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"Are you sure about this, sayyid?" The red-hooded man looked at the younger man in an equally red hood. The color was almost black against the darkness of the sky beyond, highlighted only by the faintest pricks of light as the torches were doused in the monastery below where he had hidden for the past several years as, if not a monk, an extended guest.

The young man he had fished from the ocean on one of his return travels to the Levant looked back at him, the scars marring his features the more distinguishable sight for their pallor against his dark skin, showing beneath the shadows of his hood.

"I am never sure about anything anymore, Husam," said the Night Master, his glowing blue eyes staring unblinkingly from beneath his hood, "but this is a mission I am determined to do alone." The man hopped down from the low roof and landed in the middle of a huddled mass of men in hoods, some in plain brown robes and some in the same red as Husam and he. Two torches lit the area at the doorway to the monastery in which the monks and his men stood.

"Safety and peace be upon you all," stated Jameel, looking each man in the face. One of the taller monks, one so tall he could look Jameel in the eye, put a hand on his shoulder and gave it a fond squeeze.

"God be with you, brother," said the man. "We will not stop you, for we know by now from your years with us that this is impossible, but we will pray for your safe return all the same." Jameel nodded and returned the squeeze with a brief embrace, nodding to a smaller monk who took his hand and mounting a horse, heading into the mountains beyond the village.



1498, month unknown, location unknown

A year. A year and through it all I've been allowed the freedom of my words, of these pages. I only know the change of the year for the courtesy of my captors. Courtesy. Courtesy...

They taunt me at every chance. My hands... My words are written as if with the hands of an old man. My hands have not stopped shaking from the last assault. They drug me, score my flesh, give me at least a few days or a week to heal, depending on my condition, and then repeat the process. New drugs, new effects, new bones to be broken. He is here, the Lion... I...


Jameel awoke to find himself bound in iron by his wrists, head bowed to his chest. The stone-walled torture room had become familiar as his cell. A grogginess hung over him, a slight ache in his neck. More drugs... He sighed, dragging his head from its resting place to look as the door to the room swung open. He wished he hadn't. The grogginess turned to a splitting headache.

Damn this building, damn its inhabitants, damn it all! his mind screeched as the Lion shut the door with more force than necessary, causing a loud, echoing bang throughout the room.

"Have you rested well, Scarlet Owl?" asked the Metal Lion.

"I've had worse, but I take it this visit isn't to exchange banter with me, is it, Templar?" snarled the captive.

"You're correct in that." The Lion clasped his hands behind his back, strolling the space before him. Just when Jameel was about to sigh and ask what he really wanted, the Lion said, "What do you think of me, Assassin?"

"Excuse me?" The captive startled, staring at the metal-clad man. What game was he playing now?

"What do you see in me? How do you feel about me? One human being to another, I mean." The Lion stopped and focused his eyes on him.

"You hardly qualify as a human being." The icy eyes narrowed. The Templar cackled, throwing his lion-mawed head back with it.

"Oh, that is quite the statement coming from you!" He lowered his head to look him in the eyes once more. "Quite the statement indeed, Assassin. Or should I call you by the correct term? Murderer." He began to pace again, now more like his likeness, the lion prowling its cage in a menagerie, gazing at the man watching like the keeper he could easily make into a meal. "Yes, murderer. Wrecker of homes. The man who makes orphans of children."

Jameel frowned. Was this some new poison working at his brain? The Lion shook his head. "You don't remember? Well, of course, how can I expect you to remember, Scarlet Owl? You who've killed so many. You don't remember them, do you? My father and mother? I found them, you know. My mother you left whole but for the rent in her stomach. My father...well, he was all about the room, and his blood with him. You've a knack for rending flesh from bone and bone from corpse, I've seen in these years. And you never once thought to become a butcher? It pays handsomely, though not as handsomely as the butchering of men, surely."

He stopped. "But I'm getting ahead of myself. Please, answer my questions."

Mother? What mother? This thing has a mother? Jameel wished he could have passed a hand over his eyes and settled for wiping his face against his arm. I never killed any woman. As if he'll believe this. The Red Owl glared at the man and answered, "I see nothing more than a Templar brat in silly armor. One more man that needs to die." For a moment, the Metal Lion almost seemed taken aback, as if he'd expected to hear anything but this. Then he moved forward so they were nose to maw.

"Nightmares you've given me all these years, Scarlet Owl, and now I've decided to return the favor." He leaned and whispered into Jameel's ear before exiting the room much as he'd come, the door banging shut behind him. The Red Owl was left dangling on the wall, eyes fixed wide and staring.