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Assassin's Creed: Reminiscence [Chapter 21 and 22]

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CHAPTER TWENTY-ONE: Master LaAhad's Journal

Joan was shocked by Dhi'bah's plot against Jean-Paul d'Gaulle, but she didn't understand how master LaAhad had gained so much information about it. She supposed that Dhi'bah told him about it, or perhaps she had written this part in his journal… although, the prospect of a student writing in her mentor's diary was a somewhat [i.e. VERY] strange concept for Joan to grasp…

* * * * *

… Jean-Paul d'Gaulle was a very handsome man. Despite his brother being an over-weight, hideous oaf; Jean-Paul was a man of great stature, a good build, and [apparently] caught every woman's eye. He had dark shoulder-length hair, bottle-green eyes, and stubble grew on his chin. He was married and had a daughter, but that didn't stop him being a flirt and it didn't stop him from whoring. Even now, as he lay in his pavilion, waiting to break the Assassin Fortress, he lay with only sheets covering him. He groaned, yawning, and looked to his left.

He rolled his eyes and shook his head. Jean-Paul didn't understand her. She had crawled into their camp, with barely her skin still on her back, and told him that the Assassin's were going to intercept their camp in five days. Ever since, he had rewarded her generously with his presence. But he didn't understand her. She didn't seem to like him much – like he was a burden rather than a privilege. He watched her, sitting by the looking glass, combing her hair furiously, and examining her face critically. She wore a long, flowing dress; sky blue and decorated heavily at the neckline. Jean-Paul sighed. He would have appreciated it more if she had stayed in bed with him. He got up and stood behind her, placing his hands on her shoulders. "Catherine," he said, "Please, come back to bed."
"Jean-Paul, your soldiers have been walking in and out, calling for you!" she replied, irritably.
"They have, have they?" he considered this a moment, "What did they want?"
"I didn't ask, but I suppose it is important, they have rushed in without so much as a knock."
"Well… whatever it is, I'm sure it can wait," he kissed her neck, and held her by the waist, "Come to bed, Catherine."

The woman tried hard not to sigh, and made her face as indifferent as she possibly could for someone who thought that French women had an extremely abhorrent taste in men. For starters, Jean-Paul kept calling her 'Catherine' – and not only did she dislike the name, but also it belonged to Jean-Paul's wife; not to her. Secondly, Jean-Paul had a tendency of spending a whole damned lot of his time sleeping, and ever since 'Catherine' arrived, it meant sleeping with her. And whenever he was awake, he had this weird idea that 'Catherine' liked him looking like a naked gorilla on drugs – which, quite frankly, she didn't. And she was becoming impatient with him. "Shouldn't you go and check? What if it is important information that your soldiers hold?" she said, willing him to go away.
Jean-Paul sighed, "You always seem to want to get rid of me, Catherine."
"You are preparing to besiege the Fortress of the Assassins, don't you think you ought to be a little more prepared?"
"Ah, why do you worry? You're not going to war."
"But YOU are, so you should be going out and taking care of your responsibilities."
"I'm sorry, Catherine, but I believe that the last time I checked, I was the one in charge," he said, "You will not order me around, Catherine. Remember you place. Now get up."

The woman didn't like the glint in Jean-Paul's eyes. Whatever else you could say about him, he was powerful and getting on his bad side wasn't the best idea. Getting on his bedside, however, pleased him very much. She stood up, and looked at him. What a pitiful creature, she thought; Always out to fulfill an unquenchable need – just like his sick-headed brother. He clasped her face between his hands, and furrowed a brow. "You look upset," he said, frowning.
"I worry about you, Jean-Paul," she said, "I know you want to play around, but is this really the time?"
"Fine," he said, edging towards her, "Just one kiss, and I'll be out of the way."
She held his head, and he heard a click. Two clicks.

He didn't dare move. "What are you doing?" he said, his voice a whisper. 'Catherine' had an angry expression on her face. Jean-Paul could feel two spikes pricking the back of his neck – not quite in for the kill, but not quite out either. "Did you really think, Jean-Paul, for a single second that I had forgiven you?" she said, "After how you treated me, and the other slaves? Your brother's pleasure in our torment? After you burned little Khidr's eye out? You really expect me to show mercy to a heartless tyrant like you?"
Jean-Paul laughed, "So this is about revenge, then? How long are the Assassin's really going to take to get here?"
"They're probably already on their way, Jean-Paul. The Master asked me to spare you if I could, but I am loath to say that I will not spare you. A villain like you should be killed ten times over."
"So be it, then. Kill me. You sleep in my bed, share my body, and now you seek to kill me? Go ahead, I got what I wanted from you. You're better than a whore in the marketplace: you didn't moan about poverty, but you still seek payment, eh? So go on, take your wages, take my life – if you think you can," Jean-Paul grinned widely, waiting.

Khawla looked at him gloating. She knew she wasn't meant to kill Jean-Paul, but there was an irresistible urge, a whisperer in her mind telling her to end it here and now. Bloodlust. She didn't care about what Jean-Paul had said: he could speak, but he wasn't as eloquent as her. What Khawla was really worried about was that Master At-Tameem had told her to spare him, if she could help it. But it was too late to turn back now. "Well?" said Jean-Paul, still smirking.
"Say what prayers you will, to whatever deity you will," she said.
"Always on the higher moral ground, eh, Khawla? You think killing me will get you a place where I'm going?"
"And where do you believe you're going?"
"Hell, of course."
"Very positive."
Jean-Paul laughed, "The Christians will rule the Holy Land, Khawla, there will be plenty more enslaved, more Muslim blacksmith's killed, and more children lying dead on Arabian streets. I don't need to pray, Khawla, I don't believe there'd much piety in me to save."
"Pity," Khawla pushed the blades into the back of Jean-Paul's neck, and a ripple of pain swept over his face. I took him a moment to go limp.

She dragged the body back onto the bed, and wrapped him in the sheets. There was a bit of blood trickling out of his mouth, but it didn't matter. No one would get in. She stepped out of the pavilion, which was guarded by two soldiers at the entrance. As she stepped out, the guards greeted her. "Good morning, your majesty," said the one to her left.
She put her hands on her hips. The thirst for blood was still heavy in her mind, and she wasn't in the mood for jokes, "Don't make fun, Layth," she muttered.
"That's a very pretty dress, Madame 'Catherine', " said the guard on her right.
"Tha'lab!" she snapped.
Of course, Master At-Tameem said that he'd send two Assassins to watch her, and guard Jean-Paul's pavilion. They were both disguised as crusader guards, and were have a mighty fun time with it. "What?" said Tha'lab, "Not in the laughing mood?"
"No," said Khawla.
Tha'lab and Layth looked at each other. "Fine," said Layth, "Mrs. Grumpy d'Gaulle."
Khawla ignored the remark, "Don't let anyone in. If they say it's urgent, tell them d'Gaulle is asleep."
"And is he asleep?" said Tha'lab.
"Very."
"So where are you going?" said Layth.
"The blacksmith's tent. I want to look at the swords," and she walked off before they could put in another word. But she could hear Tha'lab's voce trailing after her saying something like, 'but that wasn't part of the plan.'

The tent was small in comparison to the pavilion. It was meant to be red, but the fire and the ash blackened the inside. There was a small hole in the roof, to let the smoke out. The smith worked tirelessly, his hammer always ringing on his anvil rhythmically. Khawla got inside, and the smith immediately jerked up. On his table were a very impressive array of swords and daggers – some complete, others unfinished. She picked one of the finished swords up and weighed it in her hands. "May I test this one?" she said.
The smith didn't know what to say. He didn't feel comfortable around women in general. But Madame Catherine asking to test a sword? He was stunned. All that came out of his mouth as a reply was, "Mmm, mmm."
"Excellent," said Khawla, walking out.

She swung the sword around a while – basically just doing a bit of showing-off – until people started to notice that she had skill. They stopped to watch, until one came out of the crowd and asked, "Are you looking for a sparring partner?"
Khawla turned, "Ah, Jellaby."
"Khawla."
"I'm not looking for a sparring partner, as such. A 'dueling' partner would be a better term."
"You want a duel?"
"And will you duel me?"
Whispers broke out in the crowd, but Jellaby just smirked, "Right, and what will be the prize?"
"Hmm," Khawla thought for a moment, "When I win, I get to do what I want with you."
Jellaby gave her a look, "And if suppose – by some miracle – I win? Do I get the vice versa?"
There was a collective 'Ooh' from the spectators, but Khawla just shrugged, "Anything you want – it's not like you'll get it."
"Suppose d'Gaulle found out?"
"He doesn't have to know," Khawla held up her sword, "Come on, let's duel."

They circled each other. Tha'lab and Layth watched from their posts at the pavilion, cringing. "This wasn't part of the plan," said Tha'lab.
"I didn't think Khawla was supposed to kill d'Gaulle," said Layth.
"She wasn't."
Layth gulped, "It's that Assassin phase she's going through, isn't it?"
"Yes," said Tha'lab, "Bloodlust. It'll be a miracle if this Jellaby character is spared from Khawla's wrath."
"I doubt there will be any sparing on Khawla's part."
"That's why I said it will be a miracle."

"So many times," said Jellaby, "you've been on the brink of death, my blade over your head, and now I can throw it at you, win, and take you to bed."
"Bed is all you idiots ever think about," Khawla said coldly.
"Ooh, harsh words coming from a mistress."
"Don't talk, Jellaby."
"Or what?" Jellaby struck, a grin on his face.

But it didn't last long.

The greatest mistake a knight can make when he's facing an opponent is misjudge them. Underestimate them. Jellaby had done just that. As soon as his blade hit Khawla's, she struck again and again – a raging madness in her eyes. Clang, clang, clang. It wasn't long before Jellaby had wished he didn't ask to be dueling with Khawla. Or perhaps he wished he hadn't taunted her. Khawla struck another blow at Jellaby's sword, and the blade broke clean of the hilt. Khawla threw down her blade, grabbed Jellaby by the collar and heads-butted him until he could no longer feel his nose and, finally, punched him under his chin. There was a sickening crack from his jaw, before he fell and scrambled back. He looked up at his adversary. She had a bruise on her forehead, and her nose was bleeding, but she didn't seem to care. Jellaby could taste the blood in his mouth, the sharp pain of the bite on his tongue, and could feel the groaning in his jaw and nose. What could have possibly possessed this girl to hit him so badly?

Khawla took a step forward and Jellaby edged back, but it was futile. She kicked him in the face, and kicked him again. Now Jellaby's face wounds were covered in sand… Not that that was his most dire concern. Khawla retrieved her blade and pointed it at Jellaby's throat. He raised his hands – s-l-o-w-l-y – and rasped, "You win, please, Khawla, don't kill me."
She stared at him with cold, hard, unfeeling eyes, "Not kill you? But what about my prize?"
"Please, please anything but this."
"After everything? The mockery, the beating, the torture, the pain, the agony. After everything you played a part in, you want me to spare you?"
Slowly, Jellaby nodded – like that helped.

Khawla kicked him again, and he spat out sand – almost choking on it. "No, Jellaby," she said, "I'm here to claim my prize," She raised the sword and it fell on his neck.

♦ ♦ ♦

Meanwhile, the army that was marching to meet with the vengeful crusaders was worried. They could see the commotion and havoc going on at the camp. Something had gone very wrong. "LaAhad," said Master At-Tameem, "Take a few of the soldiers and ride ahead. See what's going on over there."
LaAhad nodded gravely. Picked out ten of the cavalry solders, and rode ahead – practically racing for the campsite. He's known that something like this was going to happen. He should have objected to Khawla's plan. He knew what kind of hate she had harbored for d'Gaulle.

♦ ♦ ♦

The soldiers in the camp were stunned at first. Then Jellaby's head slowly rolled away from the rest of his body. All stared at Khawla. Two soldiers ran down from the pavilion to meet with Khawla, "D'GAULLE IS DEAD!" they chanted. Khawla rolled her eyes, and looked at Layth and Tha'lab like they were the biggest morons on the planet. "Do you really think that's helpful?" she asked them.
Tha'lab ignored her, and took off his helmet; placing it on her head, "Don't talk. Be prepared. Big fight coming."
The other soldiers realized [finally] what was happening and there was an outcry. "Assassins! Assassin spies!" some cried. Khawla, Layth and Tha'lab stood back-to-back, as soldiers surrounded them. There was a moment of calm. Then the fighting broke out. Tha'lab and Layth were having a bit of trouble, but Khawla was on a roll. There was still a bit of bloodlust madness raging in her.

Then LaAhad's small cavalry arrived and joined in the skirmish. The crusaders were afraid. They had been taught that for every one Assassin, their needed to be at least twenty or twenty-five soldiers. A lone Assassin was a one-man army [as the enraged Khawla was successfully illustrating]. The fighting continued, until LaAhad reached his friends in the center of the commotion. "What happened?" he yelled. Khawla slit another soldier's throat before saying quickly, "Not enough time to explain – WATCH OUT!" she grabbed LaAhad's shoulder and there was a flash before her eyes…

♦ ♦ ♦

"Oh, shut up, Harith, its not like you were in the battle yourself, you lazy coward."
"She still should have been more careful! Look at that mark!"
"Like I said, stop fussing and go blow up a box or something! She doesn't need you to lecture her when she comes around."
"Why not? Won't make much of a difference, she'll be getting plenty of that anyway."
"Urgh! Get o-u-t!"

Khawla came around just as Harith slammed the door on his way out. Then came the pain. The whole right side of her face was on fire, but no matter what she did she couldn't open her eyes. Her face was covered, wrapped tightly in what she assumed to be bandages, but she wouldn't have been surprised if her face were wrapped in acidic lettuce. It smelt like a salad that some fool had accidentally set on fire.
"What happened…?" she moaned, putting a hand on her face.
Someone, from somewhere, touched the left side of her face removed the veil covering her left eye. LaAhad. "Ah, Khawla, you're awake," he said, slightly surprised.

Khawla was also surprised. She hadn't seen spoken to LaAhad, or had any of his lessons in a long time. He was the last person she would have expected to see waiting on her in the Infirmary. The most likely people to be worried sick about her were – of course – Layth and Tha'lab. Her left eye took a moment to adjust to the bright surroundings. LaAhad had a nasty looking gash on his forehead, and it was incased in something thick and amber in color. Honey. But it didn't seem to bother him much. He looked a bit concerned and something else… apologetic, perhaps?

There was an awkward silence, before Khawla mumbled: "Couldn't Harith put honey on my face? I smell like a plate of vegetarian leftovers."
LaAhad gave her a sad smile and shrugged, "It's for your own good."
"What's going on? Where is Layth and Tha'lab?"
"Well, my father sort of banned them from coming, because they made too much noise and argued too much. But they're probably sitting outside the door, or hanging outside the window, or something."

Khawla took a moment to look around the room. Her bed was placed in the center, and shelves lined every wall. The wall in front of her was packed with vials, and pickled dead creatures, and herbs. The wall on her left was a very tightly packed bookshelf. There were two chairs on her right – one on which LaAhad sat, and the other empty. The wall behind him had an enormous map on it – for a purpose Khawla couldn't figure out – and standing next to it [the most odd thing about the room] was a bright orange door. Khawla stared at it. "I see you like Harith's taste in colors," said LaAhad.
"Orange is a bit out of place isn't it?" she replied.
LaAhad shrugged, "With Harith – everything is out of place."

"LaAhad… what happened?"
"Well, there's some good news, some bad news and…" LaAhad paused a moment, "some really bad news."
"Wait, before you start just tell me: Am I going to die?"
"No."
"And I'm not going to get killed for disobeying orders?"
"No."
Khawla sighed, "Okay, go on."
"Which should I start with?"
"I would say the 'really bad news' but – knowing you – you probably won't start with that anyway."
"Right, good news first it is then," LaAhad rubbed his palms and didn't speak for a moment, and then: "We won the skirmish, the Fortress is no longer under siege. You'd also be pleased to hear that we found this Khidr character you always talk about –"
"Alive?"
LaAhad nodded, "Alive. He'll be here to see you soon – after a couple of questions and stuff. The other good news is… well… Tha'lab and Layth covered for you."
"What?"
"They took the blame."
"Wait, no. What? Why?"
LaAhad shrugged, "I guess they didn't want you to be bombarded with questions when you came around."
"If I didn't feel terrible already, I do now," Khawla frowned.

"What actually happened, by the way? Tha'lab wouldn't tell me, and Layth hasn't been in much of the funny, immature, talking mood lately."
Khawla explained how she disobeyed the Master's orders, and killed d'Gaulle anyway. Then she completely ignored the plan, and went on a crusader killing-spree. She felt awful, and empty.
"I thought killing d'Gaulle would give me some sort of satisfaction, some happiness at least – payback for what he and his brother had done to us for all these years. But I just feel hollow and sad. I shouldn't have killed him, and I feel kind of guilty as well."
LaAhad fiddled with his fingers, like it was some fault of his also, and then said, "Look: the whack-job story that Tha'lab and Layth gave to my father isn't fooling anyone. We all sort of figured that you messed up, but – hey – my father is the leader around here: He isn't allowed to give second chances," he held Khawla's hand, "But WE are. Tha'lab and Layth wouldn't have covered for you unless they knew that you deserved a second chance. You feel bad about what you did, right? So, you probably wont do it again."
"But what if I screw up again? What if I don't deserve that second chance?"
"Excuse the phrase, Khawla, but: 'If' doesn't cut it. Revenge is a tempting thing to do. We all go through it. You know Latin, right? Have you ever heard the phrase: 'Quae nocent docent'?"
Khawla nodded.
"It makes plenty of sense to me, then, that you should get a second chance."

Khawla contemplated this a while, then sighed in relief. Leave it behind you, she thought, Things will get better, the wounds will heal, you'll have your chance to make amends for it. Her father's voice rang in her head: 'The world hasn't ended yet.' She smiled a little before asking, "So… what's the bad news?"
"Well, you're going to be here for a while."
"Why, what happened?"
"Well, you know after you saw that white flash before your eyes and then the darkness crept around you?"
"Very poetic."
"Thank you."
"And morbid."
LaAhad gave her a look, and then continued, "Anyway… after that… well… you kind of… got stampeded over."
Khawla kept a straight face.
"You're not surprised?" said LaAhad, furrowing a brow.
"Well, my whole body is screaming, so it's understandable."
"Woman, do you never complain?"
"Don't call me 'woman', it's offensive."
"Well, your constant gratitude is offensive."
"You have got to be the strangest person I've ever met. Men always complain that women always complain, and you're complaining because I DON'T complain?"
That thoroughly perplexed LaAhad, so he ignored the remark, and continued by saying, "And after the whole stampede thing, we didn't know if you were alive or not… so… we… umm…"
"Oh God, how long did you leave me out there?"
"Well… umm…"
"Spill it."
"… It was only a day and a half but –"
"Charming."
"– We didn't mean to!"
"I know, and that's why I smell like guacamole, right, because everything got infected?"
"Afraid so."

"Okay, so what's the really bad news?"
"Okay, how do I put this, umm…? Here, maybe you should see for yourself," LaAhad took out a hand-mirror from his pocket and edged closer to remove the bandage on Khawla's face.

"YOU DARE TAKE THAT BANDAGE OFF OF HER FACE, AND I SWEAR, LAAHAD, I'LL SCRAPE THAT SCALP OFF OF YOUR HEAD!!"

Harith burst into the room, the orange door swinging fast on its hinges and banging against the wall. "Don't… touch her…" he panted.
Khawla's eyes widened, "Why? What happened to my face?"
"Nothing happened to –" Harith began, but it was too late. Khawla snatched the mirror out of LaAhad's hands, and ripped the bandages off. The sight of her face made her sit up in shock [which later made her back hurt]. Coupled with the disturbing mixture of herbs on her face, there was a long, thin scar so straight that it could have been drawn with a ruler: starting from the tip of her forehead, across her right eye, and ending at the base of her jaw. She cupped her mouth with her hands, letting go of the mirror, which shattered on the floor. Harith was furious. "Do you WANT your face to fall apart?!" he screamed.
He moved towards her, put Khawla plucked out a book from the shelf next to her and hit Harith square in the face. He scowled and said, "Fine, let it fall apart. But when it does: DON'T COME RUNNING TO ME!" and just as he had slammed the door on his way in, he slammed the poor door shut on his way out.

"I'm sorry," LaAhad mumbled, "It was me you tried to save at the campsite, and this was the result."
Khawla lay back, her ears deaf to the world, the reflection of her face still flashing before her eyes. So that was the flash, she thought. She allowed a few tears to fall, but the pain became unbearable and she stopped crying. What's happened cannot be taken back. LaAhad sat beside her quietly, head bowed, and a little nervous and oblivious of what Khawla's ultimate reaction would be. Would she beat him up, or would she forgive him? He hoped it was the latter. But when he looked up, she was staring at him curiously.

"Khawla?" he said.
"What's wrong?"
"Nothing."
"Look, I'm not expert, but I know that look on your face. You're itching to say something. What is it?"
LaAhad was immediately on his guard, "Perhaps I don't want to share it at this point in time."
Khawla was quiet for a moment, and then looked away, "Alright."
But the itch was unbearable, "Alright, I'll tell you."
Khawla smiled at him.
"Khawla," he began, "You know how we haven't had a lesson in a long time, and everything? And it seems like I've been avoiding you? Well, truth is, I HAVE been avoiding you. Because I… umm…"
"Because…?"
He tried again, "Khawla, you know how God's made everything in pairs…"
It was hours later and LaAhad was still trying to explain himself, and Khawla still didn't understand anything [which made her feel pretty stupid, mind you] and she was on the verge of falling asleep.

"OH, FOR GOD'S SAKE!"

Master At-Tameem burst into the room. That woke Khawla right up. She was scared as to what he would say. "LaAhad, Khawla is SO right!" he yelled, "You NEED to get out more!"
LaAhad had the Oh-dear-God-please-get-out-of-here look on his face, and said, "Father, please –"
Master At-Tameem sat down next to him, and said, "Khawla, what my son's been unsuccessfully trying to say for the past million hours –"
"Dad, stop –"
"– Is that he wants to ask if –"
"Shut up, please, shut up –"
"– You will marry him."
LaAhad put his face in his hands, "You really think this is helping?"
"Are you joking? She'd be DEAD by the time you'd finished!"

"I will."

They both looked at her. She was being serious. She yawned and then fell asleep.

* * * * *

… And, back to the present, Joan was laughing her socks off.



******************************************************************************************


CHAPTER TWENTY-TWO: Quae Nocent Docent

Dhi'bah groaned. She didn't like doctors, and Harith was no exception. Her fear of doctors [or the 'Medically Superior' as Harith liked to call it] originated from the numerous doctors and wounded she had witnessed in crusader camps. Those doctors preferred lopping off limbs as much as Harith liked pricking people with needles – and he loved doing that a whole lot. But you'd think Dhi'bah would have gotten used to it by now – as she often ran into trouble and often got hurt and was often ordered [yes, ORDERED] by Tha'lab to go and see Harith. But she didn't get used to it nor did she ever intend to.

After Amir had collected her from the stables, she had taken a quick diversion to her room to put away Sa'ad's helmet. As they passed the rooms, Dhi'bah had glanced at Joan's door and wondered what she could possibly have been reading that was so interesting. But she ignored the mild curiosity and tarried on to the Infirmary in the hope that Harith wouldn't lecture her about her lack of punctuality as well as her constant 'insistence' on getting herself into trouble. But her hopes were futile. Before Harith took one glance at Dhi'bah, he was rambling on and on and on about –

"DHI'BAH?! ARE YOU EVEN PAYING ME THE SLIGHTEST OF YOUR ATTENTION?" …Well… Now you'll find out.
Dhi'bah yawned, "Does your voice never get tired of yelling? Or does it come naturally?"
Harith sighed, "Dhi'bah, my time is precious, I have –"
"I know: you have loads of papers to fill out, tones of patients to fix, and a million different experiments to experiment; and me – being the good-for-nothing-trouble-maker; wastes all your time by getting into trouble and getting an insignificant nose-bleed that my half-witted, paranoid brother can't ignore. There, I said it. Now will you PLEASE get onto actually fixing me before I die of all this yelling?"
Harith buried his face in is hands, "My dear girl, you don't understand the half of it –"
"I am not your 'dear girl'!"
"Stop interrupting me –!"
"Harith – go get your needles, go get your thread, go get your bandages, and fix me!"
Harith sighed, folding his arms, "And, what will you do if I refuse?"
Dhi'bah shrugged, "I'll tell Tha'lab you refused."
Despair. "But he'll just bring you back here."
"Harith, YOU are the one with the 'superior' intellect – you go figure it out. But be quick, I have things to do."
"I would prefer if you did not praise my intellect for your vain needs."
"Harith."
"What?"
"Suck it up."
"Urgh! Of all the silly little annoyances I have to put up with, you have to be the worst –"
"And proud."

Harith glared at Dhi'bah. He would have spat on her face, if his honor would have allowed it. If their places had been reversed, Dhi'bah knew she would have. But Harith just sighed, and stomped out with his fists clenched, yelling something about inventing poisoned bandages and using blunt needles.  Dhi'bah shook her head, and crashed in a near-by chair. The room she sat in was more spacious than the others. She was in the men's section of the Infirmary – which, of course, she wasn't meant to be in – but she guessed that she'd be able to find Harith quicker, and claim that her wounds were small [even though Harith mentioned that it would take a fortnight for him to fix her properly]. There were about twenty rooms in the Infirmary – eleven for the men, and nine for the women [because it was usually men who got into any big trouble around the Fortress]. Most of the time, rooms held only single patients, but if there was an unexpected rise in casualties, rooms needed to be shared. Which was probably why Dhi'bah was slightly shocked when someone laughed from behind a curtained partition.

"You get a real kick out of him, don't you?" said a voice.
"I'll get a real kick out of him, when I really kick him," replied Dhi'bah, "How are you getting on, Pierre?"
"Oh," said the voice, with a hint of amusement, "So you remember me?"
"Well, I clearly haven't forgotten you," she said, pulling the curtain away.

Pierre was in terrible condition. He was lying on the bed, but he didn't seem fit to do anything but that. Splints supported his arms and legs, and there was a bandage wrapped around his forehead. His eyes were closed, but his face was pulled in a crooked smile. He opened his eyes, expecting to see shock and sorrow. But Dhi'bah looked at him like this was all normal [though, she knew it was far from it] and Pierre was grateful for it.
"Harith must love you," she said.
"Really? His bedside manner is terrible," he replied, bitterly.
"Yup, definitely loves you," she sat back on the chair, "He can do all his medical procedures, give you plenty of needles, and he can mock you all day long and you won't walk away. Believe me, you're his dream come true."
"You seem to know him well."
Dhi'bah shrugged, "I've been here enough times."
"I was being sarcastic."
"Well, we all were, weren't we?"
"What?"
"See, me and Harith don't REALLY hate each other. We're just pretending."
"Why?"
"Because it's fun."
"What?"
"It's like playing a game of 'who-can-utter-the-biggest-cuss', makes plenty of sense around here. See, if I really hated him, do you really think he'd still be alive?"
"Well, yeah, considering he's the one who keeps YOU alive."

"Only just, but true," Dhi'bah smiled, "You're a smart kid."
"You can't fool me."
"Sorry, let me rephrase that: You're the smartest kid who's ever gotten beaten up this bad," she gestured to his bandages.
"Everybody's a critic."
"So, other than Harith, how's life?"
"You mean other than the pain?"
"Ouch."
"Nah, it's okay. I was acting like an idiot."
"We all do, don't we? I never really much liked the French. When I see one of you crusaders, the first thing I see is a target – not a child. I might as well say: I did this to you so I could save my own skin as well as Joan's."
"Oh please, I'm sure you would have wiped the floor with the Captain before he even got close to your 'skin'. Joan… the French girl who was with you that day? With the donkey?"
"That's her."
"Why WAS she with you?"
Dhi'bah shrugged, "She was standing on my hunting trail. But you'll get further details of her soon enough. She talks all the time, you can't miss her."
"You don't seem to like her either."
"Pretending, Pierre, just pretending."

"Stop doing that."
"What?"
"Treating me like a kid."
"I'm joking around with you, how on earth is that treating you like a kid?"
"I don't need to be joked with; you don't need to play games with me. No-one ever takes me seriously."
Dhi'bah laughed, "The last time you were serious, it got you beaten up."
Pierre blushed, "Yeah, well, smart serious, not stupid serious."
"Believe me; after staying around this place long enough – you'd wish someone would joke around with you," Dhi'bah placed her palm on Pierre's forehead, and he winced, "I probably shouldn't have hit you so hard in the head. And this is kind of late, but; I'm sorry, Pierre."
"Like I said: You warned me, and I didn't listen. Maybe hitting me in the head fixed some loose bolts in that thick skull of mine. There's a lot I've learnt, now that I've had the time to think about it."
"You're a fighter, you are. I didn't expect you to be alive, let alone conscious this quick."
"Hey, can Harith learn to speak French properly, like, you know, drop the accent and desist from trying the colloquial when he can't place the words right?"
"Ask HIM."
Pierre squirmed a little, "But YOU are so much better than that."
"Yes, of course, I'd love to get a hundred more lectures from Harith."
"But I'm in pain."
"Hard cheese."
"How come YOU can speak perfectly?"
"Pierre, let's just say that I've had plenty of disagreements with your race of people."
"But –"
"This discussion is closed. Goodness – do all of you ask this many questions? The d'Gaulle's were never this –" Dhi'bah caught herself.
"Oh," said Pierre, "That's where I recognize you from."
Dhi'bah looked away, "You must have been ten years old or something. You have that good a memory?"
"You haven't changed much… except the scar."
"I'm flattered."
"You're welcome."
"Now hope that my brothers don't find out."

"What will happen to me… you know: if I heal?"
"Well, that depends. And in case you're wondering: No, you won't die – I grant you my protection. You'll probably get asked a ton of questions, and then given the choice to stay or go home."
"They'll let me go? Just like that?"
"Like I said: It all depends."
"Well, if I do get sent home; I promise to not come back with a bunch of other maniacs that want a share in the Holy Land."
"There's a good boy."
"I'm serious!"
"I know! What do you want me to do? Wear a paper bag over my head or something? I can't help it if you look funny."
"How nice of you."
"Extremely, but anyway: you were saying."
"I was saying: I learnt my lesson, and I have you to thank for that."
"Oh please, it's not me you want to thank, it something that's been with you for quite some time now."
"You're not going to ramble on about all that sloppy dramatic stuff, are you?"
Dhi'bah smiled, "Do you know Latin, Pierre?"
"Not really…"
"Quae nocent docent."
"What's that meant to mean?"
"It means: 'What hurts, teaches'. I didn't do anything; you dragged yourself into this mess and you've learnt from it because of the pain you felt."
"Hmm… you're pretty smart for someone who was a slave."
"You're pretty reckless for speaking to me like that even though I was the one who beat you up in the first place."
Pierre gave Dhi'bah a sheepish grin, "Umm… Sorry?"

Dhi'bah stroked Pierre's hair, "Your friend, Henry, has been eager to see you."
"Henry? He's here? Is he okay?"
"Shh! Do you WANT Harith to come back?"
"Sorry."
"He's fine. He got captured as prisoner after the skirmish with your Captain. But he's restricted from a lot of things at the moment."
Pierre sighed in relief, "Well, it's good to hear that. I hope to see him soon."
"He hopes to see you too."
"You know, you're much nicer than they say."
"That's because 'they' have an agenda to set. Politics and papal authority and of course the image they have to set and…" Dhi'bah saw the look on Pierre's face, "Sorry, you get it into your head after hearing the same things over and over again."
"I think I might like to stay, and become an Assassin."
"If you think you're up for it."

"DHI'BAH!!" screamed Harith, coming in with his equipment, "STOP DISTURBING MY PATIENTS!!"
"The only one disturbing them is you, Harith," Dhi'bah muttered.
"Blunt needles, as promised."
"Oh, goodie."
"But I'm afraid the poisoned bandages will have to wait."
"Oh, pity. I was looking forward to laughing at how rubbishly your poisons work."
Harith closed Pierre's curtain, "'Rubbishly' isn't a word."
"And I care because…?"
"You're not very smart, are you?"
"I've been a slave three times over, what's your excuse?"
Harith glared at her, "I'm not going to dignify that with an answer."
"Right," said Dhi'bah, exposing her wounded shoulder, "As usual."
Harith threaded his needle, "I don't understand you at all."
"I never thought you had any need to."
"Oh, believe me; I haven't the slightest care for you. I do this so that your brothers and the Master will stay off my case. What I don't understand is why you fear me, and my needles." He began sewing the cut on Dhi'bah's shoulder.
Dhi'bah winced, "It wouldn't matter to you. For you, it would only seem logical."
"What would?"
"Never mind."
Harith stood up and folded his arms. Dhi'bah didn't like his posture or the look on his face, "You aren't going anywhere until you explain yourself."
"But why would you care?"
"I don't, I'm just mildly curious."
"Tha'lab was right about you – you must be a very weak man to succumb to mere curiosity."
"Perhaps, Dhi'bah, but I wouldn't know all the things I do, unless I was curious."
"Harith, more than half of the things you know are useless. Why would you need to know about an exotic plant in the Mediterranean if you probably would never even go there?"
"Don't change the subject. I know what I know, and it benefits everyone I treat. But that's not the point: Explain yourself."
"I don't want to."
"Well, you're only delaying the explanation. I'm not going to leave you alone."

Dhi'bah looked away. She didn't say anything, and she wasn't going to speak another word. Harith could stand there as long as he wanted; Dhi'bah wasn't going to give him any explanation. It was ages afterwards that Harith sighed and slumped back in a chair. He rubbed his forehead and said, "How long will this take?"
Dhi'bah didn't say anything.
"You know, this isn't helping anyone. Just tell me the problem and I'll fix you up and then you can leave."
Silence.
"Dhi'bah, get on with it."
Irritated silence.
"I know you're stubborn, but stubbornness has its threshold. You can't go on like this forever."
Angry silence.
"What? Are you afraid that I'll go telling everyone the story, or something? If it's funny enough, I assure you I will."
Cold silence.
"What did the other doctor do? Rape you or something?"
That did it.

Before Harith knew what was happening, a fist was clamped around his throat and a blade pointing at it. Dhi'bah had her teeth bared, and the blade protruding from her fist didn't look any more kindly. It took her a moment to regain her sanity, and control her temper, but her grip on Harith's throat hadn't loosened. She drew the blade away, and let it slip back into her cuff. "You're that eager to know, Harith?" said Dhi'bah, hoarsely, "Fine. Look at my hands," she held up her free hand, "Only four fingers. I lost one of them because it got infected. The idiot crusader doctor cut it off because he had nothing better to do and he cut the one on the other hand off so my hands would 'MATCH'!" she smacked Harith across his face, "For the freaking fun of it. I don't know what you were looking for. Some story that would satisfy your disgusting, sadistic mind? Or perhaps some scandal that you could hold against me? It doesn't matter anymore. Tell who you want. If you ever wanted me to respect you, then know that all chances of that have vanished. I hate you, and don't expect me to ever come here again," Dhi'bah stomped out. But Harith would have apologized, if he wasn't too busy choking on his own spit…
TO THOSE WHO JUST HAPPENED TO STUMBLE ON THIS RANDOMLY OR FOR THE FIRST TIME:
Hello! =D Please do read the first chapter, or click here to see al the chapter ^^ : [link]

TO THOSE AWESOME PEOPLE THAT HAVE ALREADY READ PREVIOUS CHAPTERS:
I'm sorry Wolfie, but i really don't see your preference in Harith
© 2012 - 2024 ummdhibun
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Wo1fang's avatar
I love this story so much!
Especially this chapter :D (Every chapter keeps getting better and better c: )

In my point of view, Harith is awesome.
Though I'd probably annoy him a lot xD