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Entry tags:
[ac fic] OC, crossover
Things to Know
(PG, Irfan & Darim & Sef)
Irfan first speaks with the locals of Masyaf the moment he passes through its opened gates. His body is weary from traveling, but he finds that the need for conversation is even greater. He steadies himself on his feet, takes one look around, and is a little pleased to see that the village and fortress looks much improved (but he knows that it is always improving, every time he visits, since the Grandmaster is the type of person that insists on making things better, especially if those things were perfectly serviceable to begin with). But for Irfan, there is always the urge to know, to uncover and gather snippets of rumors and unguarded thoughts through seemingly inane pleasantries, and often behind false smiles.
It is a good habit, most of the time, but a bad habit in the company of trusted friends. Besides, the majority of Masyaf do not bother with verbal circling and dancing. Verbal sparring, certainly, but Assassins tend to be a great deal more direct than the upper ranks of wealthy trade merchants. In no time at all, Irfan learns that Masyaf is doing well; it manages its refugees, citizens and Assassins with diligent care, keeping its economy within near-perfect range—not too low to invite poor conditions, and not too successful to grow to popularity, and thus losing Masyaf’s much protected obscurity. He breathes a sigh at that, believing that it is the best thing he can do to defend his home of heart, when his hand is more skilled with a quill than it is with a blade, his head more suited for numbers and figures than it is for weapons and targets.
The uphill walk to the fortress hardly slows Irfan down, but the moment he is escorted to sit in a pile of reclining pillows to wait, he feels all the tired aches in his body and wants nothing more than to pull the veil from his face and lay down with the sound of quiet pages turning in the background. Nevertheless, he settles down with the practiced confidence and grace of someone who is used to being scrutinized by predatory eyes. And, eventually, falls into an untroubled, light doze.
---
Irfan knows that no amount of reconnaissance work can really replace the genuine experience. He often deals with secondhand information, prying it away from tightlipped nobles or other informants, or from glancing over letters and missives hidden behind locked doors. Occasionally, Irfan is a part of it himself, his veil off and in robes of fine silk, dining with wealthy trade lords, and knows that he is also the target of such prying. He has heard rumors from the other gossiping Assassins, the chatting guards, and even from the younger novices. The talk is hard to ignore, and it piques his interest.
Irfan supposes it is common knowledge in Masyaf nowadays, but he has not seen the Grandmaster’s children yet.
He knows that there are two of them; Darim and Sef. Darim is seven years old, and Sef is the younger one by four years. Sef has his mother’s hair, Darim his father’s complexion. If measured, Darim would stand a little lower than Irfan’s hip, and at Sef’s height, one should worry more about falling over the toddler than how high the toddler stands. And from what Irfan’s hears, both are as rambunctious as their parents.
So, when he does finally stumble over the small body squatting in the middle of the pathway, he knows right away that that is Sef, and the older boy banging a wooden stick at his waist is Darim.
“My apologies,” Irfan says, catching the stick with one hand to gently steer it away from his immediate vicinity.
He checks Sef, who he finds is a sturdy boy not easily driven to tears, and currently more interested with the beetles he has collected in his hand. Darim is not so forgiving, but Irfan has dealt with children before, daughter included, and a piece of exotic candied fruit from the European lands goes a long way to soothe ruffled tensions.
It is only after that he glances over his shoulder, looking for their guardian or whoever is in charge of the children, but he finds no one else in the village that seems very interested or mindful. Irfan frowns, and does what he has been taught to do – ask, without seeming to.
“I am to put Sef to bed,” Darim explains, sticking his chin up and grinning. “But Sef does not want to, and neither do I.”
These are the things Irfan cannot learn from the mouths of other people. Things like Darim’s uncanny and highly honed skill of escaping nurseries, Sef’s quiet way of getting what he wants (Irfan has to relinquish another piece of candy), and the overall fact that they are more disarming with their charms than if the Grandmaster and his wife were to wield a dozen blades between them. Irfan succumbs quite easily, though he may have used his own skills of persuasion to guide them back to the fortress.
“Here is where Ammu Malik keeps the candy,” Darim proclaims, scrambling up a high shelf in the corner of the library. He reaches for the ornamental jar, carefully counting what is left, before deciding that it is safe to take two. With a secretive smirk, he slips one into Irfan’s hand and the other into his pocket.
“Thank you, I will keep that in mind,” Irfan says, smiling and making the effort to let it show in his eyes since the veil hides the curve of his mouth. He makes a mental note to hint to the Grandmaster’s second-in-command that his stash of sweets is not as hidden as he thinks it is, which would explain the rumors of Darim’s insane bouts of energy and crashes of fitful sleep.
By now, Sef has fallen asleep in Irfan’s arms, head pillowed over his shoulder. Something tickles down Irfan’s neck and there is a complete lack of surprise when he flicks away a tiny beetle. He trudges up the stairs to the Grandmaster’s desk, depositing the little boy on a pile of cushions in what seems to be a safe enough place for the time being. Darim does not join his brother, but trails after Irfan, waving a greeting to his father as they approach the desk.
Irfan has to report about his meeting with the trade merchants of Acre. Aside from a few non-threatening developments, the meeting had been the usual push and pull of financial dealings, and excuse to spill expensive wine. He gives a respectful bow, realizing a little too late that he is still chewing the candy Darim has given him. But, fortunately, it is Altair who speaks first.
“Welcome back,” the Grandmaster says, sliding a glance past Irfan to raise a meaningful eyebrow at Darim.
Darim makes a face, but Irfan discovers that the boy is not as defiant as his caretakers make him out to be; he runs behind the desk to place his last piece of candy over the stack of his father’s missives. The Grandmaster solemnly thanks his son before he shoos Darim off.
“Well, that is one successful mission,” Altair says, looking smug. “I hope yours was just so.”
Irfan blinks, catching sight of Master Malik checking his jar of sweets and frowning before he looks in Altair’s direction while nabbing the back of Darim’s hood as the boy tries to sneak pass.
“Hm. Maybe not quite,” Irfan replies with a grin.
Null and Void
(PG, Bartimaeus Crossover, Altair/Malik & Desmond & Shaun)
Altair and Malik weren’t talking to each other again.
Normally, Desmond would take it as a good thing, since their rented basement would be remain blessedly intact and not on fire, but there had been nothing to incur the unusual silence—no prior bickering or snide comments since yesterday, nothing. He glanced at Shaun, wordlessly asking for input on this recent development, but the other man was too busy leafing through books about Ptolemy’s history to notice. Desmond let out a quiet huff.
It was a little unnerving, really. He looked from Altair to Malik; the former was sitting at one corner of the room, staring at a patch on the wall while the latter was leaning against the doorframe on top of the concrete stairs, still as a statue. At first, Desmond had thought the spirits were extending their senses above ground, just to check for any patrols, but after some bored musing, he knew that it took only one of them to do that piece of housekeeping (plus, Ezio was already outside doing just that). And, as much as they ragged on about their stupid afrit-to-djinn power levels, Desmond was aware that Altair and Malik had a great deal of trust within each other, whether they wanted to admit it or not.
Well, one thing’s for sure; the two weren’t sleeping. Spirits never slept—and maybe they couldn’t even faint—but Desmond was suddenly alarmed by the idea that maybe they were fighting, and all the damage was being done on some astral level or something crazy like that-
He switched his vision, checking each level, one through six, and braced himself for what he might see on the seventh plane, which was never a pretty sight, no matter what was going on. True spirit forms were horrible to look at, almost to the point of being nauseating, and more than once Desmond was was resentful of the Resistance magic he had developed.
With seventh plane in focus, he frowned, squinting, and then stood up so fast his chair toppled over.
“What- oh no. No. Oh gross, gross!” he yelped, flipping all the way back down to the first plane, quick as a camera shutter. “What are you two doing? With the tentacles and hoofs and, shit, what were those, beaks? Christ, what the actual fu-”
Altair and Malik jumped from their respective spots, blank expressions coming to life. It was like they had forgotten to maintain the liveliness of their illusions on the first plane, caring less and less as they got to the sixth. They did not blush or so much as have a normal biological reaction, but it was strange to see what human quirks they had picked up over their years of servitude on earth; Altair pulled his cowl up and the fluorescent lights of the basement flickered, making a faint buzzing noise until he carefully sat back down, scowling. Malik, on the other hand, tensed, his fingers twitching as if to call on a Detonation.
“What this?” Shaun hitched his glasses higher and glanced up. As the Malik’s host—a working term that was better than ‘master’—he took a special scholarly interest in the djinn, in both physiological and psychological aspects. Though, in this case, Shaun was blatantly flippant. “Engaging in some seventh plane hanky-panky?”
A threadlike streak of lightning shot from Altair’s vicinity. It was not enough to cause major harm, but it would have given Shaun a rather uncomfortable jolt had Ezio not appeared in his usual human guise, palming the lightning and waving off the excess sparks.
“Patrol’s done,” Ezio announced as if nothing was amiss. “There’s been a few imps wandering around, but I doubt they’re looking for us.” He shook out his hand, the only indication of having blocked Altair’s attack. “With any luck, we’ll be able to relocate soon so we can finally get Malik and Altair their own room.”
Sighing, Desmond dragged Shaun into the safety pentangle on their side of the basement.
“Yes, I knew this hideout wouldn’t last,” Shaun muttered as fireballs and swirling vortexes ricocheted from their defensive bubble.
Desmond buried his face into his hands and groaned. “Wait until Lucy returns with the silver.”
(PG, Irfan & Darim & Sef)
Irfan first speaks with the locals of Masyaf the moment he passes through its opened gates. His body is weary from traveling, but he finds that the need for conversation is even greater. He steadies himself on his feet, takes one look around, and is a little pleased to see that the village and fortress looks much improved (but he knows that it is always improving, every time he visits, since the Grandmaster is the type of person that insists on making things better, especially if those things were perfectly serviceable to begin with). But for Irfan, there is always the urge to know, to uncover and gather snippets of rumors and unguarded thoughts through seemingly inane pleasantries, and often behind false smiles.
It is a good habit, most of the time, but a bad habit in the company of trusted friends. Besides, the majority of Masyaf do not bother with verbal circling and dancing. Verbal sparring, certainly, but Assassins tend to be a great deal more direct than the upper ranks of wealthy trade merchants. In no time at all, Irfan learns that Masyaf is doing well; it manages its refugees, citizens and Assassins with diligent care, keeping its economy within near-perfect range—not too low to invite poor conditions, and not too successful to grow to popularity, and thus losing Masyaf’s much protected obscurity. He breathes a sigh at that, believing that it is the best thing he can do to defend his home of heart, when his hand is more skilled with a quill than it is with a blade, his head more suited for numbers and figures than it is for weapons and targets.
The uphill walk to the fortress hardly slows Irfan down, but the moment he is escorted to sit in a pile of reclining pillows to wait, he feels all the tired aches in his body and wants nothing more than to pull the veil from his face and lay down with the sound of quiet pages turning in the background. Nevertheless, he settles down with the practiced confidence and grace of someone who is used to being scrutinized by predatory eyes. And, eventually, falls into an untroubled, light doze.
---
Irfan knows that no amount of reconnaissance work can really replace the genuine experience. He often deals with secondhand information, prying it away from tightlipped nobles or other informants, or from glancing over letters and missives hidden behind locked doors. Occasionally, Irfan is a part of it himself, his veil off and in robes of fine silk, dining with wealthy trade lords, and knows that he is also the target of such prying. He has heard rumors from the other gossiping Assassins, the chatting guards, and even from the younger novices. The talk is hard to ignore, and it piques his interest.
Irfan supposes it is common knowledge in Masyaf nowadays, but he has not seen the Grandmaster’s children yet.
He knows that there are two of them; Darim and Sef. Darim is seven years old, and Sef is the younger one by four years. Sef has his mother’s hair, Darim his father’s complexion. If measured, Darim would stand a little lower than Irfan’s hip, and at Sef’s height, one should worry more about falling over the toddler than how high the toddler stands. And from what Irfan’s hears, both are as rambunctious as their parents.
So, when he does finally stumble over the small body squatting in the middle of the pathway, he knows right away that that is Sef, and the older boy banging a wooden stick at his waist is Darim.
“My apologies,” Irfan says, catching the stick with one hand to gently steer it away from his immediate vicinity.
He checks Sef, who he finds is a sturdy boy not easily driven to tears, and currently more interested with the beetles he has collected in his hand. Darim is not so forgiving, but Irfan has dealt with children before, daughter included, and a piece of exotic candied fruit from the European lands goes a long way to soothe ruffled tensions.
It is only after that he glances over his shoulder, looking for their guardian or whoever is in charge of the children, but he finds no one else in the village that seems very interested or mindful. Irfan frowns, and does what he has been taught to do – ask, without seeming to.
“I am to put Sef to bed,” Darim explains, sticking his chin up and grinning. “But Sef does not want to, and neither do I.”
These are the things Irfan cannot learn from the mouths of other people. Things like Darim’s uncanny and highly honed skill of escaping nurseries, Sef’s quiet way of getting what he wants (Irfan has to relinquish another piece of candy), and the overall fact that they are more disarming with their charms than if the Grandmaster and his wife were to wield a dozen blades between them. Irfan succumbs quite easily, though he may have used his own skills of persuasion to guide them back to the fortress.
“Here is where Ammu Malik keeps the candy,” Darim proclaims, scrambling up a high shelf in the corner of the library. He reaches for the ornamental jar, carefully counting what is left, before deciding that it is safe to take two. With a secretive smirk, he slips one into Irfan’s hand and the other into his pocket.
“Thank you, I will keep that in mind,” Irfan says, smiling and making the effort to let it show in his eyes since the veil hides the curve of his mouth. He makes a mental note to hint to the Grandmaster’s second-in-command that his stash of sweets is not as hidden as he thinks it is, which would explain the rumors of Darim’s insane bouts of energy and crashes of fitful sleep.
By now, Sef has fallen asleep in Irfan’s arms, head pillowed over his shoulder. Something tickles down Irfan’s neck and there is a complete lack of surprise when he flicks away a tiny beetle. He trudges up the stairs to the Grandmaster’s desk, depositing the little boy on a pile of cushions in what seems to be a safe enough place for the time being. Darim does not join his brother, but trails after Irfan, waving a greeting to his father as they approach the desk.
Irfan has to report about his meeting with the trade merchants of Acre. Aside from a few non-threatening developments, the meeting had been the usual push and pull of financial dealings, and excuse to spill expensive wine. He gives a respectful bow, realizing a little too late that he is still chewing the candy Darim has given him. But, fortunately, it is Altair who speaks first.
“Welcome back,” the Grandmaster says, sliding a glance past Irfan to raise a meaningful eyebrow at Darim.
Darim makes a face, but Irfan discovers that the boy is not as defiant as his caretakers make him out to be; he runs behind the desk to place his last piece of candy over the stack of his father’s missives. The Grandmaster solemnly thanks his son before he shoos Darim off.
“Well, that is one successful mission,” Altair says, looking smug. “I hope yours was just so.”
Irfan blinks, catching sight of Master Malik checking his jar of sweets and frowning before he looks in Altair’s direction while nabbing the back of Darim’s hood as the boy tries to sneak pass.
“Hm. Maybe not quite,” Irfan replies with a grin.
Null and Void
(PG, Bartimaeus Crossover, Altair/Malik & Desmond & Shaun)
Altair and Malik weren’t talking to each other again.
Normally, Desmond would take it as a good thing, since their rented basement would be remain blessedly intact and not on fire, but there had been nothing to incur the unusual silence—no prior bickering or snide comments since yesterday, nothing. He glanced at Shaun, wordlessly asking for input on this recent development, but the other man was too busy leafing through books about Ptolemy’s history to notice. Desmond let out a quiet huff.
It was a little unnerving, really. He looked from Altair to Malik; the former was sitting at one corner of the room, staring at a patch on the wall while the latter was leaning against the doorframe on top of the concrete stairs, still as a statue. At first, Desmond had thought the spirits were extending their senses above ground, just to check for any patrols, but after some bored musing, he knew that it took only one of them to do that piece of housekeeping (plus, Ezio was already outside doing just that). And, as much as they ragged on about their stupid afrit-to-djinn power levels, Desmond was aware that Altair and Malik had a great deal of trust within each other, whether they wanted to admit it or not.
Well, one thing’s for sure; the two weren’t sleeping. Spirits never slept—and maybe they couldn’t even faint—but Desmond was suddenly alarmed by the idea that maybe they were fighting, and all the damage was being done on some astral level or something crazy like that-
He switched his vision, checking each level, one through six, and braced himself for what he might see on the seventh plane, which was never a pretty sight, no matter what was going on. True spirit forms were horrible to look at, almost to the point of being nauseating, and more than once Desmond was was resentful of the Resistance magic he had developed.
With seventh plane in focus, he frowned, squinting, and then stood up so fast his chair toppled over.
“What- oh no. No. Oh gross, gross!” he yelped, flipping all the way back down to the first plane, quick as a camera shutter. “What are you two doing? With the tentacles and hoofs and, shit, what were those, beaks? Christ, what the actual fu-”
Altair and Malik jumped from their respective spots, blank expressions coming to life. It was like they had forgotten to maintain the liveliness of their illusions on the first plane, caring less and less as they got to the sixth. They did not blush or so much as have a normal biological reaction, but it was strange to see what human quirks they had picked up over their years of servitude on earth; Altair pulled his cowl up and the fluorescent lights of the basement flickered, making a faint buzzing noise until he carefully sat back down, scowling. Malik, on the other hand, tensed, his fingers twitching as if to call on a Detonation.
“What this?” Shaun hitched his glasses higher and glanced up. As the Malik’s host—a working term that was better than ‘master’—he took a special scholarly interest in the djinn, in both physiological and psychological aspects. Though, in this case, Shaun was blatantly flippant. “Engaging in some seventh plane hanky-panky?”
A threadlike streak of lightning shot from Altair’s vicinity. It was not enough to cause major harm, but it would have given Shaun a rather uncomfortable jolt had Ezio not appeared in his usual human guise, palming the lightning and waving off the excess sparks.
“Patrol’s done,” Ezio announced as if nothing was amiss. “There’s been a few imps wandering around, but I doubt they’re looking for us.” He shook out his hand, the only indication of having blocked Altair’s attack. “With any luck, we’ll be able to relocate soon so we can finally get Malik and Altair their own room.”
Sighing, Desmond dragged Shaun into the safety pentangle on their side of the basement.
“Yes, I knew this hideout wouldn’t last,” Shaun muttered as fireballs and swirling vortexes ricocheted from their defensive bubble.
Desmond buried his face into his hands and groaned. “Wait until Lucy returns with the silver.”