The day's work is done and it's time for a rest. The hours are unusual, but the principle is the same, and so the need drags at his veins and tugs a familiar pressure somewhere behind his eyes. He has no fire, though. He looks up.

The worm tunnel spirals off in three directions: farther off into the darkness of the dungeon walls, upward at an easy foothill's angle, and back towards the entrance they used, where Sinbad is fiddling with loose stones and his coat, trying to cover the hole.

It should be safe. Ja'far unwinds some of the bandages around his right leg and cuts the strip smoothly away. He bunches it up loosely on the ground in front of him. It needs a bit more, so he pulls up the threadbare edge of his shirt and begins to saw at it with one blade.

"What are you doing?" The tearing noise catches Sinbad's attention, and the other boy comes over, sitting down across from him and giving him a look that begins curious and turns disturbed when the Partevian's eyes land on his leg. "What happened there?" He gestures at the long scar that runs up the inside of Ja'far's leg, from halfway up his calf to the very top of his thigh, a deep weal of puckered skin. The blond gives it a dispassionate look.

"The old man did it," he answers. He doesn't remember getting this scar himself; he was too young, but he's seen it done to others, newcomers to the mountain.

Sinbad's chin pulls back, a faint jerk. As Ja'far finally gets the scrap of cloth loose, the older boy manages, "Someone did that to you on purpose? Why?"

Ja'far tucks his blade back in his sleeve and sets to tying loose knots in the cloth; they'll make the fire last longer.

"It's to keep us from walking for the first few weeks," he answers as he works. "The old man says that's how long it takes to make the first foothold."

"Foothold?" Sinbad echoes, and Ja'far nods, arranging a knotted cloth in a ring and sliding a battered tinderbox out of his pocket.

"For the training," he answers, neutral. "You have to be malleable to learn it."

"Hey. That's not going to make much of a fire." Sinbad's brows lower as he changes topics, voice doubtful. "Are you cold? I could go get my cloak."

"It's not for warmth. It's for the hasanava." Ja'far moves to strike a spark, then stills and looks up at Sinbad when the older boy puts a hand on his wrist.

"Hasanava as in nava leaves? Not in here, okay? I don't want to have to breathe that stuff in too, you know."

The blond stares at him.

"The mission is over," he says, slow and explanatory. "I have to now."

Blood on stone, he remembers, an old man's throat opened beneath his diamond blade. Screaming when the body collapsed back against him, though he'd done so well to not flinch during the ceremony. Being ushered by sympathetic but firm hands to the cord and pipe as Fatima's voice talked him through the first inhalations, her nails combing soothing lines through his hair until the hasanava had taken over.

Hasanava after missions. That's how it works.

"What mission? You left the assassins, right? You don't have to do that anymore."

Ja'far goes on staring. Hasanava after missions is how it's done, but it's true that he didn't properly finish the last one. He hadn't thought of it that way. But when, then? After they escape the dungeon? After Sinbad is enthroned? Surely that's too long to wait?

Something rattles in his chest, a stone fragment knocked loose by a sculptor's chisel: fear of breaking ritual and the inevitable punishment. He's sure his expression doesn't change—he's far too old for that kind of weakness—but all the same Sinbad is waving his hands placatingly, giving him a worried look.

"New mission! New mission, okay? We get out of the dungeon and back to my boat, and we can talk about it again there, all right?"

Ja'far nods slowly, looking back down at the small pile of detritus and mutely scooping it into his hands and back into the recesses of his pockets. What else had they come in here for…? Yes, sleep. He tucked himself up against the wall, gathering his ragged mantle about his shoulders and bowing his head towards—

"So that's part of the training, too?" Sinbad's voice breaks the younger boy out of the reverie and draws his eyes back up to where the Partevian is still watching him, eyes dark and unsure. Annoyance flutters somewhere beneath his heart—doesn't Sinbad know how missions are supposed to go at all? How he's managed to survive this long on such lack of discipline, Ja'far can't imagine.

"It's part of everything. It's the way to paradise," he answers. The purple eyes don't clear and he lets out the smallest huff of exasperation. "The old man knows the way. He makes the hasanava to show it to others. Taking it after missions and during ceremonies reminds us that we're on the right path."

"How is killing me on the path to paradise?" Sinbad's voice goes sharp and angry, expression stung. "I'm trying to make things better!"

"It's not my vision," Ja'far replies, indifferent. "But we didn't come to kill you, anyway. The emperor of Partevia asked for you alive."

"Then what was with trying to cut my throat open back there in the upper hallway?"

"Anemia would make you easier to transport."

Silence holds sway for a few moments as Sinbad stares at him—but really, what did he expect? Ja'far looks back, waiting for whatever silly question his new leader is going to ask next.

"And that's how he treats you, huh?"

Ja'far doesn't blink, mostly because he doesn't understand the question.

"How long has he had you smoking nava? It's already messed your voice up. And it's just a drug, anyway! You can buy nava at any port, or a dozen other things to get addicted to; that isn't 'paradise,' just a side-effect! It's just his way of using you!" Sinbad's eyes blaze as he leans forward; Ja'far can't tell if he's still hurting over the remark about the right path or if he's genuinely angry at the old man. It's an overblown response either way.

"Everyone uses everyone else," he answers. "Why are you so mad about—"

"No, they don't, Ja'far!" The use of his name prickles, a quick stinging shock that's much more surprising that Sinband's hands wrapping around his arms and shaking him. "People help each other; we help each other to lift up everyone! Things like kings and old men using people weaker than them; that's what I want to change! That's why I want the dungeon's power!"

"So you can make people follow your way instead?" Ja'far holds still under the touch, looking up at Sinbad. "Isn't that just your paradise? I don't mind," he reiterates at the other youth's hiss of breath. "I already said I'd go with you. I just don't understand why you're angry."

Sinbad releases him abruptly, leaning back. He looks away, lips twisting in frustration.

"How long have you been with the old man, Ja'far?" he asks, voice drained to coldness by his efforts to rein in his emotions.

"Since I was six."

Sinbad nods at the answer and turns away, lying down on the stone floor of the cave. His shoulders draw the line of his tunic into a hunched curve, rising once and trembling with the exhale as he mutters, "We'll talk about it again later. If we keep arguing it'll draw the monsters."

You're the one who's arguing, Ja'far thinks, but he doesn't say it out loud, just watches the older boy's hands clench to whiteness where they press against his sides. His own weariness is catching him up as well, and he drops his chin down onto his knees, watching his companion's clipped breathing slowly lengthen and steady as his eyes droop closed.

-ooo-

He comes to awareness in a small cave. A glance around the area takes stock, measuring his duties for the day. Light filters dimly into the hideaway through a cloak pinned over one entrance, and lying on the floor in front of him is a boy a few years older than him, purple-haired and snoring faintly—the target, Sinbad of Partevia.

Ja'far doesn't waste time trying to remember how he and the other boy wound up sleeping in here together. Whatever ruse it was must have worked, and now it's only a matter of getting back to the main group.

There's an itch beneath his skin, a restlessness, and the edges of the world are sharp and intrusive; too dark, too massive. Huddled in his mantle, he silently draws out his tinderbox and opens the lid. A crumbling greyish cube sits inside beside the flint—he didn't have any hasanava yesterday. The mission must not be over.

He eyes the sleeping boy's bulk. He can't remember how he coaxed him in here, which means he doesn't know how to coax him back out, and he's much too big to drag. And they're separated from the group, which means Ja'far will have to find the way back to Fatima and the others with the Partevian commander on his own, which he definitely can't do fighting a captive the whole way.

His gaze falls on the hasanava again. He'll probably be punished for taking it before the mission's done, but using it to complete the mission… With that he can probably skirt by without getting into too much trouble.

The coil of knotted cloth and fragments of bandage in his pockets tell him that he planned for this yesterday. He stands without a sound and moves to the entrance, where he arranges the items on the floor and, eyes darting back and forth to the boy sleeping further in, coaxes up a small flame. His blades slide into his hands easily and he turns the tips back and forth in the heart of the tiny fire, ignoring the heat—this has to be done quickly before the tinder runs out.

When the first wisp of dove-colored smoke rises acridly from the steel darts, he shifts them into one hand and uses the other to draw out a pinch of the hasanava. He drops it onto the point of the top blade and then begins to compress and spread it using the other, eyes half-closing as he ducks his face closer to breathe in the twining smoke.

As ever, the effect takes hold swiftly. He releases a soft sigh as the colors of the cave deepen with purples and dark gemstone greens, the sacred warmth of the hasanava melting through the coldness of his thoughts and leaving him serene and calm.

He returns the tips of the blades to the dying fire, pulling out a larger pinch of the drug. It will give Sinbad vivid visions, moreso than is ideal for traversing a dangerous area, but then, Ja'far can't have him shaking off paradise before the mission's over, can he?

His hair is pretty, Ja'far thinks absently as he crouches by the boy, smoking knives held beneath the Parvtevian's nose and slack mouth. Less shine than Fatima's, but brighter.

"Come on," Ja'far whispers. "We have to get back."

Sinbad opens golden eyes all but devoured by the black discs of his dilated pupils and looks up at him in hazy bewilderment. Ja'far smiles faintly and reaches out to stroke the other boy's hair, remembering Fatima doing him the same kindness for his first dose.

"Come on," he repeats, and Sinbad nods, rising to his feet with an unsteady obediance. Ja'far nods.

"Good. Lets go."

The drugs and history here are based very loosely on the original assassins, whom you may know from the first Assassin's Creed game if your history teacher didn't like teaching you about things that gave Saladin headaches. Though the stories about them being hashish addicts all worshiping their cult leader is probably a matter of some heated imagination on the part of one Marco Polo, it makes for an interesting story and is involved in the etymology of the word 'assassin'. In any case, I adopted it with some tweaks for use here. Fatima is a cameo from elsewhere; I make no apologies but do wholly blame the gal who instigated this fic.