Archive of Our Own ^beta

Chapter Text

Access denied.

Basim curled his fingers very carefully one by one, took a deep breath in and let a soundless breath out. He uncurled his fingers and tapped gently on the keyboard once again.

Access denied.

It was stupid, silly even, to get so enraged by the artificial voice. But its dispassionate tone evoked centuries and lifetimes of hurt within him, all with two simple words.

Access denied, said the self-determined gods, often with a sneering addition of jotun, like it was a slur. Access denied, said the people and officials, the courts and the bridge-keepers. Denied, of the right to exist with his family. Denied, of the right to plead for his son. Denied, of the elixir of immortality, of even the entrance to the knowledge-tree, to his last and only chance to reunite his family amidst a global catastrophe— all thanks to the whims and nightmares of a mad old man who thought himself a god.

And then he was denied of a home built by his own kin, of sustenance in harsh, unforgiving streets, barred from a life of peace and comfort, again due to the circumstances of his birth. No access to knowledge, denied of his right to choose his own path, within and without the shadows—

Basim tapped a little more harshly on the keyboard this time.

Access denied, said the infuriating voice yet again. Two attempts left.

Another deep breath; Basim began to reflect carefully. Rebecca Crane was clearly good at what she did or she would not be as important to the Assassins as she was. They trusted her to be good at what she did, and she, apparently, trusted no one.

And she had good reason for it. Basim remembered what Shaun Hastings had let slip one long, sombre night.

"We had a friend." His voice had been rough with grief. "Lucy. She was killed by one of our own."

Assassin infighting was hardly new to Basim. But there was something about the way Shaun had said it…

"We have never reacted well to traitors," Basim had said, wry and self-aware. He had seen the shot hit home, the way both Shaun and Becs had stiffened.

"Lucy," Basim murmured to himself presently. He had no need to be so quiet; he was alone in the cabin. His mind ran through alphabets and orthographies, settling finally on one of the many machine scripts prevalent in the human world. He typed again, a long jumble of letters and numbers and symbols, all coming together to spell 'Lucy'.

Access granted, the machine droned softly. Welcome, Rebecca.

Basim let himself smile, brief and triumphant.

Chapter Text

We work in the shadows.

He crept in the dark alleyway, keeping his breaths as quiet as he could. Rough mud-bricked walls caged him in, looming over him like they never seemed to during the day. His muscles were burning with exertion, his body covered in sweat, making the various scratches on his body and his skinned knuckles smart with pain.

Ahead of him — far, far ahead it seemed — the main thoroughfare glowed dimly in his vision. It made him hesitate for a moment.

We work in the shadows.

The street ahead was practically alight with torchlight. He knew the guards' routine in this side of town, knew that that street would be well-lit all night.

But there were always shadows everywhere.

He whipped around and clambered up one of the rough walls, ignoring the heightened pain in his knuckles. The flat rooftop was thankfully bare, and he swiftly made his way to the edge of it looking over the bright street.

His prey stood in the very middle, heaving so loudly he could hear him on the rooftop. There were more people here than there normally would be anywhere else — late night travellers and traders and workers, all hurrying to where they could find a warm place to sleep. Two guards made their rounds from either end of the street, meeting in the middle before turning back to walk its length again. They moved a little slowly, their feet dragged on the ground. Good. This meant they were tired, possibly at the end of their shifts.

He waited for what seemed like ages. Watched his prey stumble down the road, still whimpering, still sweating. No one approached him. No one would, sensing trouble around him and choosing to leave him well alone.

He followed along the rooftops, his eyes still fixed on his prize. He was finding it harder and harder to ignore the feeling of being watched. The sun would rise soon, and he would run out of time.

But his patience paid off. His perfect moment arrived exactly as he had expected it: the target walked past a smelly haystack (which had no torches near it to prevent catching fire), the people crossed the street to walk further away (to get away from the smell), and the nearest guard turned away, casting long shadows from an awning near him. The man was entirely alone, entirely in the dark.

We work in the shadows.

Hytham sprung like a coiled snake; before his mind caught up to his movements, he was already crouched on top of his target's lifeless body. Without thinking, through pure instinct, he grabbed the feather from his pouch. With one hand, he wet it in the blood pooling in the man's throat. With the other he swiped his blade clean on the man's tunic.

A perfect kill.

Hytham paused for the briefest moment. His fingers trembled and tightened around the feather — a feather reddened with blood he had spilled for the first time. From the corner of his eye he could see the familiar cloaked hood of a master assassin on a rooftop.

Hytham pocketed the feather and swung up to the nearest rooftop. The man in the hood gave him a slight nod and Hytham felt his breath leave him in a rush. He had passed the test. He was truly a Hidden One now, Master Rayhan would trust him with bigger missions now. He could, he would help so many people…

Streaks of light on the horizon announced the arrival of dawn as his superior returned to the shadows. Hytham turned his face to welcome the sun's rays, ignoring the screams that had begun to sound from the street, ignoring his trembling muscles, the burning ache in his stump of a finger.

"To serve the light," Hytham murmured to himself.

Chapter Text

"So yeah as far as we know, Excalibur is still in Somerset. Not sure if the woods still exist—"

"What did you call it?"

Shaun and Hytham both looked up from the table over which they were having a rapt conversation. Basim stood casually leaning against the wall, making sure his face was expressionless.

"What, Somerset?" Shaun blustered.

"Excalibur," Hytham guessed correctly.

Basim straightened and approached them, then pretended to take a careful, close look at the image on the table.

"I remember this sword," Basim said thoughtfully. "Crafted by… Hephaistos, yes."

"You remember it," Shaun said, raising his eyebrow sceptically.

"Who can forget a weapon like this?" Basim responded with an eyebrow arch of his own. "Its powers were legendary. A single swipe could destroy swathes of the enemy. Simply holding it could refresh you, banish your bodily aches. If it was by your side, even sheathed, it was said even the fates would align themselves to assure your victory."

Shaun's scepticism seemed to fade with every word Basim spoke. But Hytham only stared at him, his expression as inscrutable as his own. Hm.

"Ah, I could speak of hours of this," Basim continued. "The only sword my kind ever made—"

"The only sword?" Shaun interrupted.

Basim shrugged. "But of course. Why would you have more than one Peace-Breaker? Imagine every other foot soldier equipped with a Gut-Cleaver, a Breath-Burner, a Rage-Lighter?"

"Interesting names," Hytham finally — finally! — spoke up.

"Its true name is unpronounceable by humans," Basim said somewhat apologetically. "And was rarely spoken in Isu society for it had urgent, calamitous effects on anyone that heard it."

"Well now I have to try and say it!" Shaun smirked. "And don't bother trying to change my mind."

Basim sighed. "I will try to write it down for you."

Shaun snatched the piece of paper from him eagerly, then groaned "This is in the Isu script!"

Basim only shrugged and said, "Unpronounceable by humans."

Shaun huffed a sigh. "Great, I need to find Becs' Isu syllabary—"

"Don't bother," Hytham said suddenly, his eyes flitting down the paper in Shaun's hand. Basim could hold his grin back no longer.

"It says 'I'm hungry'." Hytham explained.

"What?" Shaun stared at him. "You — I — you understand Isu?!"

"I can read the script."

"It says 'I'm hungry' in English?" Shaun sounded practically scandalised.

"There's that calamitous effect," Basim murmured, then straightened. "Come, come, lunch should have been an hour ago."

He stood at the kitchen doorway and only turned around when a resigned-looking Shaun tossed away the paper to follow him.

"You know what, Basim? One of these days I'm gonna murder you."

Basim stepped aside to let Shaun walk past him. "I'm afraid, Shaun," he glanced at Hytham, "that you'll have to get in line."

And that finally made Hytham snort with amusement, lips curving into the smallest of smiles, hidden and perfect. Enough to make Basim grin back with satisfaction, completely sated.

Lunch could wait, really.

Chapter Text

"Genetic anomaly," Basim whispered. He could barely see his own thumb moving in the dark, but he could feel the slightly sticky, papery skin of the bags under Hytham's eyes. He waited for a moment, then two.

Nothing.

"Your eyes," he continued, ignoring the yawning, aching pit within his heart. "Blue eyes are a recessive gene. If your parents both had brown eyes, you were almost certain to have brown eyes too." He kept his thumb in motion, feeling eyelashes tremble ever so slightly against his skin. "That makes you a statistical miracle." His voice was painfully soft. His vision was painfully clear, now adjusted to the dark. "A genetic miracle."

He felt the words before they came with the gust of limpid air that was Hytham's voice. "Which one?"

Basim paused. "What?"

Cold, clammy fingers curled slow and loose around his wrist. "Which one?" Hytham repeated. The fingers curled just a smidge tighter. "Anomaly? Or miracle?"

Oh, his heart.

"Miracle," Basim wheezed and leaned forward to press his forehead ever so gently against Hytham's. "Without a doubt."

The fingers dropped from his wrist, the forehead leaned away: leaving Basim feeling entirely unmoored and alone in the rickety little bed. The smell of kebabs from the nearby street vendor floated up through the grimy half-open window, and Basim felt a sudden urge to throw up.

"Liar," Hytham's breeze-limp voice said. The one word seemed to echo in the musty room.

Basim only screwed his eyes shut and did not disagree.

Chapter Text

The setting sun rent slashes of blood red in the grey sky. Hytham leaned back on the log bench carefully, letting the murmuring chatter of the Raven clan wash over him, his eyes fixed on the distant, heavy-looking clouds. Beyond the rock outcrop, the sea crashed in its uniformly mighty rhythm. Hytham had never before seen a sea as cold as this one. He was used to expecting a balmy climate by the seaside, and the wet, biting breeze of the Norse seaside was… taking some getting used to.

His injury didn't help matters. Hytham drew in a slow breath, careful not to wince at the pain that still lanced through his chest — less intensely now, but there all the same. Then he smiled lightly as someone took the empty spot on the bench next to him. Eivor nodded companionably as she settled.

She inhaled sharply. "A bracing day," she remarked. "Good weather."

"I'll take your word for it," Hytham said and smiled again when Eivor chuckled. "I'm guessing it is much warmer where you are from, Hytham?"

"You could say that," Hytham said mildly.

"I cannot even imagine it," she confessed gruffly. "This is the land I've known all my life — ah, they're starting."

Both turned to the edge of the outcropping where a small woman with sheets of billowing, braided blond hair stood as if to address the gathering. In her hands she held a simple flat drum whose taut surface seemed to gleam in the frosty air.

"She is a visitor from some islands not too far away," Eivor murmured as the gathered people began to settle. "And she offered to sing a local song to entertain us."

"Very kind of her," Hytham murmured back.

Eivor simply grunted. The whispers died down entirely as the woman began to beat a low, steady rhythm on her drum. The only sound louder than her was the crashing of the waves behind her. Then, she began to sing.

Trøllabundin eri eg eri eg

"'Spellbound am I'," Eivor said suddenly in his ear, low and very, very quiet. Hytham felt a swell of gratitude at her translation, for he was transfixed, ears perking at the music, arm hairs standing on end, spellbound indeed. The woman's voice rose like an echoing lament over the crashing of the sea and something deep in his heart stirred at the resounding melody.

Galdramaður festi meg festi meg

"'The wizard has enchanted me'," she continued, and Hytham's heart twisted.

Trøllabundin djúpt í míni sál í míni sál

"'Spellbound deep in my soul'."

Hytham's eyes flitted unerringly to a small group of people standing at the forefront of the crowd. One man stood a little apart from the others, his hood raised to shelter him from the cutting sea breeze.

Í hjartanum logar brennandi bál brennandi bál

"'In my heart burns a smouldering fire'," Eivor murmured, her own low voice melodious in its own right. A lump was growing in Hytham's throat. He could not see Basim's face, but he could perfectly picture the red glow of the sky reflected in his eyes.

What an entrancing sight it must be.

The singer cut off into deep and throaty growls to accompany the steady percussion of the drum that were no less haunting. Eivor leaned closer as she explained, "It is a common Norse folktale or myth. One must be wary of wizards and those who practice seiðr, and deal with them carefully, for they know ways like galðr — that is, spell-songs — to ensnare a person: mind, body, and soul."

Oh.

The woman began to sing again.

Trøllabundin eri eg eri eg

"'Spellbound am I'." The lump in Hytham's throat was making it difficult for him to breathe.

Galdramaður festi meg festi meg

"'The wizard has enchanted me'."

His fingertips were trembling. The sea breeze made Basim's hood shiver like he was nodding.

Trøllabundin inn í hjartarót í hjartarót

"'Spellbound in my heart's root'."

He felt tears swell in his eyes. Truly he was bound, by spell or by oath, through blood spilled and meals shared, from desert sands to frost seas, he was entranced — mind, body, and soul.

Eyga mítt festist har ið galdramaður stóð

"'My eyes gaze to where the wizard stood'," Eivor finished softly as the woman continued to sing without words. And Hytham could not help it; his eyes flashed to the edge of the crowd again. His shuddering breath froze in his chest.

Basim had turned away from the woman, away from the sea, and was now looking at him. At him. His eyes seemed to glow, even under his hood, from the nearby firepit. And even from that distance, Hytham could see those firm lips soften into a shadowed smile.

Enchanting, Hytham thought with a tremulous yet calming exhale, and smiled faintly back.

Chapter Text

"And what do you think you're doing, young man?!"

Jacob nearly stumbled — stumbled! — at the sudden loud screech behind him. He turned to see an old-ish woman, grey hair curling under a grimy bonnet, dark eyes narrowed in suspicion.

"Just passing by," Jacob said hurriedly, glancing around quickly at the darkening back alley. "Excuse me, madam."

"'Passing by', is it?" The biddy said shrilly. "Passing by the roofs, now, what kind of strange business is that?"

She was blocking his way. Jacob tensed his fingers, briefly beset by the attractive notion of sinking his hidden blade into her wrinkled throat. "Sorry for the ruckus," he muttered, trying to give her his most winning smile. "Now, if you don't mind— "

"I do mind, Mister Toff!" She shrieked. "What on earth were you doing stomping across my ceiling for?!"

He was running out of time. The target would get away.

"Well I won't do it again, lady, move aside." He snapped.

"I'll scream for a copper right now, I will—"

"What's goin' on?" Came a new voice behind her, and Jacob froze.

Oh, shit. He recognised that voice. It was the target himself.

"Ruffians on the rooftop, Mr. Crewes!" The woman screeched, pointing a finger at Jacob. The man turned his suspicious gaze onto him.

"Rooftop, you say?" He muttered, his eyes narrowing, too. Jacob's fingers inched towards the kukri in his belt.

But in the next second a shadow flitted over the target, and the second after that revealed Jacob's dear sister crouched over Mr. Crewes' lifeless body, her hidden blade already in his throat.

Dammit!

The old woman began to scream. Evie straightened up — and was suddenly on the business end of a cocked pistol aimed at her face. Said pistol was held by none other than Madam Cantankerous, her wrinkly face twisted in a paroxysm of fury.

"Bloody assassins—"

This time Jacob was faster, and the old woman never got to finish whatever diatribe she had brewing against the Assassins.

Evie stepped away with an expression of mild disgust as Jacob sheathed his hidden blade and the woman's corpse tumbled down.

"Well, what do you know," Jacob sniffed. "A double event."

"Ugh." Evie wiped her still exposed blade on one of the corpses at their feet.

"Bloody Templars," she grumbled.

"Bloody Templars," Jacob agreed.

They glanced at each other.

"I still win, though," Evie said with a flash of a grin, just as she engaged her grapple.

Jacob's voice was now loud enough to rival the old woman's.

"Like hell—!"

Chapter Text

"Skål! To a battle well-fought and our Jarl returned!" Holger yelled drunkenly. Despite the empty Jarl's throne, a chorus of similarly inebriated voices responded, and many drinks were poured down throats yet again. Hytham watched Eivor smile absently at the crowd and take a sip of her mead.

"It seems the battle was indeed formidable?" Hytham prompted. Eivor did not seem to hear him, and Vili answered in her stead.

"Aye, I have rarely seen a battle as bloodied and fiery as this one." He wiped his mouth with a burp. "And I have been a warrior for many years now."

"I am glad we emerged victorious, then," Hytham continued. Eivor continued to stay silent, her eyes fixed on her drink.

"Aye," Vili said again. "Make no mistake, we each fought with every fibre of our strength. I myself thought it would be my last earthly battle several times during the siege. Even if we had lost, we would have lost with honour."

"No."

Vili startled at the sound of Eivor slamming her mug down on the table. If she had seemed mentally absent before, she was blazingly present now.

"We did not lose, because we could not have lost," she said, her voice like shards of ice. "There could have been no other outcome. We would get Sigurd away from that cursed place. And we did." She slumped suddenly, as if exhausted. "We did," she murmured, a frown between her thick brows.

A beat of silence passed. Hytham exchanged a glance with Vili.

"It has been a long excursion, old friend," Vili said cautiously. "Perhaps you should go rest for the night."

For a moment, Eivor looked like she hadn't heard him at all. Then she blinked, and nodded. "Yes. My bed awaits. I am… tired." Her shoulders seemed to slump further.

She stood up without another word and stepped away from the stool. But as she turned to go, she paused and placed a palm each on Vili and Hytham's shoulders.

"Thank you, my friends."

Hytham hadn't even participated in the battle. He opened his mouth to say so, but Vili beat him to it with a drawling, "Are you trying to push that stick further up my arse, Wolf-kissed?"

And finally, finally, Eivor's sombre expression faded away, and a small but genuine smile graced her scarred face.

"You do that well enough yourself, Arse-stick."

With which parting shot Eivor walked away, as proud and straight-backed as ever. But Hytham could see her eyes in the firelight. It seemed like a spark had been extinguished within them.

"The world is filled with foul hearts committing fouler deeds," Vili muttered when Eivor had finally vanished from their sight. "I was not exaggerating when I said I have seen many battles in my lifetime, but… Never have I seen evidence of such cruelty, Hytham." He took another long swig of his mead. "It wrenches my heart and makes me yearn for the simpler times of my youth."

"No times are ever as simple as we believe them to be," Hytham said quietly. "The ignorance of our youth only brings an illusion of simplicity."

"Ja, ja," Vili muttered, morose. "You are right." He sipped his drink pensively. "But these kinds of battles make my nerves crawl. They are mind-wars more than they are of steel and blood."

"Was it really that bad?"

Vili slammed his empty mug down abruptly. "Ask you mentor," he said shortly, then stood up and walked away to refill his mug.

And then Hytham had to do the thing he'd been avoiding for some time now. He looked up and turned around, seeking a familiar pair of brown eyes.

He found them almost immediately. Basim's gaze had been fixed upon him for god knows how long, and as he stared back at Hytham now his expression was as inscrutable as ever. Only his eyes seemed to gleam with some deep emotion.

Hytham tilted his head in a silent question.

Basim tilted his head, too, toward the longhouse entrance.

Hytham understood immediately. Not here. Outside.

Resigned, he finished his drink and stood up. Basim had already started to move. Hytham wondered if he should wait for Vili. If he should tell him that he himself was no stranger to battles of the mind and of the heart.

It was an errant thought. He already knew he wouldn't.

His battles were for him and him alone to fight.

Chapter Text

"System override successful. Time to move, boys."

Basim said nothing in response to Becs' update in his ear. He knew she did not need one. He focused instead on the single word that made a significant amount of carefully-concealed stress fade away.

'Boys', she had said. In plural.

That meant Hytham had survived their explosive entry into the complex.

He switched between his normal and second vision frequently as he made his way down the corridors with confidence. It had not taken him long to memorise the map of the research facility. It was taking him frustratingly long to find his field-partner, though.

He stopped switching between his sights as he came upon a little group of guards convening in a shabby box of a room that smelt of burnt coffee. He took care of them as quietly and efficiently as he could.

A sudden footstep at the doorway made him whip around with a thrown blade, but the blade never met its mark. Instead, it was caught expertly between two gloved fingertips.

Hytham was staring at him, an eyebrow slightly raised.

"Nervous," he remarked quietly, barely audible over the echo of the alarm in the depths of the facility.

"Concerned," Basim corrected him, voice tight, and pounced. In one move he had grabbed Hytham's jaw and pressed their mouths together. He exhaled a soft growl as Hytham parted his lips to let him in.

"Boys." Becs sounded harried and yet amused. "Save it for later."

"Contact reestablished. Initiate core system reboot." Hytham wrenched himself away and responded immediately, voice admirably even. Basim couldn't take his eyes off his wet, shiny lips.

"Roger."

The overhead lights blinked, then shut down altogether. In the next second they flickered back on with a whirr of some machinery underground.

And within that one second, Hytham was suddenly closer to Basim and grinning. His eyes were gleaming. His teeth dug into his shiny lip.

"System reboot successful," Hytham murmured, pushing Basim's blade back into his belt, and Basim grinned back at him.

Chapter Text

"I had heard word that the Grandmaster is always seeking to expand his repository of knowledge," the man said, bowing so low the ends of his scarf scraped the floor. "I have therefore come to surrender this book to you, sahib."

Malik frowned, but before he could say a word the accompanying guard snapped, "You will address him as Dai."

The cheerful affect of the man faltered a little. "Er, my apologies, Dai. I am not — not fully fluent—"

"No matter." Malik waved the man over to a seat. "Show me."

The man carefully unwrapped the cloth bundle in his arms. Within it rested a book with a leather cover so worn it looked like it could crumble at a sneeze. Despite himself, Malik felt his interest pique. He gestured with his hand, and the man place the book carefully on the desk before him.

Malik grabbed a small silk scarf from a shelf (a gift from an ambitious merchant) and carefully opened the book using it.

"Genesis," the man explained with some eagerness. "The history of the Garden of Eden, as seen in the very first page."

Eden. The name seemed to jolt through Malik, leaving a sour taste in his mouth.

"It is incomplete, then," Malik muttered. He felt a brief flare of amusement when he saw the guard tense from the corner of his eye. All the guards who worked closely with Malik had learnt to read his moods from his voice to his gestures. The book-bearing man, with no such knowledge, leaned forward conspiratorily. "It is very old, Dai. That it has survived these many centuries is a miracle."

"I see it is in Hebrew, of course."

"Of course," the man nodded.

Malik grunted. He turned another delicate page or two. The silence in the office was absolute.

Finally, Malik leaned back and fixed his gaze squarely upon the man. "How much?"

The man looked bashful. "Only — only a nominal amount, Dai. Just enough to fix my roof and feed my family." Malik raised an eyebrow when the man mentioned the price.

"You are aware you can get a much better price at the souks or bazaars in the cities?" Malik asked him.

The man's cheeks flushed red. "I, I would prefer to leave it to a place of knowledge rather than commerce."

"How noble of you," Malik remarked.

A beat of silence passed.

Malik leaned forward. The guard's hand drifted casually to the hilt of his sword.

"You are right in assuming this is a place of knowledge. On our shelves we in fact have several old copies of the book of Genesis. From Judah and from Babylon, in Hebrew, in Aramaic, in Greek…" The man seemed frozen under Malik's stare. "As a Dai, I have of course read many of these versions of the text." Malik pretended to ponder the ceiling. "The most modern of these old texts is the one in Greek, I would say. A mere nine hundred years old."

The man's eyes had widened. "Fascinating," he mumbled.

"Yes," Malik said softly. "So of course, the Greek version is the one I read most extensively. Even now I can quote sections from it." He looked away from the ceiling suddenly, pinning the man with his gaze. "Which is why I know this book is fake. The Greek version was itself a translation from Hebrew. Someone — very recently — has translated the Greek back into Hebrew in this text, butchering the original context in the process." Malik's eyes turned cold. "Why are you here?"

The man's face drained of colour as abruptly as it had appeared. "I — I assure you Dai, I was convinced of its authenticity —"

"Spare me the act," Malik interrupted the man. "If you wanted to make money peddling a fake text, it would be easier and safer to do so in the cities. Instead you petitioned your way into Masyaf castle, all the way to the highest office." Malik narrowed his eyes. "I repeat. Why are you here?"

In a single moment the man's demeanour underwent an astonishing change. He went from mumbling and confused and frighted to narrowed eyes and a face tight with fury. With a wordless snarl he withdrew a blade and leaped at Malik over the desk. The guard let out a cry, drawing his sword too slow.

But Malik was already moving. He swerved to dodge the man easily, and with a familiar snick, released the hidden blade from within the folds of his sleeve and slid the blade between the man's ribs. By the time the guard drew his sword it was already over.

There was silence as the attacker breathed his last gurgles on the desk.

"Dai," the guard whispered, voice edged with remorse, "I apologise for not—"

"You are not to blame." Malik said curtly, withdrawing the blade back into the folds of his only sleeve. "Find out every single person that guided this man to our castle. Bring them to me."

"As you wish, Dai."

The sun was setting when Malik made his way to the beautiful gardens. He made his way to the last terrace at the very end that commanded a breathtaking view of the mountains and vales behind Masyaf. He found him on the usual bench.

"Done for the day?" Malik asked shortly, sitting down next to him.

Altair hummed. "Yes."

"Anything new?"

"Nothing comprehensible." Malik frowned; he hated the way Altair sounded when he emerged from his time with the Apple. Quiet and vague, like he was still tearing himself away from a different world.

"There is some noise about our offices," Altair murmured after some minutes and Malik felt a wave of relief at the mundane question.

"They are merely cleaning the blood from my desk," Malik said dismissively.

Altair froze. "Blood?" He repeated, his voice suddenly stronger.

"A spy tried to worm his way in, then tried to kill me when he was discovered," Malik said briefly. "I am handling it." And then he felt his breath catch in his chest: cold fingertips fluttered down the side of his neck.

"Blood?" Altair repeated, quieter. More dangerous.

Malik leaned away irritably. "Not mine. What do you take me for?"

Relief shone in Altair's eyes. "A very capable man. I should not doubt you."

"You shouldn't." Malik agreed.

"I should have been there."

"You should have." A sudden silence fell between them, and Malik despaired of it.

"I used the blade," he said quickly.

Something brightened in Altair's expression. "It worked well?"

Malik turned away to look at the mountains. "Yes."

A hand curled around his forearm, where underneath the robes the blade was still strapped next to his skin. "It saved you," Altair said with quiet wonder.

Malik twisted his forearm and let Altair's fingers snake down slowly into his palm. "Yes," he breathed, finally letting himself acknowledge the cool breeze, the rainbows of colourful petals surrounding them, the hushed sussurus of tinkling water. The magnificent ridges and valleys of the land before them. The gold of the sunset reflected in Altair's eyes.

Surely even the Garden of Eden could not be so beautiful.

"Yes," Malik said again, and curled their fingers together.

Chapter Text

Kassandra had always thought she knew the sea. The blue waves of the seas of Greece were never far from where she lived, from growing up on the island of Kephallonia, to decades spent co-captaining a trireme, to those brief couple of years in Dime by the seaside when she had dared to think she could have a family of her own. Kassandra thought she knew and understood and thoroughly loved the sea.

But never had she seen a sea so vast.

For weeks they had been traversing the choppy waves with not a hint of land in sight. She was starting to feel antsy on the ship; an itch to find dry, stable land growing within her with each passing day.

"I did not expect this journey to affect you to this extent."

Kassandra sighed and pulled her skirts closer to herself. The clothes of this time indicated that women wear several voluminous, inefficient layers of skirts at all times. She had not had the time to change into breeches this time, and so had performed the climb in her dress.

"I have never seen a sea so big," Kassandra admitted. "I have read of them, yes. But to witness it with my own eyes? No. Never."

"You do not like it," Aletheia remarked.

"I do not dislike it," Kassandra hedged, then sighed again. "It is unsettling, all this water. To think we are only halfway through our journey—"

"You seemed fine when I sent you to Atlantis," Aletheia mused. "It was a city inside water."

"It was a city that did not rock like a swing all the time," Kassandra grumbled.

"Seasickness?" Aletheia sounded surprised. "I would not have expected that in you, of all people."

Kassandra huffed a sigh again. "I am not seasick, Aletheia. I am… landsick. As in, I miss land."

"…understandable."

Kassandra was silent for several minutes, watching the endless watery horizon from her perch atop the main mast. "Did you ever make such a journey?"

"I… never had to. When I was younger, we flew. When I was older we… teleported."

"Madness," Kassandra said, out of habit more than anything else. It was nice to pretend, sometimes, that she was still the misthios fighting battles within the Peloponnesian War. That she, Kassandra, knew nothing more, spoke no other tongue than that of her homeland. It was getting harder and harder to pretend. She had already turned a thousand years old decades ago.

It would be easier to forget all those older memories. The layout of Marcus' vineyard. The sound of Phoebe's giggle. The smell of the flowers outside her home in Dime. The taste of the food from the family table in Sparta. The strength in her mother's arms, holding her.

It would be easier to forget, to get rid of the old to make way for new memories from her incredibly long existence.

"But then what would remain of Kassandra?" Aletheia had asked mournfully the first time Kassandra brought it up. "Who are you if you forget the Eagle Bearer?"

She had been three hundred years old then. "I would be the Keeper of the Staff," she had said lightly.

"You would be a stranger," Aletheia had said, soft but firm. "And I would have no stranger be my Keeper."

Kassandra had let loose a strangled laugh. "All for you, then. Our fates are bound."

"Yes. Our fates are bound." Aletheia had repeated, and for some reason, it had made Kassandra smile.

"Well, fate-mate," Kassandra said presently, letting her legs swing down from her perch high above the ship. "At least you are stuck making the same journey with me now."

"Our fates are bound," Aletheia agreed. And Kassandra smiled again.

Chapter Text

"Where is he?"

Havi strode down the gleaming flagstones bordering the pool in the central courtyard, his voice thundering against the alabaster walls.

"I… I do not know, High One," said the servant, his face twisted in distress.

"How could he vanish at a time like this?" Havi fumed. "Did he not know how important the meeting was?"

"Your missives were delivered successfully, High One," the servant said, in near tears.

"Bah!" He swore. "Damn that thrice-cursed—"

"Father?"

All at once, his rage evaporated from him at the familiar voice. Havi often wondered at it, marveled at the power of suggestion and charisma that seemed inherent to his youngest's existence even at such a young age.

"Baldr," Havi sighed, then smiled. "Come here."

The boy scampered over to him, and Havi sat down heavily on a convenient stone ledge as the boy clambered onto his lap.

"Why are you awake this late, son?"

Baldr shrugged in an endearing manner and kicked his legs back and forth. "I heard you."

Havi grimaced internally. Frigg would have his hide for waking the boy. "I apologise. Go back to sleep."

"But I want to stay," Baldr said, turning dangerous, imploring eyes to him. Havi braced himself. Both Frigg and Freya laughed at his absolute inability to say no to that face.

"And do what, heart of mine?" He gathered the boy in his arms and stood up. "Will you speak at my meeting? Discuss all the figures and calculations?"

"I can do numbers," the boy said defensively.

Havi began to walk towards the boy's chambers. "Not big numbers, though."

"I so can! Uncle Loki taught me!"

The name brought a frown to Havi's brow despite the child's uplifting presence. "Did he now?"

Baldr nodded vigorously. "Yes, he—" He cut himself off with a loud gasp. "Uncle Loki!"

Havi couldn't help but feel a curl of resentment in his chest at the way Baldr tore himself out of his arms, dropped on the floor, and ran at the man who had just turned the corner.

"Whoa, slow down — oof! There we are."

There was a grim set to Loki's gaze when he met Havi's eyes. But his look softened too when he looked down at the boy who was perched happily in his arms now. Not even he was immune to Baldr's charm.

"Now why are you still up, Little Prince?"

"I was taking him to his bed," Havi cut in, striding over to the two. There would be no end to Loki's mocking if he found out Havi had woken up his own son with his shouting. And he was in no mood to bear Loki's particular brand of humour at this moment.

"Uncle Loki, take me!" Baldr added, bouncing on his arm.

Loki glanced at Havi, several expressions flitting over his face. Smug and questioning and angry and, strangely enough, a flash of longing.

"We will both take you," Havi decided. "And then we have to go to our meeting." He fell in step with them.

"But I want Uncle Loki to tell me a story," Baldr frowned.

"I told you one yesterday, little one," Loki protested.

"That was yesterday."

Loki grinned and even Havi could not help but smile.

"Yes. Yesterday was story night. Tonight is meeting night." Loki tapped the boy's nose gently, a familiar gesture of affection. "Look at your father, see how important the meeting is to him? Do you want me to miss it?"

Havi felt suddenly self-conscious when they both looked at him. He had thought his worries hidden from his expression but clearly there was something to see on his face.

"Okay." Baldr sighed, looking adorably serious for his tender age. "But you must promise to teach me more numbers so I can come with you and father to meetings."

Loki glanced at Havi again, as if waiting for him to speak. Havi took the cue. "He will teach you all the numbers there are, my heart, and then I will bring you to my meetings."

Baldr relaxed in Loki's hold, satisfied. "Okay," he said again, happier than before.

They were almost at Baldr's rooms, so the rest of their stroll was filled with Baldr's incessant but inane questions and Havi and Loki's convoluted answers. They found Baldr's night nurse wringing her hands at the doorway.

"You found him, High One!" She gasped in relief.

"And you let him leave," Havi said shortly. The human turned pale immediately. Loki took the following tense pause to stride into the inner room, keeping the boy's head turned away from them. For some reason it only irritated Havi more.

"Well?" He asked, louder. "What have you to say for yourself?"

"Forgive me, High One, I did not—"

"Perhaps we can continue this at another time." Loki closed the door to Baldr's bedroom behind him and crossed his arms. "Unless you want to keep him awake."

Havi grit his teeth, then turned away. "Report to me tomorrow before noon," he snapped at the frightened woman and strode outside. He heard Loki catch up to him and they walked together for a bit in silence.

When Havi judged themselves far enough away, he stopped and turned to Loki. "Where the hell were you?"

Loki shrugged. "Not important."

Havi curled his fists. "I cancelled the damned meeting because you weren't there."

Loki shrugged, still looking infuriatingly calm. "The Capitolines can stand to wait. After all," his narrow glance slid to Havi's face, "you do not want to seem too eager, do you?"

He was right, but Havi didn't want to admit it. "Where were you?" He demanded instead.

Loki rolled his eyes and leant against a nearby pillar. "You asked me to find out more about the Triad. I went to meet an informant." He nodded at Havi's wrist. "I've already sent you what I was given."

"That request was not more important than the actual meeting itself," Havi pointed out. "Damn it, Loki, this information had better be good."

A small, familiar smile played at the edges of Loki's mouth. A dangerous smile. "It's good enough to not let them be too comfortable around your table."

A sense of victory warred with caution in Havi's mind. "We had better not make it too uncomfortable for them, either."

Loki straightened and slapped a too-hard palm on his shoulder. "You worry too much, Havi," he drawled. His smile had morphed into a knife-sharp grin. Havi felt, as he often did these days, glad that he was not the reason for the scheming look on his face.

"After all, what is life without a little chaos?"