Altaïr - Shameless fan service

There. Feel free to comment; the folks on Dev!Art are nice enough, but you can never get some real constructive comments over there.

I’ve picked up the Wacom again! Cower in dread, mortals!

… Currently trying so hard not to fuck up the colours in photoshop, and failing. So. New illustration to follow soon! I mean, just as soon as I can manage to finish it without burning it in hatred! Rejoice!

(I think the heat may have made me punctuation-mad.)

This is sad.

However, it’s allowed me to come to one shocking conclusion; nobody uses Scrivener the same way! There are tons of options and ways to use this program, and it can be a bit daunting to try and discover your own way of working with the thing when you first open it. So I’ve decided to write a little tutorial on how I, personally, use Scrivener to manage my writing.

Now a proper example would have consisted of my 09 NaNoNovel, but since it’s un-edited, un-published and generally kept a damn secret from everyone including my own mother, you’ll get screencaps containing fanfiction. Because I also use Scrivener to write fanfiction (shock! horror!).

So there. No nagging please.

On to the method!

Snowflake, and why it is your friend.

When I first started getting seriously (well, somewhat seriously… Only dabbling, really.) into writing and looking for apps to help manage all the post-its and loose-leaf binders I had lying around, I came upon a template for StoryMill called The Snowflake Method. This is actually a method commonly used for creative writing, which involves breaking down the –rather daunting– task of writing a novel into short, bite-sized chunks which are much easier to manage (they also seem a little less daunting that way).

Snowflake goes thus: before you ever get down to typing a single word of your manuscript, you should spend some time, preferably a lot of it, planning out your basic synopsis, your characters and their motivations, and your outline. If you do this right, it’s then a breeze (relatively speaking) to expand on everything you’ve just done and pound out the story.

The steps are broken down into 9 basic tasks, which we’ll get into later. What’s important here is to note that Scrivener also has template support. Once you’ve built your own snowflake template, you can then use it as a base for all your future creative writing/novel projects.

According to the ancient laws of procrastination though, that’s no guarantee you’ll actually follow the snowflake steps (I rarely do… They’re not rules, more like guidelines, really).

How it works out in Scrivener

Your first step is to create your Snowflake template in Scrivener. I have a handy .scriv file here that you can use to adapt your own. The important thing to remember is that the template creation step will help you get used to Scrivener’s structure and options.

Time for a little refresher course. The Binder is the main folder structure of your manuscript and it also contains, outside of the Draft folder, any notes, research documents, character sheets and other miscellaneous info you want to cram in there.

The main window can be divided into two editor panes using the icon at the top-right of any editor. You can change the orientation of the editor split by going into View -> Layout. I choose a horizontal split, because I keep the Inspector (at the far right) and the Binder always open for quick glances at document properties. You can choose, via the Scrivener -> Preferences -> Navigation pane, which browsing/navigation method you like best, either Outliner or Corkboard. This affects all default editor panes but can be overridden as needed. I prefer Outliner mode, because it gives me more info on the status of every document.

You have several options for viewing your files/chapters/scenes. Clicking an item in the Binder will open it in the default editor (I usually set mine to Top Editor, because I like to have my text below that, in the alternate editor). Similarly, you can click the “arrows” icon at the bottom of your default editor to force documents to open in the alternate editor. This needs some explaining, but once it’s setup properly, it’s a breeze to navigate your stuff. The short of it, once it’s set as explained above: Binder selections will always open in Top Editor, Top Editor selections will always open in Bottom Editor.

This isn’t the only configuration you can have, it’s simply one way to navigate your document; experiment as needed and find the one that works best for you.

You can create as many Binder folders as your need. In the screenshot, you can see my snowflake template already has folder examples for Chapters and Scenes, as well as for Characters, Locations and Tasks. Each folder, when selected in the Binder, will open up in your editor pane and display info such as status (To Do, First Draft, Revised Draft, Final Draft), label (Chapter, Scene). You can also add items such as word count, created date, modified date, progress, etc. Statuses and labels are customizable and you can add your own as needed.

The Snowflake Method is spelled out in the Tasks folder. You can edit these documents directly as you complete the steps. You can also change the status of every step to “Done” once the task is complete. Following these steps, you’ll eventually create character sheets for everyone in your story, populate the binder with your chapters and scenes and slowly fill them up, first with synopses, then with prose.

As you follow (or not…) the snowflake steps, you’ll add to every character sheet and eventually you’ll end up with a very detailed description of every major plot point relating to every one of your characters. Combine that with detailed synopses of every chapter and scene, and you’re almost done.

If you want more info on the Snowflake Method and how you can use/bastardize it, this site has some good startup info.

Snowflake in practice

Once you’re done with the planning, outlining and other tedious concerns, you can start pouding out the story. Or you can cheat, as I usually do, and get right to it form the very start, making it up as you go along.

The two editor panes always work in conjunction to display your content. Here, we can see that the top editor selection, Chapter Memories, opens up a list of all scenes in the bottom editor. You can also expand any folder/chapter by clicking the arrow next to it. Clicking on a document that isn’t a folder will open up the actual manuscript in the bottom editor. You can see how it’s useful to have all the info up on a single page; status, labels and snyopses work together to help manage your content.

Once you’ve got your documents selected in the top editor, you can go straight to writing. You can edit your manuscript scene by scene as you go, or select several scenes in the Binder or Top Editor and click the Edit Scrivenings button (Scrivenings is what the program calls any document that contains prose). When you’re editing several scenes, you’ll get a very subtle background color change to indicate when you’re moving from one scene to another. Every document can also have Notes, as shown in the Inspector at the bottom right. In addition to the synopsis, you can jot down anything you don’t wish to forget into the notes. You can also include pictures, which is useful when you’re doing character sheets.

Alternatively, if you just want to dump stuff into your Research folder, Scrivener supports several file types and you can simply drag and drop files into the Binder for later use.

Finally, there’s Full Screen

Once you’re used to navigating your way around Scrivener, you’ll want to really get down to the dirty work of writing your story/article. My favorite way of doing that is, by far, the Full Screen mode. First, you need to select the documents you want to edit in full screen. Start by clicking the Binder, then the Chapter you want, then click Edit Scrivenings. This should open up all Scenes in the bottom editor for writing/editing. Then, just hit the Full Screen button and off you go.

Full Screen presents you with a simple no-frills editor on a black background. Everything else disappears, but you still have the option to display the Inspector next to your writing, so that you can keep an eye on any notes or synopses that you may want nearby. You can also change display options by hovering your mouse near the bottom of the screen, which pops the options dock up.

You can then change the width and position of your “paper”,  zoom in on the text a bit to make it easier on the eyes and change the background opacity, should you like your desktop wallpaper to peek through. You can also click the Keywords or Inspector icons to bring them up into your Full Screen window. The Inspector contains your Document notes (Any notes attached to a scene, for example) synopsis and keywords. To leave Full Screen, just press Escape, or click the icon at the bottom right of the options dock. Keep in mind however, that if you’ve set up active corners on your Mac, these will still be active even in Full Screen.

Parting notes

This is just a brief walkthrough of how I use Scrivener. There are many awesome ways to use this piece of software, and I’m well aware that I don’t use every feature set available, but this is what works for me. I’m constantly discovering nifty little new shortcuts, and I strongly suggest following @ScrivenerApp on Twitter if you have an account; they post a new Tip-of-the-day every day and it’s a useful way of getting notices and update announcements.

If you have tips of your own, feel free to share them!

Cloud awoke from blissfully dreamless sleep to find himself slouched against the smooth mahogany of Hollcomb’s desk, his head pillowed against his arms. He blinked his eyes slowly as they adjusted to the gloom; he couldn’t remember turning the lights off but the office was lit only from the slight sliver of light that filtered through under the door. The blond raised his head painfully and felt his tendons and muscles scream in protest. He pushed himself up off the desk and raked a hand through his hair sluggishly. He probably hadn’t slept for very long, because he still felt exhausted, with the added bonus that his shoulders and back were now raking their own versions of hellish pain across his nerves.

Sighing, he got up and took a few wobbly steps towards the door before freezing completely; as he’d got to his feet he’d felt something brush past him, a dim sense of a presence nearby. Narrowing his eyes, willing himself to see clearly in the dim light, he swiftly surveyed the room. Hollcomb’s empty office, furnished with its narrow desk and overflowing shelves, seemed darkly sinister in the room. Heart beating erratically, he scanned the darkness nervously once more before turning back to the door with another sigh.

“Looking for something, Cloud?”

The blond’s breath caught in his throat, a smooth and tremulous hiss that sounded ridiculously loud in the quiet room. Sephiroth’s voice had come from directly behind him and Cloud forced himself to turn around nonchalantly.

“How the hell d’you get in here?”

The silver-haired man shrugged, and the slightest ghost of a smile teased the corner of his mouth. Cloud’s heart fluttered and he forced himself to scowl at Sephiroth.

“The door wasn’t locked.”

Which was in no way an explanation for the fact that the blond hadn’t seen him when he’d peered through the gloom or why the man had simply been waiting there in the dark. He shot the taller man a tired, dismissive look, forcing every single bit of impatience he could behind his expression. “Right. Have you spoken with Zack?”

Another shrug, and Sephiroth’s smile grew slightly wider, curling and twisting its way treacherously through Cloud’s rampant thoughts and straight to his groin. Definitely not good. What are you, sixteen? Get a grip on yourself!

“Zack is unimportant.”

Cloud froze, cursing the darkness; Sephiroth had moved slightly to his left and into a dim pool of light. The shadows that flowed across his handsome face turned it harsh and threatening, all sharp angles and glowing green. He stared at Cloud now, awaiting a reaction.

“What?”

“Zack doesn’t matter. Your little rebel friends don’t matter. Reeve certainly doesn’t matter and neither does his little neo-company,” Sephiroth intoned, walking outside the light to Cloud’s left. The blond jumped when he felt a hand brush against his shoulder and then the silver-haired man was standing right behind him.

Sephiroth’s hands travelled up both of the blond’s arms to rest lightly on his shoulders and Cloud struggled to maintain his facade of detached anger. He tensed, opened his mouth to protest and prepared to whirl around and push the other man back when Sephiroth leaned in and continued, breath rushing out in a soft caress against Cloud’s ear.

“But you, Cloud, matter very much.”

It was little more than a soft, whispered hiss, and over his own wildly beating heart it was barely audible. He was frozen, unable to think, to concentrate, to move, as the silver-haired man chuckled softly behind him. He felt one of Sephiroth’s hands leave his shoulder to cup his chin, fingers splaying against his throat, and he closed his eyes, unable now even to breathe.

Another breathless chuckle against his neck forced a shiver through him and he struggled to regain control of the situation before everything went to hell. Sephiroth’s presence was devastating; it filled his entire world, forced the air from his lungs and left him reeling and dizzy. He had to get out of here. He twisted his head slightly to jerk it out of the man’s grasp but Sephiroth reacted with lightning speed, squeezing his hand around his throat and dragging his chin firmly back into place.

Cloud’s heart stomach twisted in violent fear. He raised his arms to the hand that was wrapped around his throat and tried to pry the man’s fingers off. No sooner had he moved that another shock sent him reeling and he probably would have stumbled to his knees had Sephiroth not been supporting him.

The silver-haired man pulled Cloud’s head further to the side and ran a hot, moist tongue up the side of the blond’s neck all the way up to his jawline, where he nibbled slightly before withdrawing.

Cloud couldn’t have stopped the moan that wormed its way past his throat if his life had depended on it. The man’s touches were liquid fire against his flesh and he found himself pressed backwards against the other’s taller frame almost involuntarily; he doubted if he could manage to stand on his own without fluttering like a leaf. He couldn’t clear his eyes or focus his gaze. Behind him he heard, and felt, as Sephiroth sighed and shook his head.

“Everything I’ve done, Cloud, has been for you.”

And that pierced through the thick haze of lust that he was floating in. He struggled to clear his head. “Wh-what do you mean?”

“Everything. You wanted to follow me out of Midgar, Cloud, and I took you away. You wanted to be scared of me, you wanted to hate me and so I made myself a great threat to you and everything you loved. I left destroyed creatures and burned memories for you to find and revisit.”

Cloud shook his head slightly, disbelieving. He struggled now against Sephiroth, but the man held tight.

“You wanted to be rid of the girl, Cloud, because she complicated things,” he continued, voice now turning accusatory. “I took care of that for you, Cloud. You wanted to be left alone, so I made them fear you, I made you a puppet and a tool. You wanted Tifa to stop chasing after you, and I made myself hard to forget.”

There was a pause, and Sephiroth’s voice was vicious when he spoke next. “You wanted to be alive again, to fight for something again, so I came back for you, Cloud. I’ve given you everything you’ve ever wanted. Everything!”

Cloud desperately fought to struggle out of the man’s grasp. He was spun furiously around and pushed back roughly until his thighs slammed against the edge of Hollcomb’s desk. Meeting Sephiroth’s gaze was like a slap to the face; the man’s features were angry and sharp, his eyes narrowed and pupils dilated. He held both of Cloud’s struggling hands in his own and leaned closer.

“You will give me this in return, Cloud.”

And his lips came crashing down against Cloud’s with no warning. Panic ignited within the blond in a thunderous wave. No, no, no, no, no, NO! Not like this. Never like this! He pushed against the older man, snarling, and struggled to free his trapped hands. Sephiroth pulled back with a smirk; there was a sort of twisted laughter dancing in his eyes, and as Cloud shoved, hard, against Sephiroth’s weight, he simply released one of the blond’s wrist and back-handed him with the flat of his hand.

Cloud’s head flew to the side and he crumpled against the desk, raising a trembling hand to his cheek. He made the mistake of checking for blood, eyes leaving the silver-haired man for slightly less than a second. When he looked up, the edge of Masamune came to rest against his exposed neck and he froze, his right hand instinctively traveling halfway to his hip. It was a pointless reaction; he’d left his sword by the door when he’d entered Hollcomb’s office.

“I offered to do this the easy way, Cloud.” Sephiroth offered him a small, twisted smile and a shrug. “You’re just so damned difficult to please.”

Pinned in an awkward crouch, the blade pressing against the tender skin of his neck, Cloud could only glare up at the man. “What the hell have you done with Zack? He would never have let you out of that lab. Not like this.”

Sephiroth met his glare coldly. A slight frown creased his forehead and he sneered at the blond. “You’re not concentrating, Cloud. I said before, Zack is unimportant. What I’m here for…” He paused, and a twisted smile was the only warning the blond got before Sephiroth’s sword arm swung sideways and back to drive the blade deep into Cloud’s shoulder.

His scream was cut short as Sephiroth closed the distance between them and slapped his free hand against the blond’s mouth, using his weight as leverage to drive the blade through Cloud’s flesh and between two of his ribs. When the blade had penetrated through to the wood, Sephiroth gave it a last push until its tip was several inches deep into Hollcomb’s desk, effectively pinning the blond in place.

His hand left Cloud’s mouth and the blond looked up in panic at Sephiroth’s face as the other leaned towards him, smirking.

“What I’m here for, Cloud…” Sephiroth repeated before dipping his head into the hollow of Cloud’s neck, trailing a path of feather-light bites down to his collarbone.

Cloud’s eyes were unfocused and staring, and his breath came in large ragged gasps. The blade in his shoulder was agony, and each intake of breath sent a fresh wave of pain and nausea coursing through him. He felt Sephiroth’s teeth on his neck sharply, felt the weight of the man press down on him as he leaned forward, felt a hand travel down to his shirt and push the material out of the way.

Felt the silver-haired man’s breath against his flesh as the words were breathed out just under his earlobe.

“… Is you, of course.”

The man’s touches sent waves of fire raging against his skin and Cloud bit back a sob of despair at how utterly fucked up he was. He could no more fight the man than fight his own heart, his own lust. Every touch, every brush of Sephiroth’s fingers against his skin pierced through the searing pain of the blade and the throbbing in his jaw. A small part of him wanted to fight, wanted to pull the blade out of his flesh and tear this man to shreds, but it was drowned out by the rushing noise of his heart thrumming in his ears.

He forced his mouth open, willing himself to react, to fight back, to scream, to do something to stop this madness.

There was really nothing he could say to prevent what was happening, but there was no chance to speak. Sephiroth’s grinning face was only a few inches away and then those smirking lips were pressed against his own, nibbling and teasing and unstoppable.

When he felt a strong hand reach down and snake its way into his pants to grip him in one long, languid stroke, Cloud threw his head back and moaned.

Amidst the swirling green of Sephiroth’s eyes, he surrendered.

* * *

Author’s notes

Posted this here first because it’s the very first bit of actual slash in this story, aside from the previous few dreams were Cloud was stuck in his own twisted memories; those weren’t quite as detailed and/or obvious. Just wanting to make sure I’m taking this in the right direction before offering it up to the world over at ff.net. Feel free to tear it apart if you like. Second scene in the chapter, unless I decide to switch things around a bit.

Hearing the slight edge of panic in Sephiroth’s usually controlled tenor had shaken him. Here was the man he’d both feared and adulated as a teen, then later despised and chased, obviously human and more than slightly overwhelmed with their current situation.

Even with Zack’s reassuring presence at his side, seeing the man again, very much alive and breathing, was disorienting and confusing. Cloud’s reality was now almost merged with his nightmares and his memories and the labs around them; scientists bustling about busily wasn’t helping. By Gaia, he was exhausted, and the coming conversation was a looming mountain ahead of him, another long trek, alone, through uncertain terrain. Would they find stable ground there, or had Jenova wiped all possible traces of sanity from Sephiroth’s mind? Would the telling of what happened destroy him again?

Would anyone even care if they failed? Even Tifa didn’t want this to happen, and the blond felt sure Reeve was starting to have doubts on his ability to handle this. Hell, even I’m starting to think this was the dumbest idea in the very sad history of really stupid ideas. He shook his head, fighting to clear his mind, to steer his tired brain back to the job at hand.

“Strife?”

A jolt, that voice, sending an uncontrollable shiver all the way down his spine. How the hell did he just remember my name? He felt sure the man hadn’t known him then, couldn’t possibly have both recognized him and pulled a name from memory. Unless he’d memorized the roster, which wasn’t impossible.

The alternative was unthinkable; if Sephiroth possessed memories from after Nibelheim, then Jenova had left more than simple cells behind. Cloud lifted nervous eyes to meet Zack’s gaze, where he also read surprise. Not from his photographic memory, then, otherwise Zack would take it in stride.

Fuck.

He forced his eyes back to the silver-haired man, where he found both nightmare and flesh staring back at him. A slight edge, a barely perceptible tension, betrayed the man’s state of mind although his face was carefully schooled into a neutral expression. Cloud felt panic and bile rise up in his throat and forced himself to close his eyes and breathe. When he felt human enough, he stared up at Sephiroth again, trying to control his erratic heartbeat. If he could just make it through this one conversation without anything blowing up in his face, everything would be fine.

Trying to ignore the man’s eyes, he took three quick steps forward and managed to keep his hand blessedly steady as he held up the file he’d prepared with Reeve earlier. The silver-haired man simply stared at the file. When the other’s man gaze traveled up his extended arm and reached his eyes, the blond felt a slight blush creep up his cheeks and mentally cursed. Several times.

Sephiroth was simply sitting there calmly, a curious and slightly disoriented look now on his face. What should’ve been just a standard pair of military slacks, was, on the tall man, the lowest-cut pair of uniform pants Cloud had ever seen. The man had just been brutally awakened in what must appear to be another Shin-Ra lab, yet he still managed to command and dominate the entire room with his presence. The blond felt ridiculously small and obscenely young and it infuriated him; he’d gone through hell and back, had endured pain and betrayal and loss, all because of this one man. Yet he still felt insecure and inferior, a mere pawn whereas Sephiroth was the major player, the one who would lead him, forward or astray. This close, and without the added pressure of fighting for his life, the blond had time to notice all those little things he had been sure he’d erased from his memories; the fact that the silver-haired Soldier was much taller and broader than him, the way his hair always pooled around his form like silver silk and his eyes, piercing and mesmerizing at once, of that almost obscene shade of green that haunted his dreams and nightmares.

The blond felt his gaze drawn down the man’s hunched torso, draping down his relaxed arms and lingering just slightly too long. Cloud realized he’d been staring and forced his eyes to steer back up to the older man’s face with a start, praying he hadn’t been gaping like a fool.

The distaste at his own weakness must have shown on his slightly reddened face, because Sephiroth eventually extended his own arm to reach up and delicately take the file from him. The man’s face showed a slight edge of what could be confusion, and on the ex-General it was a humbling sight; waking up in the labs must have shaken him more than he was letting on. The blond stood his ground, letting his arm fall gently back to his side as Sephiroth’s eyes lowered to the folder, scanning it briefly. After a few seconds he raked a hand through his hair in a gesture so beguilingly human and confused that Cloud almost caught himself laughing. Again, something new, unexpected. Sephiroth turned his eyes to Zack, who still stood close by his side.

He waved the folder at the younger officer, a slight frown now on his face. “Just what in the hell is going on?”

Cloud flinched, then cursed inwardly, as the man’s striking eyes swept back towards him. “And what in Gaia happened to you, Strife?”, he added, with a casual wave of the folder towards the blond.

There was a tense silence, and for a moment Cloud doubted his own strength. Shit, I can’t do this. I can’t just blurt out all of it, I can’t live through this all over again, I can’t be here, I can’t BE HERE… His heart hammering a wild beat in his chest, he managed a nonchalant shrug that surprised even him and saw, from the corner of his eye, Zack’s face growing a little dark, brows arching just ever so slightly. Worried.

“It’s a long story. The file explains most of it. I…” A pause, then, as he took one long breath, averting his eyes from the silver-haired man’s intense green gaze. He more or less felt irritation radiating from the Soldier now; he was avoiding giving him a direct answer and knew the other didn’t like his dancing around the question. He shrugged again, mimicking Sephiroth’s earlier motion and weaving his left hand through his blond tresses hurriedly.

When he spoke again his voice was clipped and angry but he didn’t care. It sounded, to his own ears, blessedly free of the trembling nervous fear he was drowning in. “Just read the damned file. Zack’ll be there to answer any of your questions. If you really need to talk to me, I’ll be in Hollcomb’s office.”

He managed a small nod in Zack’s direction, then turned about smartly, averting his eyes quickly towards the exit and away from all that silvery green, his chest thrumming violently. He forced his hands into his pockets to keep them from shaking and shouldered his way through the hallway door.

* * *

There was a long silence during which even the nurses contrived to make themselves look busy. Sephiroth stared at the door where the younger man had disappeared, trying to make sense of what had just happened. Did Cloud Strife… Did Cloud Strife actually just brush me off?

It was Zack who finally broke the silence, clapping a hand on Sephiroth’s naked shoulder with a laugh. “Don’t mind him, man. He’s just, you know, been through a lot.”

The silver-haired man cast a sidelong glance at his second-in-command. “Any time you’d care to explain, Lieutenant? I’m all ears.”

With a heavy sigh, Zack dropped his hand from Sephiroth’s shoulder, then turned to the nearest nurse. “Excuse me, Miss, can we do this elsewhere? Labs aren’t really, you know, ideal for conversation.”

“Sure. There’s an empty office right down the hall,” she pointed towards the corridor opposite the one Cloud had exited through and flashed Zack a small smile, then blushed furiously and busied herself with her medical clipboard. Sephiroth shook his head, a small smile curling at the corners of his mouth despite his uncertain situation. Zack, at least, hadn’t changed much.

“Come on, man. We’re blowing this lab.”

Sephiroth sighed and got up as Zack hurried towards the office and held the door open for them both. The silver-haired man glanced up at the group clustered on the second floor railing then followed Zack into the office, grateful for the chance for a little privacy. The room held a small desk and a threadbare chair, which Zack motioned the older man into after closing the door. He sat down less than gracefully and with a sigh; away from prying eyes he could let some of his confusion and distress finally show. Zack was pacing the room nervously and that worried him more than he would care to admit. He opened his mouth to speak but the smaller man interrupted him with a wave of his hand and a frown, then seemed to realize how agitated he was and finally plopped himself down onto the desk.

“How are you feeling? I mean…” Zack smiled then, although it didn’t quite reach his eyes. “You must be wondering what the hell’s going on, Seph, but this is important.”

Sephiroth raised an eyebrow at him. “I feel fine, Zack. What’s this about?” There was a pause, and he could see Zack was clearly trying to collect his thoughts.

“A lot’s happened, Seph. You know how I always exaggerate and shit? Well, this isn’t one of those times. A lot has really happened.” The black-haired man sighed, then essayed another smile. “To answer your first question, you’ve been out of it for about eleven years.”

For a few blessed seconds he thought Zack was messing with him, but the younger man’s face remained serious and Sephiroth felt his heart rate spike in a bout of dizzy nervousness. The shock must have shown on his face because his friend smiled again, and this time it looked tired and strained.

Sephiroth looked down at his hands pooled in his lap, trying to grasp the enormity of what Zack had just said. When he looked up again, Zack’s face was a carefully-controlled mask and his eyes were trained on his own, trying to gage his reaction. “You all right, man?”

Sephiroth shook his head slightly. His mind was racing. That explains Strife at least. He couldn’t have been more than eighteen when I saw him last. He felt the world spinning around him again. And when was that exactly? He couldn’t remember; his recent memories were a jumbled mess.

Zack reached over and gently took the manila folder from his unresisting hands. “Let’s just go through this thing one fact at a time, right?”

* * *

“What the hell was that? I thought Cloud said we would see everything from up here!”

Reeve shook his head calmly. “I’m not sure everything went exactly as planned; Cloud was supposed to stay down there and explain things.” He nodded towards Vincent, who nodded back wordlessly. “I’m going down to try and find him; find out why he bolted. You guys stay here. If anything happens, I need to know there’s someone here that can handle this mess.

“I’ll be right back,” he added before turning back towards the stairs.

Tifa turned to stare at Vincent. “You know what happened, don’t you?”

Vincent, standing propped against the railing, shrugged. “It’s not my place to say.”

Tifa frowned. “It’s not your… For fuck’s sake, would you listen to yourself? This isn’t some sort of game!”

“I know.”

Yuffie turned and laid a hand on Tifa’s shoulder. “Tif, we both know this isn’t easy on him either. Maybe he just left to gather his thoughts or something.”

From the corner of the upper deck, Cid puffed out a breath in a noisy wheeze. “Yeah. You’d have to pay me a fortune to drag my sorry ass down there with that folder. Kid’s just regroupin’. Least we can do is give ‘im a chance to do this properly.”

Tifa snuck a glance at Barrett, who was leaning next to Cid and watching her. The big man shrugged. Tifa shuddered, worried. “I don’t know how you guys can all manage to be so damned calm about all this. If something happens in that office we won’t know anything about it until Zack’s really in trouble.”

Yuffie shook her head vehemently, keeping her arm on her friend’s shoulder. “Zack can handle this, Tif, I’m sure of it.”

* * *

Zack’s words washed over him in as he sat and listened. At first he’d tried to voice his protest, interrupt with his own jumbled memories, but as the story unfolded he fell silent. He stared at his hands, still clasped in his hands, as Zack’s voice calmly told of the burning of Nibelheim, the reactor, what they’d found in the ruins of Hojo’s labs and the scientist’s true involvement with the Soldier process.

When his friend stumbled in his telling and his voice trickled to a stop, Sephiroth looked up unsteadily, watching the other’s face as he tried and failed to lighten his expression. The silver-haired man frowned. Nibelheim was only just the start; everyone’s terrified of me, even Zack. Something else happened.

Did he want to hear the rest of it? Zack’s silence as they stared at each other spoke volumes. When his friend opened his mouth to continue Sephiroth raised his hand in protest.

“Just give me the file, Zack.”

“Seph…”

“Now.”

It was torture to watch the pained look that passed across his second in command’s face but, to his credit, he reached over and handed him the file back. Sephiroth snatched it from his hand with rather more force than he’d meant and opened it, scanning its contents. It took quite a while for him to force his way through all of it. Some part of him wanted to shove the folder at Zack’s face and scream; he hadn’t done any of these dreadful things, he had no memory of any of it. He read on. The file was written in the very cold, calculating manner of a report, which made the actual contents easier to assimilate. He read of the Cetra and Hojo’s misguided attempts at recreating what he mistakenly thought was a true Ancient. He read of Avalanche and their role in ShinRa’s fall, of the murder of one of their number at his own hand. He read of Jenova and what she was, of the genetic experiments Hojo had carried out in secret. Of his own death. Of Geostigma.

It should have been too much to take in; he should have stumbled, forgotten, lost his track, but his mind was painfully clear as he absorbed the knowledge of the destruction he’d caused. Parts of what he was reading clicked neatly into place, filling holes in his own memories and experiences. Hojo’s constant meddling in his life had been dismissed as Soldier maintenance, but it had never made any sense to him. His own file in the ShinRa personnel records had always been incomplete and now, finally, he could put names to his own genealogy, could now correctly identify his mother as a scientist on one of Hojo’s teams. Hojo. The scientist’s lies unravelled one after the other as he read.

After a very long while, he finally closed the folder and gently placed it face down on the desk next to Zack. He glared at it as though his gaze could changed its contents, could nullify its existence.

“Seph?”

A hand on his shoulder startled him, and he stared up in surprise into Zack’s worried eyes. “You all right? I know you have questions, and that’s why I’m here. Why we’re all here.”

“How…” His voice was raw, unrecognizable as his own. He raised a trembling hand to his forehead and sighed heavily. Questions. They were piling up in his mind. Why had anyone let him do any of it? How had Strife managed to best him, not once but three times? How could he have been foolish enough to let Hojo manipulate him so clearly? How could he have been so deluded as to let himself be goaded by some— some monstrous thing he hadn’t even ever heard of, save in Hojo’s lies and half-truths? In his mind’s eye he saw Midgar, defeated and destroyed under an onslaught of his own making. He took a deep, calming breath.

“How many dead?”

Zack blinked at him. “I… What?”

“How many people have I killed, Zack?” To his own rising horror, his voice broke as he spoke and he forced his free hand into a fist.

“I don’t really know, Seph. A lot.”

Another deep breath. He felt his own fingernails digging into the palm of his hand and squeezed tighter, gritting his teeth. “Jenova?”

“Dead, as far as we can tell,” Zack answered.

He forced the next question through clenched teeth, voice murderous, and felt blood start to seep through his fist. “And Hojo?”

“Definitely dead. Cloud made sure of that.”

Strife, again. He had destroyed the boy’s hometown, killed whatever family he’d had left, fucked with his mind in the sickest way possible and forced his hand into playing his own twisted game. Jenova had used him and he’d used Cloud in return, as a weapon, as a plaything and, ultimately, as a way out. Well, that explains that, at least. No way the cadet I remembered would’ve grown up into such a tortured man. He’d seen it immediately, in the blond’s eyes; something had been destroyed and crushed utterly. The boy had matured into a fighter but he’d lost something of himself in the process. Sephiroth had recognized the cold stare and hatred that lay dormant there, he simply hadn’t understood why it was there.

It had hurt, to see the blond so changed; the shock alone had been enough to render him nearly breathless and had forced the cadet’s name out of his lips before he could stop himself. Stupid mistake. By all accounts he shouldn’t even have remembered the kid’s name and he’d mentally slapped himself as soon as the word left his mouth; he’d seen both Strife and Zack flinch.

Well, now you know why he’s changed so damn much. Congratulations; not only did you almost destroy half the planet, you also managed to mangle the one damned thing you might have ever wanted.

* * *

You weak-willed git! After all this time, all the preparation you forced yourself through and all the shit you’ve inflicted on everyone else, you bail at the last minute! As soon as he’d closed the door behind him, Cloud had stumbled his way to Hollcomb’s office chair and had gratefully sunk his long body into it before burying his head in shaking hands. What had he expected to find in that lab? Reeve’s short report should have told him all he needed to know; not an empty husk sitting there confused, not one of Hojo’s clones staring blankly at the wall but Sephiroth himself, as he had been during the blond’s own Soldier training, alive, aware and definitely confused.

He had hoped the long walk down to the labs would calm his trembling nerves, had somehow thought that he could will himself to confront the man he would find behind those damned double doors. He knew exactly when things had spun out of his control, when he had felt his legs threaten to give way under him and breathing become erratic, when the world had spun to a stop for him.

He shouldn’t have remembered my name! Even Zack told me he’d never once mentioned me by name. Their friendship had been discussed, he was certain of it, but as Sephiroth had called out his last name in a breathless hiss, Cloud had seen the look of surprise on the black-haired man’s face and had known something was wrong.

This entire plan rested on him; while Zack was a formidable fighter, Cloud knew if it came to it he was the only one truly capable of stopping Sephiroth. But facing him again in theories and plans was one thing and now that he was here, and this was now, it was an altogether different matter.

The blond realized he’d been digging furrows into his own scalp with his nails and dropped his hands into his lap, his blue eyes panicked and wide, breath leaving his chest in short bursts of panic.

“Shit. What have I done?”

A soft knock at the door interrupted him and he jumped, startled. “Cloud? Can I come in?” Reeve’s voice, calm and more than slightly hesitant. The blond sighed; as he got up to open the door for the man he took note of the weariness in his limbs and forced himself to concentrate, to stay awake and aware. He couldn’t let Reeve know he was breaking down now.

“Christ, Cloud, are you all right?”

Well, so much for that plan. The blond shrugged and motioned Reeve inside, walking aside to let the taller man through. “I’m fine. How’s everyone up on the second floor?”

“Worried. Tifa’s a nervous wreck,” he added as he turned to face Cloud. “Not that I can blame her. You don’t… look so good, Cloud. I know you’d planned to stay with Zack all the way through this, but maybe you should simply get a bit of rest.”

The blond opened his mouth to protest but Reeve waved a hand at him, waving his concern away. “They’re going through the file as we speak, and everything’s under control. You’re running yourself ragged with this, Cloud. I don’t care what it takes, I want you to sleep; Zack told me you’ve been up for days.” Reeve dropped a hand on Cloud’s shoulder and smiled at the smaller man. “If I have to post a couple of Turks outside the door to make sure you stay in here and rest, I will.”

The blond exhaled slightly, managing a small smile at the other man. “Fine. Did you speak with Hollcomb about the tests?”

“Later, Cloud. I said rest.” Reeve’s voice was playful as he squeezed his shoulder then walked back out to the corridor and closed the door behind him. Cloud stared at his retreating back, then at the grain of the wooden door and tried to collect his thoughts.

Sleep. He knew restful slumber would be next to impossible now, and had no desire to revisit his old nightmares once again. No way in hell am I going to even try sleeping, not with him so damned close. He could barely tell the difference as it was, between his nightmares and this new, confusing reality; when he was near the man, he felt the ground twist under his feet feverishly, his heart race in irregular beats that definitely did not feel normal.

He had to avoid the nightmares at all costs; he wasn’t sure how many more time he could visit that featureless, barren plain on the outskirts of Midgar before he drove himself completely insane.

Gaia, what had he gotten himself into?

That's Right. It's Analytics Time!

By far. As in, absolutely no contest. I understand that PH is made of bloody awesome, but still. Strange world.

Update: They are printed, and lovely and much bigger than I’d anticipated. Standing up, I reach just a little over the line between the green and white wall painting. So they’re huge. But oh so lovely and dark and rogue-ish. Mrr. Also, I only have one measly little window in my boudoir and when it gets dark (as it so often does in winter now…) all I can see are the hoods and vague menacing faces of my fave assassins; they’re actually a little scary in the dark.

Two bad-asses playing wall scrolls.

They are 36 inches wide and 48 inches high, and I managed to output them both at 150dpi without anything getting too grainy. I’m betting the large format inkjet printing will add enough texture and grain to offset any stray jpeg compression from the original images.

Assassin's Creed Poster - Featuring Altaïr ... Mrrr.

Altaïr gets a blue-ish poster, in keeping with the original game’s colour scheme. I modified the image somewhat; if you can find the original out there, you’ll see that I tweaked the character’s hood to better fit the angle of his face. The original just looked freaking weird. I also added some depth and width to his chest, because I can. :P

Assassin's Creed 2 Poster - Featuring Ezio ... Double Mrrr.

Ezio gets a lovely, pretty much unaltered image in red, which I used in part to tweak the Altaïr image so they would look more similar. Redid both logos in vector, because I simply couldn’t find them in a big enough resolution. Both files are pretty big (around 100 mb each), even flattened and rasterized.

Update: There have been quite a few requests for the large .psd files for these two. Seeing as how I’m so cool and all, I’ll be sharing these files directly here instead of asking you to send me an email. These are accessible through my Me.com public folder. The only thing I ask you guys is to please send me piccies of the posters on your wall so I can add them here.

Here’s AC1′s Altaïr (.psd file)

Here’s AC2′s Ezio (also .psd file)

Watch out though, they are both around 100mb each, so it might take a while, depending on your connection speed. Have fun!

Brought to you by the awful, awful lack of decent Assassin’s Creed posters out there. Ubisoft is having a contest and giving away one with Ezio and the AC2 logo, but I couldn’t find -anywhere- where I could fork over some dough and get one of my own. Even Ubi’s own online shop carries nothing of the sort. Well. Screw that, and please don’t sue me; I’m making no money from these posters.

It was written pretty quickly, and it turned out surprisingly longer than I expected; I guess my NaNo blitz made me even wordier than I usually am, although I’m really not certain that’s a good thing. Feel free to comment on the new chapter.

As for On Silver Wings, it’s still officially on hiatus; I’ve been playing the shit out of Assassin’s Creed 2 (Mrr, hello, Ezio…) so I find myself itching and twitching to revisit some of my old favorites, mainly Damascus and Masyaf. The AC franchise is just so rich and gritty and violently lovely, it’s hard to tear myself away.

But I promise I’ll get back to On Silver Wings soon. :)

The road stretched on in front of the merchant caravan; to Jehane, unused to such travel, it felt endless, bordered left and right by lifeless desert, seemingly the same stretch of land for miles and miles. There was, at that time, plenty of opportunity for Jehane to regret, and remember. Although the trip itself had been easier than anticipated, Jehane would never again, she was certain, face something quite as hard as leaving Fezana, and saying goodbye to her mother while her father stood unmoving beside her.

A silent, almost accusing presence, he had not acknowledged either his wife or his daughter in the telling of the news of Jehane’s leaving. Velaz had helped with the packing of some of the most important herbs and poultices she would not be able to find or make on the road. She had also packed dried bunches of antiseptic leaves, and pain-killing seeds from the opiate plants, which she wasn’t sure she would even be able to find so far south.

They had left on the first day of spring. According to Ibn Jubayr, this would allow them to profit from the gradually warming weather on their way to Genoa, where, if they were lucky, they would find a merchant boat to take them south to Jerusalem before the winter. After that, the road was much traveled, and Ibn Jubayr assured her the voyage from Jerusalem to Damascus would be easier and as pleasant as such travel could be.

Jehane was more than a little sceptic about that claim. Although they hadn’t encountered many people on the road, those she had seen from her vantage point in the back of the caravan had seemed poor, and worn from their trek. They had crossed quite a few other caravans, and she guessed their road was taking them through the merchants’ paths, doubling back this way and that to accommodate their horses and carts. The peasants had at first kept closer to the forests, and following their departure from her hometown she could see trails leading into the woods, well-worn from travellers’ boots and mules’ hooves. The mountain passes were closed to large carts and, as such, they had to go many miles out of their way to circle around to flatter, easier terrain.

She sat now, at the very back of the caravan, gazing eastward as they circled a large expanse of land she had been told was owned by a very rich man who didn’t at all appreciate travellers going through his settlements.

Another small hurdle, a tiny bend in the road, which added days to their already long path.

Ibn Jubayr seemed restless now, sometimes getting off to help the merchants push the cart over rougher ground or simply walking beside the carts. He seemed to her now an almost alien presence, unfathomably in his element, comfortable and happy on this dusty road. He was an altogether different man than the one she’d met in Fezana, almost giddy and childlike in his excitement. In the city she had almost laughed at his awkward gait and wizened skin, but on the road he was a different man; he came alive, and seemed to grow taller and more confident. He conversed easily with the merchants and passersby, sometimes speaking their native tongues, then slipping easily into dialects she had never heard, all strange guttural noises and unfamiliar syllables.

His smile now was infectious, and although she herself had discovered she had no passion for the road, she couldn’t help but feel optimistic. She knew, more or less, where they were headed, but wondered what might wait for her along the path, and Jubayr’s easy mood helped her feel adventurous. She essayed a few tentative talks with the driver’s wife and struck an easy friendship with her eldest daughter.

But the monotony of the road, the weariness of unaccustomed travel and the long dusty days were starting to wear her down, and she surprised herself with her yearning for excitement; she missed the city already, its many sounds and smells and busying people. Her father’s absence was a constant ache, and she yearned even a little for Velaz’s comforting, grumbling presence.

Damascus. Weeks and weeks away still.

* * *

The guard struck a blow to the side of his face with his armoured glove, sending his head snapping violently to the left. Altaïr cursed under his breath, spat blood onto the quickly reddening stone floor and waited. There were now three guards in the cell with him; the rest had climbed up the old stairwell back to street level.

His arms had been tightly bound behind his back; one of his shoulders was a bloom of pain and he suspected it had loosened from the socket. Blood seeped from a deep gash in his thigh, a painful and throbbing reminder of the fight he had lost on the rooftops. Down in the cool cellar, it congealed in a puddle at his feet and made standing upright difficult.

The men guarding him were alert and very happy to have him in their care. He’d been raiding guard-posts all over the city, at his master’s request; many of those now in Saladin’s service ran corrupted through the streets of the city, using their influence and power to take advantage of the people in the poorer districts. Using their weapons and rank to steal, rape and torture those who had no voice, they were allowed to roam free within the city and wreck havoc with its inhabitants. Al-Mualim had had no choice but to send a warning to others who would follow suit; the creed dictated they should help.

Altaïr sighed. He’d been careless as he’d fled the compound he’d been sent to raid and had assumed the rooftops would be clear of guards, ensuring an easy escape route. That he had been captured was insult enough; that he could find no hope of escaping now was torture.

Another sharp blow sent him reeling to the floor, twisting his dislocated shoulder. A groan escaped him as he fell to his side, panting. The guards snickered above him. The youngest one, with a look of pure hatred on his face, was removing a leather and iron flail from his belt. The one who had first struck him approached and ground his booted foot into his injured leg.

“Get back up, cur!”

Altaïr moaned something unintelligible and laughed, coughing up blood. The guard turned to look at his brethren. They shook their heads. “Speak up, you whore-son!”, he stepped forward and lowered himself to grab Altaïr’s tunic and pull him up.

Which brought him in range of the assassin’s knee. Twisting his upper body backwards and using the floor against his back as leverage, Altaïr brought his healthy leg up, snapping into the guard’s face and crushing his nose and brow. The man staggered backwards in shock, disbelief on his disfigured face.

The remaining two guards stared at their falling comrade and only reacted once the man had hit the floor a choking, gurgling mess. The closest guard managed to reach Altaïr before he could right himself and drove his elbow into his stomach. As the assassin bent double in pain, the soldier unsheathed his dagger and followed his blow with a vicious jab of his blade into Altaïr’s already injured shoulder.

As his vision blurred and the world swam perilously around him, Altaïr heard the thunder of boots on the stonework staircase, and saw, dimly, the men frantically trying to help their fallen comrade. He managed to stumble to his knees weakly as the captain of he guards staggered through the doorway, sword in hand, staring for a moment at the fallen guard, then at him.

The man removed his helmet and threw it at the nearest guard, who straightened up just in time to catch it in trembling hands. He barked for his men to drag the dying man out of the cell, then motioned for the others to stay back. Advancing towards the assassin, he reached back with his gloved hand and sent Altaïr’s head reeling with a vicious back-handed blow, his armoured glove splitting open a large gash across the assassin’s cheek and lip.

Altaïr managed to stay upright, but his head swam crazily, and he stared at the captain’s boots while waiting for the world to come back into sharp focus. His breathing was ragged now and he fought to keep his grip on consciousness.

“That will cost you, dog. You have killed many of our men; don’t think for a moment this death will go unpunished.”

Unbidden, and against his better judgement, a chortling laugh rose up in his throat and Altaïr braced himself for the second blow he knew was coming. This time when the captain’s glove connected with his jaw, he couldn’t force himself to stay upright and he crumbled into a graceless heap at the man’s feet, his arms still bound behind his back.

The man pulled him up by the chain connecting his hands, sending a wave of tearing pain through his dislocated shoulder. As he was forced upright, he couldn’t hold the scream that traveled up his throat. Blessed silence followed the echo of his howl and for a few seconds darkness overtook him. When the ringing in his ears finally subsided, he was standing weakly and a dull throbbing in his shoulders and arms indicated that he was being held up by the chain that bound his arms; someone had hooked it to a peg in the wall and he hung weakly, knees barely supporting his weight.

The captain of the guards still stood motionless in front of him; all the others had left, as he was now in condition to put up a fight. Altaïr managed to focus on the man and raised his head to meet the other’s gaze.

“You will get nothing out of me.”

The man laughed, softly, and shook his head. “What makes you think I intend to make you talk? We have already been paid for capturing you; getting any information from your worthless corpse will not fall to us.”

He paused, and sent the assassin a chilled smile.

“The Templars will come for you soon. In the meantime, we have been allowed to keep you here as we see fit. Trust me, when I am done with you, you will beg for the knights to steal you from my care.”

The captain moved his arm, signalling for another guard to come out of the darkened doorway.

Altaïr tried to control his ragged breathing as the man approached him. His heart was now beating a mad rhythm in his chest, and he struggled to remain calm, to call up the wall inside him that kept him detached and safe. The younger guard, barely out of childhood, stepped around his leader and reached for the flail at his waist. Then he stepped towards Altaïr, his face a mask of hatred, and swung for the assassin’s legs.

As his knees buckled under him from the force of the young man’s blow, his entire weight dropped unto his shoulders and arms, and this time Altaïr’s scream echoed around the walls of the cell for what seemed an eternity.

When at last the world faded slowly into oblivion, Altaïr closed his eyes and welcomed the darkness.

* * *

Although the boat ride from Genoa to the southern coast had only taken a little over two weeks, to Jehane it had felt like years. The roiling movement of the sea had immediately made her feel unwell and despite Jubayr’s constant reassurances that she would get used to it, time seemed only to aggravate her uneasy stomach. She had appreciated little of the voyage, and had spent most of her days below the ship’s deck, comforted by its dark and cool interior.

The stench alone would have been enough to make her sick. Combined with the constant rolling of the floor it made her voyage an unending nightmare, and she could only glare at Jubayr when he came down to see her, an unfamiliar youthful grin on his face. He was enjoying himself on the voyage, and his lined and weathered skin seemed to melt into a young boy’s features; his eyes were alight with excitement and although Jehane couldn’t match his enthusiasm, she relented to his nervous chatter.

When he came down to visit her, he’d spend most of his time extolling the virtues of the places they would visit, and Jehane tried to smile with him, letting his own sense of adventure wash over her.

It did little to dispel her sickness, but at least it passed the time. They made a short stop at Messina, following the trade route south. By the time they finally disembarked in Jerusalem, Jehane had lost a good deal of weight, and felt weakened and weary; the clothes she had brought with her from Fezana seemed to hang off her slight frame now; however nothing could have diminished the joy she felt at finally setting foot on solid ground again, and even the thought of embarking on the road so soon after finally arriving couldn’t sully her good cheer.

Jubayr himself was glorious in the midday sun that beat upon the docks at the edge of the city; he seemed more alive and excited every day, and Jehane tried to forget the long days spent in the ship’s hold. This far south, the driving sun seemed almost choking and dusty and it quickly warmed and invigorated her again. They set off the very next day after a short rest, wasting no time in the holy city. Jubayr promised her they would visit it again on their way back, before leaving. Here, there were many caravans leaving and going into the city itself, and Jubayr had no trouble finding them a means to get to Damascus.

Their day had dawned bright and early and Jehane had waited by the side of the dirt road while her caretaker had spent the early morning bartering with merchants for a ride north and east to Damascus. It hadn’t taken long for him to find someone to take them, and as coins had exchanged hands, Jehane had been motioned forward, and had climbed up the back of the merchant’s cart with some difficulty, sitting herself atop the man’s cargo of dried fruits and heady, perfumed wines.

They had set off soon after that, leaving behind the gates of Jerusalem to travel the road that would take them to Damascus. As they’d left, weaving among the throngs of people going both in and out of the city, she’d sat, perched up on the back of the cart, watching the lines of weary travellers pass her by. They hadn’t taken the time to truly rest, and Jehane felt weary herself; it had been days since she’d been allowed to have a true bath and in the rising heat she felt sticky and unpleasantly warm. Her wavy red hair was a mess of tangled curls, and it clung thickly to her forehead and neck.

She’d known the trip would take a while, but hadn’t expected she’d grow tired of the road so soon. The way through the mountainous terrain was extremely tedious, and they encountered little except for wary travellers and the occasional small town. For the first few days, she kept mostly to herself, only seeing Jubayr when they stopped to rest and eat. She soon discovered the merchant himself to be pleasant enough company, and by the end of the first week, she often found herself engaging in conversation with the older man. He was wizened and used to the road, and kept her entertained with stories of his travels, elaborate tales of encounters with bandits and thieves told by firelight. His stories both delighted and frightened her and he often laughed at her naivete, assuring her that, despite his extravagant exaggerations, the road they were on now was quite safe, and guarded by Saladin’s men.

She heard quite a lot of the kingdom’s ruler through the merchant’s accounts of his travels. Nodding by their campfire, she’d ventured her opinion on the man’s leadership and politics, and Jubayr excused himself more than once. When she finally got up the nerve to ask him why he was apologizing for her behaviour constantly, she was told in no uncertain terms that a woman should keep such opinions to herself; things were different here, and women were not supposed to be so boisterous and opinionated. Jehane scoffed at his answer, and retorted that he’d be fairly hard put to shut her up if he expected her to behave like a shy little flower.

He’d laughed at her, but she’d known he’d been serious. By the time they finally arrived in Damascus, Jehane had made up her own mind about her place there, and had vowed to herself that she’d do everything she could to make her own place, despite the fact that women were not valued as highly as they were in her native Fezana.

As they finally approached the city, more than three weeks after they’d first left Jerusalem, Jehane was finally silenced, awed by the size and grandeur of the walled metropolis they were nearing. The merchant laughed at her open-mouthed stare and he spurred his tired horses forward, driving them towards the gates.

The city itself was majestic in the dying light of the setting sun, a rambling, shambling huge beast of a town. People of various colours and dress were queuing up at its gates, and several guards kept watch at the open doorway, scanning the crowd with a wary eye. In the distance, past the fortified walls, Jehane could see, rising above the other brick buildings, towers that rivalled the most majestic monuments in Fezana. There were dozens of such towers, and she felt like the smallest thing in the world, sitting behind on the cart, as they were slowly led towards the gates.

The guards there inspected the merchant’s cart carefully, asking him what he was carrying and why. When they were finally let through, the man breathed a sigh of relief and spurred his horses towards a small gathering of similar carts. He jumped off once the cart stopped advancing, gesturing to Jubayr, who trotted to a stop beside him.

Jehane jumped down and made her way to them. As she walked towards the pair, she noticed several passersby staring openly at her, and she hurried forward, dismayed at garnering so much attention.

“Here we are then,” the merchant said, brushing one hand absent-mindedly against the neck of the lead horse. “You’ll find the district you’re looking for that way.”

Jubayr nodded, and coins were once again exchanged as Jehane watched on. “Thank you, for taking us this far. I know my way around the city.” Jubayr’s smile was as infectious as ever, and he and the merchant shook hands good-naturedly, grinning at each other like boys.

“Have a good stay in Damascus, friend.”

They parted, and Jubayr made his way to her, grabbing her elbow as he passed and pulling her with him as he walked away from the cart and merchant. Jehane looked back to the man who’d brought them here, sending a small wave his way which he answered with a wry grin and a wave of his own.

“You’ll find that most women here cover their hair. It might be beneficial for you to do so as well.”

She blinked at Jubayr, uncertain. “Why?”

He shrugged. “It is part of their custom. You have very… distinct hair, Jehane. It will keep the people here from staring at you. I will find you a veil once we are settled at Ma’mun’s practice.”

She nodded at him, noticing once more that people were starting to stare. “Thank you.”

He led her away, weaving past the crowd, keeping his arm on her elbow. They eventually reached a quieter part of the district and he released her, walking ahead of her. She followed, still a little unsure of her feet after so much time spent on the road. Around her, the sounds of the bustling city seemed deafening, and she was surprised to find so much activity so late in the day; Fezana, it seemed, went to bed a lot earlier than Damascus.

The few women she saw going about their business were veiled and never alone, travelling with other women or with a man. The realization that she’d just entered a very different place hit her then and she wondered for the first time whether she would have trouble adjusting to life here in Damascus. She missed her family terribly, for a moment, and fervently hoped Ibn Ma’mun was a kind man, one that would be patient and understanding with her.

Damascus was huge; it was quite different from what she’d imagined in her mind. As she followed Jubayr further into the district, she hoped with all her heart that she would adjust here, fit in with the other people, and eventually find her place within this sprawling city.