Work Text:
As the acolyte scribbled away on his parchment, his mentor could not help but sigh. This was a sight he had seen many times.
Hytham had always been hardworking, perhaps not ambitious, but he certainly placed a lot of his self-worth on the notion of being useful. Now, with his injuries limiting the time he could spend being active, he had poured himself into the theoretical work that had befallen him, or that he had created for himself.
It always seemed to play out the same. He would either be struck as if by divine revelation, or the Wolf-Kissed would return with a new medallion, a new codex page, any new clue regarding the Brotherhood or the Order, and he would forget being human entirely and sit by his desk for hours, sometimes even days, on end. The quill never stopped moving until his body protested with such pain that he had no choice but to relent and rest his wrists, the only breaks he allowed himself were those short, fleeting moments of standing and stretching before he returned to the shelves of scrolls to gather what he needed, and the rare times Basim had actually observed him in prayer, a habit he seemed to have picked up now when he no longer had to be ready to leave at a moment’s notice. Most of all, he was entirely unaware of the world going on around him, the hours passing. When Basim was in Ravensthorpe, he kept a close eye on him, and when noon rolled around, knowing the acolyte had not eaten since the day before, he made sure to gather food from somewhere, be it the baker or the longhouse, and return to Hytham and practically force him to eat. He would attempt to call his name, and the acolyte would either not hear him or ignore him entirely, until he had no choice but to acknowledge his mentor as Basim would place a hand on his shoulder. Then he would present the basket of food, the younger would mumble some vague excuse about not having time, or “having eaten recently”, which they both knew was a lie, and Basim would take the opportunity to snatch the parchment from his desk, forcing him to take a break, as they both knew that he would not give it back until he felt thoroughly satisfied with Hytham’s rest.
Now, however...
While it had varied from their time in their homeland further south, the crescent moon had been sighted, and the month of Ramadan had arrived. It was one of those rare periods when the older assassin stayed in the settlement for longer than a few days. Sigurd had been injured on their latest expedition and insisted that they would leave for the next one together when he had recovered. This, of course, gave Basim the chance to observe his acolyte during both secular and sacred days.
Hytham, of course, refused to break his fast during the day, even though Basim had protested. In his mind, Hytham was exempt - he was still injured, and his neglect of himself in combination with the fasting would do nothing but tear at his health further. Hytham, however, was convinced that he was fully capable of partaking in fasting regardless of how ill Basim thought he was. Knowing there would be no way to get through to him, Basim had relented and instead requested to participate with him, rather than the two observing their religious obligations from two different ends of the settlement. Perhaps that had been obvious, but it did give Basim another excuse to keep an eye on his protégé.
It also gave him an excuse to force him to rest.
As they were alone in their beliefs in Ravensthorpe, they had no calls to prayer that decided their schedules, and so Hytham seemed to have flipped night and day as he attempted to stay awake and work for most of it. Yet, as they had to be up early to break their fast, Basim began to practically force him to go to sleep at a reasonable hour. Normally, this was not a problem, what was a problem, however, was iftar: as usual, the other pushed it up as far as he could in an attempt to continue feeling useful, as if the very thought of letting his eyes and attention be moved from his writing and reading was nauseating. Basim’s patience had run thin fast; he could swear he saw his acolyte withering away by that desk in front of his very eyes.
He walked easily throughout the longhouse. It was no feast, but Ravensthorpe ate communally during the evenings, and so he had no problems grabbing two plates and a pitcher of water, filling the plates with various foods he knew they could eat before he carried them back towards the bureau. It was easier this way, since he knew it would prove impossible to attempt to get Hytham to leave the cabin and join the others at the longhouse... Although, he noted, he had not seen him leave that building for ages. Tomorrow he would force him on a walk, if he so had to drag him kicking and screaming.
The door swung open easily as he pushed it with his shoulder. As usual, Hytham did not even look up at him.
“Iftar, Hytham.”
“Yes, yes, give me a moment.”
Basim rolled his eyes. Normally, in any other circumstance, Hytham was... Mostly obedient, yet this seemed to be the hill he had chosen to die on. The older one merely placed what he was holding on one of the free desks, before he placed the thick fabric they used to protect the carpets on the floor. He moved towards the shelves over Hytham’s bed, where he had placed a box of dates which he had acquired from a southern merchant on his travels with Sigurd. He placed the box, the plates, the pitcher of water, as well as two cups down where they would eat, before striding over to Hytham once more.
“Now, Hytham.”
“Wait-”
With a swift movement, Basim grabbed both quill and parchment, successfully startling Hytham out of his trance. He held them high above his head, Hytham attempted to spring up from his chair and grab them, but quickly felt a familiar pain in his lower ribs and winced over the sudden movement. While his first instinct was to grab his acolyte and help him through the pain, Basim knew better. Before he offered any help, he placed both items on the top of the scroll shelves, where they would be out of reach for the smaller man. Hytham merely narrowed his eyes, still attempting to breathe through the pain, cursing his mentor silently.
With the distraction out of the way, Basim moved to Hytham’s side and wrapped an arm around his waist, guiding him to where he had prepared their meal. For once, he did not struggle. He helped him sit down on the floor, before he continued onwards, sitting on the opposite side. They were a few days into this routine, now, yet Basim could not help but feel like it had been a while since they last ate together.
As he had done the last few days, Basim began by opening the box and holding it out for Hytham, who grabbed three dates with only some hesitation. It only felt right for Hytham to eat first, and it was not until the younger began to bite into his first date that Basim himself took out his own, and began to break the fast.
The initial breaking happened in relative silence. Once the three dates were eaten and a glass of water swallowed, Basim began by reciting the iftar prayer, with Hytham following after. He had to admit that he had not been the best at following traditions before they came to Norway and, subsequently, England. He often considered himself too busy, and thought that he could not afford either fasting or prayer regardless of the month, as he needed to keep himself sharp and alert in case of incoming threats. But now that they were alone among Norsemen, it felt especially important to remember and honour the traditions of their homeland and culture, even if the food they had available was far different from that back home.
Hytham, he observed, ate as if he had the entire meal calculated. After the initial breaking of the fasting, he would turn to the loaf of bread, either breaking it in two for the two of them or only tearing off small pieces and eating them one at a time. He picked at whatever they got, they shared both food and plates and mostly ate the smaller things, like the nuts or whatever fresh berries had been available. Basim, for once, followed his lead; he did not eat in the same order, but he did not touch the ‘larger’ parts of the meal, such as the fish, until the smaller pickings were largely gone and Hytham looked at him expectantly. He knew he was waiting for him to start and eat first, it felt rude enough to break his own fast before his mentor, and to eat the main courses before him felt unimaginable. Basim, however, took one of the flatbreads between his fingers, tore a part of the fish that was cooked enough to be as soft as butter, and handed it over to Hytham first. It was a little dance they had, one that seemed to repeat every sundown, as if the repetition and routine and familiarity were comforting.
Finally, after the expected silence, Basim spoke.
“Tomorrow,” he started, “You and I are going on a walk.”
Hytham perked up, less with anticipation and more as a soldier awaiting a command or order, straightening his back.
“Yes, of course.” He did not attempt to argue, he knew that it would be fruitless regardless. “Where to?”
Basim shrugged.
“Around the settlement, maybe up the hills.”
Hytham tilted his head only slightly. He had always been quite fluid in body language, even as a Hidden One, and in the safety of the bureau, he felt more comfortable being expressive.
“May I ask the reason?”
‘No’, was the first thing Basim wanted to answer. He didn’t want Hytham to question him or try to argue, after all.
“You need fresh air,” he said instead. “And some activity. When was the last time you left the bureau for more than a few moments?”
Hytham hesitated. It was all that Basim needed for an answer.
“I have work. I cannot merely leave it before I am done.”
The older one raised an eyebrow.
“You have been saying that since I came back. That was two weeks ago.”
The younger one looked away, biting the inside of his cheek for just a moment. Luckily for Basim, their dining area was small, and he had no problems reaching his hand out to grasp Hytham’s, a gentle touch that got the other to look at him again.
“Hytham, the work you do is magnificent and highly important, I admit that.” He looked deep into the other’s blue eyes, as if meaning to push those words into his very soul. “But they are never as important as your own health and wellbeing. You need to rest too.”
“I hardly believe my wellbeing is more important than the Brotherhood-”
“Arguing with your mentor?” Basim raised an eyebrow once more. “During the month of Ramadan?”
Hytham stopped, lips pursing into a thin line. It was hard to know whether he was ashamed or upset over Basim’s words, yet the mentor merely smiled.
“As I said,” he continued, “tomorrow we walk, and you will rest. No work.”
“That is not-”
“Ah, ah. What did I just say?”
Hytham cowered again. Basim gave his hand one last squeeze before he pulled away, returning to his previous position.
“Now, eat.” He gestured to the flatbread and fish that Hytham still held in one hand, which he had not yet eaten. “Then after the last prayers, you will sleep.”
“...And you?”
“What kind of mentor would I be if I did not follow by example?”
At that, neither of them could help but smile, and Hytham finally relented, eating the food which his mentor had offered to him. It was nowhere near as good as the food of Baghdad or Constantinople, but it was good, it was warm, and the company was enough to bring back that familiar comfort.
They continued to eat in silence, as if that thin barrier slowly began to fade. It was no longer the tense, uncomfortable silence, but something peaceful, and cozy. Occasionally, they would remember a story of their homeland, a warm memory, and they would laugh and reminisce. That was, at the very least, until they heard the unmistakable footsteps of a certain Vikingr.
“Hytham? I got another codex page-” Eivor called out, soon appearing in the door closest to the mentioned man. As they stood by the threshold, however, they stopped. “Oh, am I interrupting something?”
Hytham glanced at Basim, whose expression hardened only slightly. He chose to ignore it.
“Not at all, my friend. Now, did I hear you mention a codex page?”
As if suddenly remembering why they were there, Eivor attempted to reach out to give the younger assassin the parchment. As Hytham reached his own hand out, however, Basim grabbed ahold of his leg and pulled him towards him instead, making him land with a ‘thud’ and glide with his entire body over the floor, narrowly missing the food. Completely ignoring Hytham’s protests, Basim smiled kindly at the Wolf-Kissed.
“You will have to excuse us,” he said, “but I am afraid Hytham is otherwise occupied.”
“Basim-”
“If you would be so kind as to place the page up there-” he pointed towards the spot on the top shelf where he had placed the quill and parchment “-I am sure Hytham will waste no time getting to work on that in a few days.”
Hytham attempted to kick with the leg Basim continued to hold. Basim merely held him with a tight grip and continued to look at Eivor. The Vikingr, perhaps in shock over the sight before them, did as told without question, much to Hytham’s chagrin.
“Mentor, I must protest-”
“I am sure you feel so.”
“- but you said nothing about days-”
“The more you try to argue, the longer I will force you to rest.”
Eivor, who finally seemed to grasp what this was about, couldn’t help but laugh.
“Is that what this is about? He doesn’t want to rest?” They put their hands on their hips, looking at the two men on the floor. “With how he was struggling, I thought something bad had happened.”
“You would think so.”
Eivor laughed again. Hytham gave one last kick before Basim finally let go of him, letting him return to his previous seat on the floor.
“Do not worry, Basim,” the Vikingr said. “I will make sure to not give him any more distractions.”
“Not you too-”
“That would be very kind of you, Eivor. Thank you.”
Hytham straightened out his robes to the best of his ability, muttering vaguely to himself. Finally, Eivor excused themselves, wishing them a nice evening. Once the door was closed and the footsteps faded into the night, Hytham turned back to Basim.
“... And you call me infuriating.”
“At least you know where you have gotten it from, habibi.”