the angle, his beautiful, invisible, always present angle had wandered off. he didn't know their name, didn't know when or how they came and went, all he knew was that he wanted to keep them, claim them into his world, into the stunning world of Syria, 1195 BC. the angle was his, and he would let no other man nor women, no matter how holly or unholly touch the angle, his angle. halfway through a meeting with assassins of different far spread brotherhoods, his breathing stuttered. that soft all consuming presence was back and before he could think he was sprinting out of the meeting room, past startled novice's, bursting through doors as he followed that feeling until it got to strong to bare. the garden was where the presence, his angles presence, had brought him. there was the soft sound of gravel under foot and his eyes, trained form years as an assassin track the ground until he saw small foot prints leading deeper into the gardens. the air was hot, the sun high in the sky, the flowers where in bloom. he stumbled after the footprints, tracking them up to a wall, scaling it easily he jumped the wall, landing on soft sand. there, a few paces away was a body laying in the warm sand, sun glinting off their skin. that feeling was to much to handle and he knew he was looking at his angle, the one who haunted his dreams in the best ways and tore at his soul whenever they left