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    he dreams of fire


    When he was young, when they were still happy and safe, when things were still frosted in that golden glaze of childhood innocence, Yusuf Tazim’s mother would tell stories.

    Magnificent stories of valiant heroes, saviors to anyone who couldn’t defend themselves, harming only the rotten and wicked. They would cleanse and protect entire cities, saving people from the evil Templars, though never asking for anything in return. They had called themselves simply Assassins, his mother Ceren would tell him, and his father had been honored enough to join their ranks.

    Yusuf, his mind so full with images of heroics and grandeur, would bravely tell his mother that he wanted to be just like him, that when he grew up, he wanted to be an assassin, too. And she would laugh, humoring her son by telling him that he would be the master of them all, though there was a lingering sadness behind her smile and a dull fear in her eyes.

    -x-x-x-x-x-x-x-x-


    Yusuf grew up, as many boys are quite apt to do.

    They had left Bursa, had left the childish stories of assassins and Templars behind with it, and faced the new and dangerously thrilling opportunities that Istanbul had to offer them.
    The boy of merely eight years had been enchanted; overwhelmed by the smell of the spices, the rainbow of dyed silks, and by all the different people. It was so different from his old home, and when they arrived, Yusuf had looked at his mother, wide-eyed and bewildered, saying, “I like it here very much, Anne.” She grinned, giving a fond pat on the head mussing his wild dark hair.

    But Ceren soon caught ill and died, and Yusuf found himself alone in this foreign city at the mere age of ten. Suddenly, Constantinople seemed far less inviting.

    -x-x-x-x-x-x-x-x-


    He was fourteen when he first met an assassin.

    Yusuf had managed to scrape by a meager existence on the streets, living off of lifted food, pilfered coin, and scavenged scraps. Quickly, he had learnt the rules of survival for the street rats of Constantinople: watch your own back and trust no one, because he might steal your findings and stick a blade between your ribs when you blink.

    They were the foundations of his miserable life for years, and by then, he was as infamous as he was hungry. This unwanted fame often got him recognized, and many a night he went without eating.

    Though, once, he got sloppy. The pickings were always quite lush in the Bazaar, what with it’s foreigners and crowded halls. If you entered, you risked everything, and that was how Yusuf liked it- all or nothing. He had made a fine profit for that day, guaranteed a full belly and, if he was lucky, a comfortable place to sleep. Before leaving, he had tried to make one last grab.

    The man had caught the youth’s wrist, and Yusuf had swallowed thickly, heartbeat speeding up nervously. Wrong victim, he told himself, this guy looked deadly. He was dressed in pale robes, though stitched and embroidered with many different colorful designs, and he had a hood pulled up over his face, daggers and various other dangerous looking weapons hanging at his belt.

    He had studied Yusuf a moment, then let out a soft snort and pushed the boy away, into the crowd, apparently deeming him not worth his time. Yusuf had left the Bazaar as swiftly as he could and not come back for a week.

    -x-x-x-x-x-x-x-x-


    At the age of seventeen, along with his notoriety, Yusuf had learned to fight.

    By that time, he had already taken two lives, one of a desperate man aiming to ambush him, and the other of a younger boy trying to steal his food. He felt no guilt for either, simply dismissing them as occupational hazards. When you lived on the streets, your life was one thing you risked, among many others. He could hold himself if he was outnumbered, and oftentimes outmatched single or double opponents. He was quite skilled with a blade.

    Of course, with this notoriety, came a greedy sort of pride. Yusuf pushed his boundries just to see how far he could gos, to see how much he could steal, to see how far he could travel into the Imperial District without being caught by the Janissaries. Once, he had even tried to, and had successfully, stolen a gondola and floated about the Haliç before the novelty had worn off and he paddled back to the docks.

    These ridiculous feats were, of course, bound to attract attention. And, oh, attract attention they did.

    Yusuf, perched dilliegently on one of the roofs above the Grand Bazaar, scouting out his victims, had nearly been startled off the building by one Ishak Pasha. The elder man had been amused, complimenting the younger on his skills, and would he have any interest to join the Assassin Brotherhood? “Because we have been watching you, Yusuf Tazim, and you are just like your father.”

    Yusuf himself had scoffed at the offer. Long ago had he dismissed his mother’s stories as simply stories, and resigned himself to the somber fact that there weren’t really any true heroes, that everyone in the world was corrupt and evil. He said this all out loud, obviously.
    Ishak had just smiled, an odd mix of patronizing and mystery, saying, “Oh, we’ll see,” before leaving.

    -x-x-x-x-x-x-x-x-


    Yusuf had never been so enchanted.

    He joined a few years later, of course. How could he not? The curiosity was too much, and, deep down, a child still lived, clinging to tales of hooded heroes and a father that killed for the good of all.