-> Basim Ibn Ishaq x GN!Reader
-> You are the youngest child of Caliph Al-Mutawakkil during a time of war against the Byzantines. Basim is your personal guard and undercover assassin tasked with eliminating the Caliph
-> tropes: enemies to lovers-ish, forbidden love, arranged marriage
-> a/n: this is inspired from the "knight and the princess" trend, where the princess is getting married, the knight is crying under the armour, and Golden Brown plays in the background (beware angst). There might be some minor historical inaccuracies, but I was too excited to write this so shh
When he was only 8 summers along, Basim used to dream of being a woodcarver like his father.
Ishaq did it all – the math, the carving, the sanding and the building; the kind of architect who got his hands dirty instead of hiding behind drawn blueprints and barking orders at labourers. The passion radiated off of him in waves and lapped at the feet of little Basim. As a child, Basim would often awake to find a tiny horse on wheels at the foot of his bed, or an intricate box with engravings, or even a new wooden bowl he had accidentally broken a week before. He would later find his father downstairs working away on a new project, chisel and knife in hand, all ten fingers calloused and his smile warm. Ishaq had a talent to breathe life into dead wood and render it beautiful, no matter its size.
Basim was a lot like his father in that sense – he was crafty with tools and carried callouses on his hands too; only, instead of carving and creating, Basim sharpened blades and took lives.
It would be reasonable for an outsider to assume that his close affinity with knives resulted in him losing a digit on his left hand. The Caliph before him must have thought the same thing when his eyes first studied him, but Basim blended amongst the sea of Turkic soldiers, all scarred from past battles and willing to paint their body some more.
Tensions were rising in Baghdad and the surrounding villages had been feeling it for decades. Basim first felt the gravity of it all when his father sat him down one day and said he had to leave Samarra, when he begged the child not to cry or follow him into barren land. Basim didn’t understand then, but as he grew on the streets and witnessed the cruelty of al-Mutawakkil before any who opposed him, he understood what must be done.
His creed was his salvation – a newfound faith not to be blindly followed, but to serve others. There was no deity or figure to be worshipped other than those in need, a tenet the Caliph vehemently disagreed with. Empathy and pleasantries wouldn’t save him from the threats of the Byzantines. His orthodox and obsessive ways made him new enemies everywhere he went and burned all bridges – except for one.
The Turkic statesmen and slave soldiers offered allyship to fight against the Byzantines that were threatening al-Mutawakkil’s power, but even the additional help didn’t seem to ease the tension raging within the palace or the royal family. It seemed this mission wouldn’t be as quick and efficient as the creed had initially expected. Just a few weeks ago, while Basim was scouting the palace to end the Caliph’s life, he was greeted by a sudden commotion in the dining area where the family ate together – the guards rushing to the end of the table as al-Mutawakkil shook and foamed at the mouth, his eyes rolling back as the medic was called to the scene, the Caliph’s adult children screaming in horror. Al-Mutawakkil’s life was supposed to end there, but by some godforsaken miracle, he’d survived the ordeal. He was back on his throne after all the palace cooks were accused and executed, his eyes wild and vigilant and ten more Turkic soldiers by his side. Alas, everyone knew it was all an act. The public execution wasn’t the Caliph enacting punishment on those he believed had made an attempt on his life, but a statement – daring whoever hurt him to slip unnoticed through the sea of soldiers that now surrounded him. Someone got too close once and it almost cost him his life.
The palace now had more Turkic recruits than local, and it was getting more and more difficult for the Hidden Ones to locate their two targets. Forming an alliance with the undercover rebel and assassinating the Caliph was no longer a one-day job. It would require patience, observation, and precision. And so, as Rayhan and Roshan agreed, Basim was the safest option.
As Basim kneeled before the Caliph along with the other soldiers, he noted how the Caliph favoured his chest while he studied the lined up recruits, how he murmured to his personal guards like they were his political advisors. It seemed the poison incident had shaken him quite a bit, for he seemed to trust these foreign soldiers more than his own court or family. His servants were glued to the walls of the rooms, afraid to take up space. The Caliph’s oldest heir, Al-Muntasir, now had two Turkic guards at his side as his father sent a new soldier his way. Not out of care, lest his son is poisoned too, Basim reminded himself; but to keep an eye on him. Eventually, as the line thinned out, al-Mutawakkil stopped before Basim.
A beat of silence. Then, “You are from here.”
Basim nodded as he met his eyes. “I am Basim from Samarra, Calipha. I came to serve you in this time of need.”
Al-Mutawakkil watched him carefully, glanced at the guards behind him as if seeking approval in their eyes; and then, with a dismissive wave, he pointed at the smaller seat on the other side of his throne – to you, his youngest offspring.
“Very well,” he scoffed, not even bothering to check-in with you. “You shall be my youngest’s personal guard, and will report back to me.”
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