He'd never be ashamed of where he was from. But then again, where was young Malik from truly?

His childhood was a good one. He was raised in Jerusalem like his mother and uncle had been. Where they themselves had been born. No doubt in his mind, Malik had been blessed even without his father to guide him. Or so most believed. No, perhaps his father had never physically been there to witness him grow, but he was always present within his son. Always guiding him.

Although that had not always been the case. At least not at first.

Malik knew nothing of his father. His mother very rarely, if ever, spoke of him, only that young Malik had been named in his honor. It didn't feel like much of an honor to the young boy at first. He knew nothing of the man who came before him. Had he left them? Abandoned his small family? What did he look like, sound like?

The small seven year old could only imagine as best he could who his father was. On nights that he could not sleep, Malik created his father within his young mind. His father must have been strong, every child sees their father as such after all. He must have had such dark, thick hair. Blacker than anything else in the world, and combed neatly atop his head. Age had caught up to him, perhaps around the time young Malik was born, his father's hair, surely scattered with gray and white strands. His skin giving away to wrinkles yet a lovely dark, sunburned color from walking outdoors all day.

Malik could only imagine his father. If he was correct, that was a different matter. He must have had a deep voice. Soothing enough to have won over his mothers heart but deep, scolding to those who deserved it. Or perhaps he was a happy man. No. He could not be. If his father were a happy man, he would have stayed.

But his mother must have been made a delighted woman by his father. That he was sure of.

Every evening the lovely Amani sat outside their home, her hair loose from her usual tight braid. She adorned her scarves with beads and fixed any tears in young Malik's clothing as well as his two cousin's and uncles. He was not suppose to know, she did it out of sight of course, but Amani weeped for her husband. Malik knew she missed his father. But where had he gone to?

His mother was beautiful. Timid, self conscious but strong underneath her soft exterior. She was firm whenever needed. It wasn't difficult trying to imagine why his father fell in love with her. It would be impossible not to. Malik believed his mother to be an angel sent from the heavens. Even dressed in simple clothing, Amani radiated warmth and such strength.

Malik often played out in the dirt with his two cousins during the day. Rahim was eldest only by a single year, Ilma two years younger than Malik himself. His uncle always went into the markets during the day, selling or trading the cloths his mother adorned. His mother prepared their evening meal inside, humming to herself, content for the evening. Malik never cared much for his uncle. He spoke very little apart from mumbling to himself or Malik's mother, his own wife having succumbed from an illness years prior. He was never quite the same man as he was before then. But still, his uncle was not an angry man. The same could not be said for his son.

"Don't be a coward, Malik!"

Malik hadn't meant to anger Rahim as much as he did. Both boys always challenged one another whenever they played together. Always rough with each other, seeing who could withstand the most. Malik hadn't meant for his punch to be as rough as it was, but Rahim quickly tackled the other boy to the ground. They wrestled in the dirt, their clothing stretched and tore as they pushed and pulled one another, afraid to throw a second punch, they knew their punishment would not be small.

Ilma yelled at them to stop, clutching her ratty doll against her chest, "Stop! You'll both get beat by father!"

It was true, both boys knew it but neither let go of each others clothing, still thrashing about, kicking up dirt. Malik decided to try his luck, however weak he may seem, "She's right. Get off before I make you regret ever being born."

Rahim ignored him as he gave one last shove before standing, forgetting about his cousin and grabbing his sister by the arm to return indoors, "At least we have one to get beat by. You're a bastard's son, Malik. Unwanted."

Malik wiped the light trail of blood from his lip. He'd bitten himself while wrestling. He waited for his cousin's to return indoors before picking himself back up. It wasn't true what Rahim said. He'd said it only to get a rise out of Malik.

But why does it hurt so much if it's untrue?

Malik made sure his tears made no sound. He hid behind a few empty crates. Silent trembles cascading his small body. Alone. He wiped his face with a filthy sleeve before going into his home an hour later. He never cried for his father before. Heaven forbid he start now.

His uncle arrived home some time later. The sun slowly began its descend, illuminating the sky in different shades of orange and red. They sat, eating dinner in silence. Malik could not bother looking up from his meal. Rahim's chin was slightly bruised, barely noticeable in the candlelight. If Malik was lucky, his uncle would not notice and the bruise would fade away quickly. He felt the warmth of his food rise to his cheeks. A hot bowl of stew to warm his stomach did little. Malik forced himself to eat before going into he and his mother's shared bedroom.

Why couldn't you be here?

First it was the children within the village. Malik cared little, he repeated it to himself. Like a prayer. He made himself believe it. He didn't care at all. Many of them had no father themselves. But theirs had been killed later in life. Not gone from the very beginning. Yet now, Malik thought, now it was his own blood. He could endure no longer. He was to get answers tonight. Or so he hoped. The young boy only wanted to know of his father. Was that too much for a son to ask?

Malik sat below the window, a book in his grasp as he forced himself to read each word that he knew. It was the only book he owned. A relic of his own father. It was tattered and destroyed but enough remained that it was readable. His mother soon entered. She must have tucked in his cousin's first, she always did. Always so motherly. Amani removed her scarf, readying herself for a nights sleep.

"What have you there?" She asked as she undid her braid, letting her hair fall in dark, loose waves along her back.

Malik held back the smile threatening to form on his lips. His mother was lovely. Blessed he thought, blessed he was to have her as a mother. He turned a page, "You don't wish me to be educated?"

He knew she did. It was important that Malik know how to read when his mother herself had not known any words at his age. She only knew how to write her own name. She eventually learned. Amani always read through the tattered pages of their book to her son ever since he was an infant up until he could begin reading on his own.

Amani let a light chuckle escape her lips. Her voice was soothing, sweet to Malik's ears, "I was taught to read with that story."

She told him the story only once before.

"Yes. By my father." He'd be reminded of that fact every time he went to read through his book.

At the mention, Amani's smile wiped from her face as she knelt down to rid their bed of any dust that may have entered through the window during the day.

It was now or never. Malik could continue his life knowing nothing about his father other than his name and that he'd known how to read. No. Malik wanted to know who his father was, what his favorite color was, what he smelled like and what clothing he wore. Now that he thought of it, they had no clothing of any man other than his uncle.

Malik bit his bottom lip, closing his book but keeping it close to his chest. He took a deep breath, keeping his gaze on the floor, "Will you never tell me about him, mother?"

Amani rose from where she knelt, arranging their blanket. She was calm. Quiet. Her silence made Malik feel uneasy. She could suddenly burst either in anger, begin yelling at him or suddenly start to weep. Malik wanted neither of those outcomes.

She sighed, moving her long hair to one side, "It's late. Put that book away, let us sleep. Come now, Malik."

"At least just one thing. I need to know. I have right to know. What was he like? What else did he read? Did he travel? His favorite meal. The color of his eyes. Just one thing, Umi, please."

But she didn't answer. Amani continued arranging and rearranging their bed, the light blanket having been stretched about. She wiped away imaginary dust, keeping herself occupied with anything and ignored her sons gaze on her back.

Malik sighed. He pursed his lips. Rahim had always been angry, he was always angry toward Malik. But where had his father truly gone? Had he left him and his mother? Had his mother left him with no other choice? He couldn't be made a fool of much longer, "People talk. Not only children. Now Rahim as well."

"Sometimes when people talk they don't always tell the truth." His mother muttered.

It was a terrible thing she was doing. Keeping information from her son. But what information did she have on her husband. Amani knew as much as he.

"May I at least know of him."

She thought over the proposition for some time. Almost afraid to utter his name she spoke softly, "You are very much like him. Stubborn. Malik, your father- he was strong willed. Wise and capable. He'd been through much in his life. He was filled with knowledge, strength, pain and love."

"But where is he?" Malik finally stood up, his book close to his chest as he neared his mother. Amani took his book, setting it aside. She helped him undress, pulling his sleeves from his skinny arms before helping him into a more comfortable shirt to sleep in.

"Not with us. But one day... one day he will return." She pursed her lips.

The young boy crawled into bed with his mother. She was warm. She always was. Malik became comfortable as his mother hugged him from behind as if she were scared he would wither away. Soon he would no longer be able to be treated in such a childlike manner, "You once said I reminded you of him."

"You always do," she said with a smile. "More with each passing day. You're eyes, a mirror of his own. Malik, you are beautiful," she said, running a hand through his unruly hair, she always did that, "But that is enough, I'm afraid. You must sleep now."

"May I have a story tomorrow? Please, Umi."

"Perhaps. We will see."


Just another little side project since I recently read The Secret Crusade again and it got me thinking. This story will follow Malik's son. And I understand that in the novel they say his name is Tazim but look again my children that's the name he is known by in The Order and his mother had named him after his father. Anyway I will go more into depth in later chapters this is just my take on one possible way it could have gone down as his journey to meet Altair years later. I would love comments and feedback have an awesome day/night!