-guarded Garden that only a few are allowed into.

The thought of joining them had made he snarl and nearly run until Hamid brought her further into the citadel and introduced her to the Master. The man was even older than Hamid, and his wisdom draped around him in an almost tangible aura that made Malik bite her tongue as the man smiled. It was not a nice or kind smile, it was pleased and calculating but benevolent all the same. His hand was warm on her head but firm, "Welcome to the Brotherhood, Malik. Learn our Creed and abide by it and you will go far," the Master leaned down then, and his last words were not new, but they were for her alone. "Nothing is true, everything is permitted."

She hears those words often in the weeks that follow her introduction as a Novice of the Order. She hears them from the lectures of the teachers to the reluctant grumblings of the boys she bests when the older Assassins teach the newest recruits how to fight. A messy business that Malik is neither more or less prepared for than the other five boys who make up her peer group. Of them all, Aban is the most tolerable. He is the son of a baker in the city below the citadel and has five older sisters. His grin is unabashed as he tells her that he's used to being bested by girls.

They are taught many things in the first few months of their being there. A constant blur of lessons that pull out absolutely everything Malik has and breaks it down. Rebuilding from the ruins of what she once thought she knew. Lessons and drills that work her mind as much as her body.

It leaves her tired and almost unable to do anything more than to collapse in the room she shares with Kadar. A concession granted to the sibling with no family under the expectation that when Kadar grows older he too will join the Novice ranks. The young boy's eyes are wide with insatiable curiosity as he crawls over her and tries to pull answers from her.

"Your sister is tired, Kadar," Hamid pulls the boy off when she grows too tired to even try speaking any longer. The older Assassin is an almost constant presence now that Malik is pathetically grateful for when he hoists Kadar up onto his shoulders. "Let's go to the market and look for dinner for Malik."

Malik can hear Kadar's excited chatter fade away as her eyes close. She is exhausted and hurts in both body and mind. The dagger she now caries openly digs into her stomach, and her feet sweat in her new boots that still chafe her feet, but she can't be bothered to remove them just now. Not as her tiredness pulls her under into a well-deserved sleep that makes the entire day worth it.

Jerusalem and the streets are very far from her mind, almost a separate lifetime that Malik cannot ever imagine returning to now.

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