VoM SPOILER FREE, requested by @secretprotectorchaos <3
Summary: In AlUla, a single melody ties your fate to Basim’s search for his father. Months later at Lion’s Tomb, the same melody reunites you; two ouds, one lullaby and a night where music rises above every answered sorrow.
You pick up your oud, just as you do every morning and make your way toward the heart of the city. AlUla may be small but you’ve carved out a place for yourself here —teaching anyone with enough passion how to coax music out of the instrument you love. Everyone knows you; you’ve become the skilled musician of this little desert city. Sometimes, just for fun, you play for the people wandering through the bazaar. Markets in your homeland have never been only for buying and selling; they’re places of meeting, of stories, of decisions, of life itself. And you know that playing your oud there is its own kind of advertisement for your classes… especially for the children who stop in their tracks, eyes wide, watching your fingers dance across the strings.
Today is no different. On your way you exchange warm greetings with familiar faces and once you reach the center of town, you head straight for your usual spot —shaded, comfortable, with a few people already gathered and waiting for you. With a smile, you begin to play. The sound of your instrument spills into the air, weaving between the sandstone walls and the murmurs of the marketplace. Slowly, more and more people gather around you, drawn by the melody. You keep playing, feeling their appreciative gazes settle on you. These are people who truly understand the beauty of what you offer.
You play a few familiar songs, melodies everyone in AlUla seems to love, and when you reach the final one, you rise to your feet, letting the last notes ring out while standing. As the piece comes to an end, the crowd breaks into warm applause. A few moments later, people begin to drift back into the flow of the marketplace, each returning to their errands.
All except one.
Amid the dispersing crowd, a single man remains where he stands, unmoving as if still caught in the spell of the music. When your eyes meet his, you notice his dark clothing, the sword at his side and the quiet confidence in the way he carries himself. He watches you for a heartbeat, then smiles and steps forward.
AlUla is a small city. Faces become familiar quickly. But this man (about your age) is a stranger. The weapons he carries mark him as a fighter, perhaps a man accustomed to danger… yet that hardly surprises you. Art belongs to everyone, after all.
“Assalamu alaikum, ya sayyedati.” he begins, his voice respectful, his manner composed. “I was passing through the bazaar when I heard your melody. I came closer… and then, truthfully, I lost track of time. Your skill is remarkable.”
You return the smile as you gather your things, sliding your oud back into its leather case. “Thank you. You’re very kind.”
“Allow me,” he offers, stepping closer as if to help.
“No, it’s alright. I don’t have much to carry.” Your answer is gentle but curiosity nudges at you. “You’re not from around here… are you?”
For a brief moment, he hesitates; just a heartbeat of stillness as if he hadn’t expected the question. Then he smiles again, softer this time.
“My name is Basim,” he says. “And you’re right. I’m not from here. I come from Baghdad.”
“Hmm,” you say. “Yes, I had a feeling.” And so it won’t sound rude, you add, “I hope you have a good day.” With that, you turn and start walking toward your home. But you’ve only taken a few steps when Basim catches up to you again, matching your pace.
“You’re from here, aren’t you?” he asks.
“Yes.”
“I…” He starts to speak but waits until the two of you have passed through a cluster of people in the busy marketplace. Only when the noise thins does he lower his voice. “I’m searching for someone.”
You stop. Why you? You glance around, then back at him. “And why do you think I’d be able to find this person for you?”
Basim meets your eyes and says, “Because while you were playing, I heard a woman tell her daughter she’d bring her to you... that you’d teach her the oud, like the others.”
“So?” you ask.
“That means you speak to many people. Young and old. You seem to know this place… and its people.”
His logic is sound. Nothing about it feels dishonest. You offer him a small smile. “AlUla isn’t a big city. Yes, I know a lot of people. My name is y/n.” You point ahead toward a modest building not far away, the place you call home. “I’m usually there. Either teaching or practicing or just getting through my daily work. If you need help and if it’s something I can actually do, I’ll try.”
Basim nods and there’s something in his expression... gratitude, yes but also a faint tired sorrow hidden behind it. Still, he thanks you sincerely… and then turns to go; leaving you standing in the warm breeze of the marketplace, wondering who exactly this stranger from Baghdad is and what kind of person he seeks.
A few days pass and there’s no sign of Basim. You assume he must have found the person he was looking for. Life continues, your routine pulls you along and little by little the memory of that strange meeting in the bazaar begins to fade.
Until one morning.
Just after dawn, a faint sound drifts into your home from the courtyard —soft, delicate, unmistakably professional oud playing. Before you even know what you’re doing, you rise to your feet. There is absolutely no one in all of AlUla who plays with this level of mastery. Who would come into your courtyard at this hour and play with such skill? None of your students are anywhere near this good. Not yet. Not like this. Curiosity pulls you toward the window beside the courtyard. You move quietly, lifting your head just enough to see outside. And the moment your eyes find him, your whole body stiffens.
Basim.
The same man you met in the marketplace… sitting there in your courtyard, playing the oud with a tenderness and precision that steals the breath from your lungs. The melody is heartbreakingly beautiful, a soft lament that seems to soak into the morning air. He’s playing quietly, deliberately so, clearly not wanting to wake you.
Yet you remain frozen for several long moments, listening to every note, letting the sound settle into you like warm light. Eventually, though, you stand up and your shadow stretches across the ground in front of him.
Basim stops playing. He lifts his head, eyes rising to meet yours.
You’re so touched by the music, every note etched into your memory that you find yourself applauding before you even think about it.
Basim laughs softly and rises to his feet.
You walk down the steps, the early dawn light brushing past your shoulders and before he can say a word, you blurt out, “That was incredible! Truly… incredible. I was completely captivated.”
“Thank you.” he replies gently.
“I didn’t know you played the oud,” you say. “Let alone this well.”
“I used to play… a long time ago.” He lowers his gaze for a moment. “And I must apologize. I picked up your instrument without permission. I saw it there and something inside me... something I hadn’t felt in years urged me to try again. I didn’t mean to wake y —”
You cut him off with a quick shake of your head. “No, please, don’t worry about that. You never need to ask permission. I’m happy when someone who truly knows how to play picks up my instrument.”
The sky is still pale, the sun not fully risen but you can feel it —the weight in his mind, the storm behind his calm expression. You remember what he told you in the bazaar.
“So? Did you find the person you were searching for?”
It takes him a little longer than it should to answer. Finally, he says quietly, “No. Not yet.”
“May I ask who exactly you’re looking for?”
And Basim, almost whispering as if afraid even the morning breeze might carry the words, says, “My father. Ishaq.”
Now you understand. The sorrow in his eyes. The heaviness in his voice. How personal this quest truly is.
You offer him a warm, steady smile. “We’ll find him. Don’t worry. You can tell me about him… if you’d like.”
“I know no one else is here...” he murmurs, “but I still… can’t. Not here.”
You think for a moment, then say, “Well, I sometimes go to the Lion’s Tomb to practice. It’s not far by horse. You could tell me on the way.”
Basim considers this, then nods, “That’s a good idea.”
“Or...” you add lightly, “you can write it down for me. Makes it easier for me to remember.”
“That...” he says with a faint smile, “is better.”
It doesn’t take long for Basim to write down everything he knows. While he does, you wash a few pieces of fruit and place them neatly inside a small basket. When it’s time for him to leave, you offer the basket to him. Basim takes only a single apple, thanks you with quiet sincerity and walks away.
But the letter...
The letter refuses to leave your mind. You read it again and again in the days that follow, trying to match the details to anyone you know in AlUla. No matter how hard you think, the image of such a man, someone with these exact traits and this past, never appears in your memory. And a heavy question settles inside you: What if you can’t help him? What if you fail him completely?
Months pass. Not a word from Basim. Over time you’re forced to admit the truth: You’ve failed. You couldn’t remember his father, nor find him. And because Basim himself wrote that you must not ask others, your search ended before it could even begin. Still, the thought of him returns at the quietest moments... his tired eyes, his voice holding a weight too old for his age, the way he played your oud like something half-remembered from a childhood long time ago...
One evening, while at the Lion’s Tomb, you pick up your instrument merely to clear your mind. But without thinking, your fingers begin to play that melody... the one you heard only once, in the soft light of dawn. The one Basim played in your courtyard with such quiet longing. Up here on the hill, near the ancient rock-cut graves, the world feels different at dusk. The light fades slowly. The desert wind hums between the stone walls. It feels as though your only audience is the spirits; silent, invisible, listening.
Then suddenly, you hear some footsteps. Close. Fast. Your heart jumps. For a moment you think of the bandits, this place isn’t always safe at twilight. But then a figure emerges from the shadows. A familiar face. A familiar way of walking. And when he calls your name softly, you know.
Basim has returned.
When Basim finally reaches you, he doesn’t speak. He simply smiles, gentle, restrained but the sorrow behind his eyes is impossible to miss. This man truly lives up to his name; Basim... 'the one who smiles' no matter how heavy life rests on his shoulders.
“It’s been a long time...” you say softly, gesturing toward the empty seat beside you.
He sits down slowly, lowering his gaze to the ground. “It’s a long story...” he murmurs.
Telling him the truth might hurt you but he deserves honesty. “I looked for Ishaq.” you confess. “I thought about him constantly... tried to remember if I’d ever met someone like him. But...” you pause, feeling the weight of the admission, “I couldn’t find him.” You inhale deeply. “I hope... I hope you found some kind of answer on your own.”
Basim lifts his head. His eyes meet yours and in the absolute silence of the tombs, tears slip down his cheeks without a sound.
You move your chair closer, gently placing a hand on his shoulder.
“I found the answer myself.” Basim says at last, before covering his face with both hands. The moment he does, the quiet crying becomes a little heavier, a little less controlled.
You don’t speak. You know better. People need space to empty themselves —through tears, through words or through the silence of their own company. And here, in this lonely place between stone and twilight, he can have all three. So, a thought crosses your mind. You rise without a word and retrieve your own oud, along with the spare one you brought today to check its tuning. Carrying both, you return to him and offer him yours.
Basim wipes his face with the back of his sleeve, then takes the instrument from your hands.
And that is when you notice it... really notice it. His ring finger is missing. Yet despite that, his touch on the instrument is surely graceful. A master’s touch, truly.
“Amazing...” you whisper, a small admiring smile forming on your lips. “You’re missing a finger yet you play better than anyone I’ve ever seen.” For an instant, a thought flickers through your mind, was it taken as punishment for thievery? But you push it away immediately. You don’t judge people like that. You never have. And especially not him. Not Basim.
Basim says softly, “I truly didn’t expect to see you here today... and more than anything, I didn’t expect you to remember the song I played that early morning in your courtyard.”
You laugh lightly, “How did I play it? Was it any good?”
“It was!” he answers without hesitation, “Hearing that melody is what brought me here... up to this hill.”
“Art and music are miracles.” you say, “Maybe the only things we have left from heaven.” You take a seat beside him and continue, “I, too, was captivated by that melody. I watched you from the window... and that’s why I learned to play it. And now that same melody brought you here." you pause for a moment, "Now, I have a suggestion.” you add, eyes bright, “Life may be harsh but today, here and now, night falls but music rises. How about we play it together?”
Basim’s expression softens with genuine happiness. “This melody... it’s called Ishaq’s Lullaby. I learned it from my father. A long time ago.”
And right then, you understand why the song brought him to tears moments earlier. “I see... it’s a very personal melody for you.”
Basim nods, offering a small but sincere smile. You return the smile, say nothing more and simply begin to play. Basim joins you. In the quiet of the night, music becomes the only thing holding your hearts close. You both play the piece several times, letting the melody drift into the darkness.
When it finally ends, you say quietly, “You know, Basim... my oud should be yours.”
He looks at you in surprise but before he can speak, you add, “My oud belongs in the hands of someone who knows how to play it with their heart. You deserve it. Consider it a small gift from me.”
Summary: One bowl of pasta was all it took. Now he orders pizza with mission-level focus and considers you responsible for his happiness. Forever.
You never expected it to be pasta. But one night, after a long day, you convince him to try a simple bowl, nothing fancy, just penne with a good tomato sauce. So you order the food.
He eyes it like it’s some strange foreign object, raises an eyebrow and mutters something about modern decadence.
You try not to laugh but the way his face scrunches up is too cute to resist.
Still, he sits there patiently, as if he’s preparing for battle. Then he takes a bite. Then another. And suddenly you catch him finishing off his plate like he’s been starving for centuries.
You watch him carefully, half expecting him to declare it a bad choice but instead, his eyes soften a fraction and he looks… surprised. Almost embarrassed.
“You like it?” you ask, watching him devour the last bite of penne as if nothing else exists.
He nods once, very serious, “It’s… efficient. Balanced. Comforting.”
A small smile threatens the corner of your mouth. You lean back, pretending to be nonchalant while your heart is doing a little happy dance.
And when you order pizza the next day?
He’s already memorized his favorite toppings.
The other day, you watch him pick up the phone and order like it’s a mission and the way he says extra cheese makes your chest feel warm. You almost want to tell him he’s ridiculous. But you don’t. Because he’s smiling.
Now every time you suggest something else, he just says, “Is it as good as pizza? No? Then why bother?”
You laugh and tell him he’s insufferable.
He shrugs, “You fed me once. Now you’re responsible forever.”
And as you look at him, this stubborn, surprisingly tender man, you realize he’s not joking. He’s just… stuck with you.
Commit her face to memory. Because I’m about to throw her straight into Hytham’s arms!
Details under the cut! Read on!
About Patricia:
She’s the apprentice of a mysterious black haired woman who’s meant to be Basim’s match.
She has green eyes and long, wavy chocolate brown hair.
She’s extroverted, playful, a little reckless and dangerous.
She’s serious about her work but relaxed and free-spirited in how she interacts.
She has a way of making people (especially Hytham!) feel unsettled or flustered. 😂
From the very first moment, she gave Hytham a long look —bold, direct, unafraid.
She wears a small red sash around her waist and carries both a long sword and a bow.
She’s taller than average (roughly Hytham’s height or a bit shorter) and her frame is athletic yet distinctly feminine —strong, flexible and perfectly balanced.
She enjoys pulling reactions out of Hytham; less to fluster him but more to understand him.
About Hytham and Patricia’s future dynamic:
They start off bickering. Hytham thinks she’s too loud and dangerous.
She thinks he’s too uptight and goody goody.
But even from the beginning, they’re secretly drawn to each other —they just won’t admit it.
I think the combination of these two is clearly a balancing act. Patricia is life and fire. Hytham is silence and strategy. But together? They balance each other! ✨
Hytham: Structured, precise with language / Patricia: Playful, humorous, sarcastic
Hytham: In control / Patricia: A master of controlled chaos
Hytham: Drawn to silence / Patricia: Built to break it 😂
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They’re gonna be my chaotic power couple! And as you can imagine, there’s going to be a lot of cultural clashes! Annnnd shenanigans!
This drawing is barely finished but I just couldn’t wait to show it to you! The idea of pairing Basim and Hytham with two ocs has been nagging at me for a while and I’ve finally decided to write it down. This fic, I Believe Her, will be a Hytham & Patricia centered story, told about 80% of the time through Hytham’s pov. Of course, there will be mentions of Basim, Rasta (my oc), Eivor and the rest of the gang!
Ooh one last thing! This fic takes place completely outside of the Isu storyline!! Just people living their complicated, heartfelt, sometimes messy lives. Poor Hytham… he’s so doomed 🤝🏻 Because where Patricia pushes, Hytham resists. And where Hytham hides, Patricia teases. 😄
I’ve already written chapter one and it’s just a 2k chapter but the storyline and structure of the next few chapters are already mapped out! And no, I haven’t forgotten about the Basim alphabet series! How could I?!
I wrote these headcanons on July 31, 2025 and shared them here on tumblr. Now that I’ve posted them on ao3 as well, I decided to add the links to each one for easy access. Enjoy! ✨
You and Basim usually complete most of your missions together but today, your paths had taken you far apart. Mentor Roshan had asked him to check on one of the caravans outside Baghdad and make sure it reached the city gates safely. You, on the other hand, were tasked with something simpler; to swap a letter in one of a merchant’s chests with the one your mentor had given you.
Since your mission was easier, you returned home before nightfall.
Before leaving, Basim had told you his task might take longer than usual. You waited for him after dinner, all the way until midnight but exhaustion finally won.
His untouched meal still sat in the pot on the table as you grabbed a thin blanket and headed for bed. You told yourself he might not return until morning, that it only made sense to rest. It didn’t take long before sleep quietly pulled you under.
It’s been long past midnight and the sky is still dark. You can sense that dawn isn’t far —soon, the first call to prayer will echo through the city and the light will begin to break. But somewhere between sleep and wakefulness, you feel an arm gently slip around your waist from behind.
You’re not startled.
You don’t flinch.
You know exactly who it is.
A faint smile tugs at your lips before you even open your eyes.
Basim chuckles softly under his breath and in a sleepy voice you mumble, “Basim… you really need to work on your stealth skills.”
Settling down beside you, he whispers back, “Apologies! I didn’t mean to wake you, Hayati.” [my life]
Without another word, you tilt your head back slightly as his other arm slides beneath your neck. It’s a familiar gesture —one you’ve both grown used to. He tightens his hold around your waist just a little and you instinctively shift closer, resting your hand over the arm beneath your head. In all the years you’ve been together, quiet nights like this are rare. There’s almost always a mission, a trip or something waiting to pull you both away. Maybe that’s why these calm fleeting moments feel so precious.
Softly, you ask, “Was the mission successful?”
Basim hums in reply, “It was. But I’m just glad it ended early. I wanted to come home.” He waits for a moment, “And you?” he asks.
You grin, voice still hushed, “Done to perfection.”
He smiles against your hair, recognizing it’s a line he often says. “Good. We’ll have to report to Roshan tomorrow.” he murmurs.
Instead of answering him, you slowly turn in his arms until you’re facing him.
Basim’s hands stay where they are —one beneath your neck, the other still wrapped around your waist. Even in the dark, it doesn’t matter that you can’t see much; you know every line of his face by touch. The face of a man you love; a face you wish to watch grow older year by year.
He presses his forehead to yours, pulling you closer. A loose strand of his hair falls across his face and you gently tuck it behind his ear, tracing the curve of his cheek with your fingertips.
You whisper, “Sometimes I think no one understands love and life the way two people do when every mission could be their last.”
Basim hums softly in agreement, “True. Though most people wouldn’t see it that way. Not that I care what they think.”
You chuckle, “Really?”
He lets out a quiet laugh, “Yeah. Maybe I’ve never told you this but once… when we had one of the Caliph’s soldiers hostage, he told me I was insane for joining the Hidden Ones. Said the Caliph would have us all executed. That I should’ve been a soldier like him, serving the Caliph instead.”
You laugh again and so does he.
“I told him” Basim continues, “if the Caliph’s rule was just and good, we wouldn’t be here in the first place. He didn’t have much to say after that.”
You smile, “Yeah, that’s the first time I’ve heard that one. Good answer.” You rest your head against the spot between his shoulder and neck, placing your hand over his chest.
He lowers his chin to rest it gently atop your head, “People don’t realize,” he murmurs, “that we’d give our lives not just for the Creed but for the ones we love.”
You hum softly in reply.
“But you know,” he adds, his voice quieter now, “unlike everyone who says they’d die for love… I’d rather live for it.”
His words, his scent, his warmth —everything about him makes you feel safe. Yawning, you smile drowsily and mumble, “That’s exactly right.”
Noticing the sleep creeping into your voice, Basim chuckles, “I talk too much, don’t I?”
This time, you can’t hold back your laughter —a sleepy, playful laugh. And before he can react, you suddenly push him with both feet.
Basim yelps in surprise and tumbles off the bed onto the carpet, still grinning.
Laughter fills the quiet room.
Between the laughter, you finally manage to say, almost dramatically, “You just can’t help it! Every time we’re together, you trail from stars to stories to secrets.”
Basim, still lying on the thick crimson Persian carpet beside the bed, wipes the tears of laughter from his eyes with both hands, his gaze fixed on you.
You seize the moment to tease him more, “Yes! You’re the most talkative person I’ve ever seen and —” You’re still laughing as you crawl off the bed, drop to all fours and tumble down beside him, “And I love you for it.”
Basim’s laughter softens. He wraps an arm around you, presses a small kiss to the tip of your nose and murmurs, “I know.”
You shift back a little, reaching up to pull the blanket down from the bed. Before you drape it over both of you, you toss your leg across his.
Under the thin blanket, he shifts a little more, facing you again —now lying together not on the bed but on the Persian carpet that’s just as soft.
You close your eyes with a sleepy smile, ready to drift off again, when Basim speaks quietly, “By the way… did Fuladh tell you that if we fail one of our missions in Baghdad, the war might reach Alamut?”
You open your eyes. Behind him, the window is faintly glowing —dawn is breaking.
You smile and whisper, “Yeah, he did. But say it again, since the sun’s up now and sleeping’s impossible.”
Both of you laugh again, soft and tired, as the first light of morning fills the room.
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An Archive of Our Own, a project of the Organization for Transformative Works
So I have a ✨ cute ✨ drabble idea with mirage Basim… cuddling in bed with the reader. Nothing steamy, just some quiet sweet quality moments. What say you? 👀 Should I do it, should I not???
(This is my way of saying I’m slowly coming back to writing stuff and to finally get to the requests waiting in my inbox!)
So if you think this is just an ordinary Basim pic… oh no, you’re wrong. This single shot, this single location completely hijacked my brain and… well, I ended up writing a little nsfwish piece for Mirage!Basim. It’s short but honestly I kinda love how it turned out. 🫠😍
Hi! :D I've been meaning to send an ask for a while but I haven't really figured out a reason to, so I was wondering if you also have any hcs regarding Hytham or Basim you'd like to share? I'd be very interested to hear about them! 🫖✨
(Sidenote, if you have already talked hcs somewhere else then I apologise for not seeing it, I haven't been able to keep up with tumblr lately 😅)
Hiiii!! Look who’s here! Banshee! One of my top favorite writers in this fandom! Welcome!!
Alright, everyone, gather around the table because we’re about to have a lot of talking and yes, we’ve got tea too ☕️✨
To be honest, I’ve never written a full hc post for Basim and Hytham before but I’ve sprinkled bits and pieces across my posts and fics from time to time. This ask turned out to be the perfect chance to put everything together in one place and I really hope you enjoy it! 🙆🏻♀️ Btw, when it comes to Basim, I’m too far gone; there are three Basims for me: Mirage, Valhalla and Modern. Each one has a distinct vibe, so I’ll be writing about all of them. And Hytham! Ban, you know him so well that I’ve come to believe he’s actually your oc but I’ll do my best! 🙂↔️
Read on! Fandom Brain™️ is ACTIVATED : ↓
Mirage Basim
He often has a soft smile on his face, like a quiet reassurance, a warm promise —just like his name, he’s a fleeting comfort in a harsh world. He jokes sometimes but never too much, never too loud. His humor is dry, subtle, like a breeze in the heat.
Basim is the kind of friend who checks in, even if it’s just a look. He’ll defend you behind your back without hesitation and put himself in harm’s way if it means keeping you safe in person. He wants to be someone his friends can rely on.
Deep down, he’s lost. Conflicted. He’s trying so hard to prove himself —to the Hidden Ones, to Roshan, to Dervish and most of all, to himself. That pressure fuels him, drives him to throw himself into every mission with reckless devotion, even if it means going against those he loves.
He finds peace in silence —especially alone on rooftops, watching the stars over Baghdad. Sometimes he lets a friend join but it’s rare. He treasures those quiet moments more than anyone knows.
He craves connection. Family, friendship, love —he’s starved for it all. What he wants most is someone who believes in him, supports his growth and accepts him exactly as he is, without conditions.
Sensitive, idealistic and still inexperienced in life, he clings to the idea of justice —not just for himself but for the world. Even if justice was never served to him, he still believes in fighting for it. Maybe, just maybe, someone else can live a better life because of his choices.
For some reason, I’m convinced he sleeps under a thick blanket even during the hottest nights in Baghdad. Don’t ask. I don’t know why either. 😂
He’s incredibly warm in his social interactions. Quick to joke, quick to connect, quick to ask you how your day was —he genuinely wants to know. He dives into friendly debates with ease, whether it’s about battle strategy or which market stall has the best figs.
He rarely disagrees with you outright —whether it’s about going left instead of right in a fight, choosing spices at the bazaar or even letting the Banu Musa brothers drag him into their chaotic inventions. He’s just… cooperative like that.
Oh and Basim falls in love fast. A little kindness, a spark of warmth and he’s suddenly wondering what your favorite book is and whether he can walk with you on your way home. “Wait, where did you say you’re from? What were you reading? Want some company?”
He’s a bookworm through and through. Loves poetry. Probably has lines memorized that he won’t admit to knowing.
Impeccably clean. His clothes, his room, his blade —all spotless. He finds comfort in neatness. It’s the one part of his life he can control.
Basim remembers everything. Especially when it comes to the people he cares about. That offhand comment you made weeks ago about your favorite food? He’ll bring it to you without a word. Mentioned a book you liked? He’s already found it for you. Told him you were scared of thunderstorms? He’ll show up the next time it rains, silently, without asking —just to sit with you.
And yes. He knows he’s beautiful. 😌 Maybe not in the loud, cocky way but trust me, he knows. Every version of Basim carries a healthy dose of vanity, the kind that comes from knowing the power of presence. He won’t always show it but his eyes light up when you compliment him. If you tease him for checking his reflection in a window, he’ll scoff. Deny it. Say he was “just looking for threats.” But watch him closely —he’ll still fix that one rebellious strand of hair once you turn away.
When he’s around someone he really likes? Oh gods —Basim TALKS. A lot. He just can’t help it. He’ll tell you everything, from some old gossip about Roshan (“she totally pretends she doesn’t like sweets but I’ve seen her steal sweets from Dervish’s shelf”) to bits of his own past that no one else knows. 😄 At night? Good luck getting him to shut up. He’ll keep talking, voice soft and low, trailing from stars to stories to secrets. And even if the moment’s supposed to be romantic, candlelight, gentle touches, lips hovering close, you’ll still have to grin and whisper, “Shhhhh…” before kissing him just to quiet him down. He’ll laugh into your mouth tho.
This version of Basim is much warmer than the ones we meet later. He trusts more easily. Opens up faster. There’s still pain in him, yes but his heart hasn’t learned to build walls quite yet.
Oh and he can draw. Really well. It’s something he’s always kept close, a little quiet joy just for himself. Whenever he sees one of his “wanted” posters slapped on the walls of Baghdad, he can’t help but pause and shake his head in disappointment. “They butchered my nose.” he mutters every time. And if no one’s looking? He sometimes sketches a mustache on the poster before walking away.
Basim barely sleeps. It’s not insomnia —it’s avoidance. He’d rather stay awake than face the nightmares that always seem to find him. But still, in those fragile, quiet hours of the night, what he really wants… is someone there. Not to talk. Not even to touch. Just someone breathing beside him so he doesn’t feel alone in the dark. Because when he’s awake, loneliness is the real nightmare.
He loves sitting by the fire with others —listening more than speaking. He’ll lean back, arms crossed, a faint smile tugging at his lips as the others tell stories or argue about nonsense. You might think he’s zoning out but he catches every word. Every laugh. Every sigh. There’s a calm in those moments that he rarely gets elsewhere.
Occasionally, Basim gets curious about food. He’s usually simple with his tastes but every now and then, he’ll try something from a culture far from his own just for the experience. He won’t always like it but he’ll try it with an open mind. And sometimes, quietly, he’ll ask what it’s called and where it came from —just in case he wants to try it again someday.
And there’s one thing everybody agrees on: he’s been a sub ever since the trailer dropped. We all felt it.
Valhalla Basim
This Basim is not the same as he once was. He’s colder now. Guarded. Sharply aware of every weakness —especially his own. He’s the most fragile version of himself and it shows not in tears but in silence. In calculated distance. In how much he doesn’t let you in.
Unlike mirage Basim (who’ll meet you halfway if you take a step toward him) valhalla Basim pulls away. You reach out? He retreats. Every inch closer you try to get, he adds a layer of armor.
You need to give him space. And time. A lot of it. Whether you’re trying to be his apprentice, his friend, his ally (or gods forbid, his partner) you won’t get far if you rush him. His heart is a fortress with a hundred locked gates.
And if you do take a step closer and he lets you in? Be careful. It probably means he’s planning something. He’s never careless. If he opens the door, it’s for a reason. And that reason may not be you.
His trust is nearly impossible to earn. But if you do earn it —congratulations. You’ve just cleared stage 1/10. Don’t get cocky.
He takes responsibility for everything. He’ll carry the weight of the world if he has to. And if you’re under his protection, he’ll defend you with a ruthlessness that borders on terrifying.
For some reason, this Basim loves soft music. Anything gentle, slow or melancholy. He’ll listen whether it’s being played in Ravensthorpe, Constantinople or Baghdad. He won’t play it himself (that part of him died long ago) but he listens. Always.
He no longer draws. That artistic side of him? That was mirage Basim. Valhalla Basim left it behind like so many other things he no longer lets himself feel.
On the other hand, he’s never looked better. This, oh, this Basim takes immaculate care of himself —his appearance, his voice, his movements all deliberate, all disarming. And yes, he knows it. He knows exactly how attractive he is and he will absolutely weaponize it if it serves his goal. 😌
He holds grudges. Deep, cold ones. He doesn’t forget who hurt him, who betrayed him or who failed to see him. 🫣
Wiser now, more experienced and far more calculating —he’s stopped chasing connection. He doesn’t need friends. Doesn’t care if he’s loved. Whether he has one ally or a hundred or none at all —it doesn’t matter. Except for his partner. If he chooses one, that person has to be his. Entirely.
If he ever senses distance from you? He’ll withdraw first. Cut you off before you get the chance. You’ll never know how much you meant because he won’t let you.
Marriage? Don’t count on it. This Basim doesn’t believe in permanence —not anymore. Nothing lasts, so why should love?
And while mirage Basim was all chatter and warmth, this Basim… listens. Watches. Waits.
He likes to debate —not to argue but to test you. To see if you’re sharp enough to keep up. If you are, maybe (maybe!) he’ll let the silence between you mean something.
He is extremely competitive but only when it matters. He won’t bother proving himself unless the stakes are high, the opponent worthy or the outcome meaningful. He doesn’t waste energy on games. But if something does matter to him? You’ll see just how precise, sharp and deadly he can be when he wants to win.
After losing Enkidu, he eventually bonds with a sleek black stallion —not just any horse. This one’s trained in advanced battlefield maneuvers, including capriole (a powerful leap-and-kick movement usually reserved for elite warhorses). Basim brings this horse with him to England. It’s not just transportation. It’s loyalty. It’s memory. It’s a living weapon that moves as part of him. 🐎
When if he sleeps he lies completely still, flat on his back, arms sometimes crossed or resting at his sides like a statue carved from old stone. He doesn’t shift or turn. He doesn’t mumble. He looks like a warrior laid to rest. And if you so much as breathe near him? He’s awake. Eyes open. Instantly. Alert.
In private (very private!) Basim has a soft spot for praise. He won’t ask for it, never would. But when someone he trusts tells him they’re proud of him, that he’s strong, that he’s beautiful… he listens. He remembers.
And though no one would ever guess it, there are rare, vulnerable nights when he lays his head in his partner’s lap —quietly, without saying a word. His body still tense but his eyes closed. He’ll let them run fingers through his hair and he won’t speak. He doesn’t need to. In that silence, something unspoken and sacred passes between them. A trust deeper than words.
And this last hc might not be everyone’s cup of tea but hear me out: Sometimes I think that only a young woman with a chaotic mind and a tired heart could ever look at Basim, understand him, punch him in the face and still end up trying to save him. And that woman… is Eivor.✨🍷
Modern Basim
This Basim is gentler. Calmer. Wiser. He’s been through fire and come out of it not untouched but transformed. The rage has quieted, the ambition tempered. He still has sharp edges but he chooses when to show them.
He keeps a journal. Of course he does. It’s not for show because he never lets anyone read it. But in it are his thoughts, his memories, his questions, his regrets. His goals. Sometimes, he writes just to hear his own truth. Sometimes, he writes because it’s the only way to stay grounded.
He’s far less vain now but he still takes care of his appearance. His grooming, his clothing, his posture —all neat, all deliberate. It gives him a sense of control, of clarity. And yes, his apartment reflects the same; minimalistic, clean, calm. A sanctuary, not a fortress.
He listens to everything. 😅 Jazz, pop, electronic, traditional Arabic music. But if you really watch him (really know him), you’ll see his soul shift when classical strings play or when the grit of soft rock fills the room. He may not know the names of the genres but they feel right to him.
When he gives gifts, they’re never generic. Always thoughtful, always personal. A favorite flower pressed into a handmade bookmark. A card written in his own steady hand —not with grand words but with sincerity. He believes meaning is everything.
He’s more honest now. More direct. There’s a quiet strength in how he speaks. Like someone who’s lost enough to no longer be afraid of losing. You can’t really take anything from him because everything that mattered, he’s already let go of once.
Oh and that Staff of Hermes? He’s repurposed it. It’s now integrated into his hidden blade. Subtle, lethal, invisible. Always with him, just in case. Just in reach. No flash, no show. Just function. 😌 ( I’m still so proud of this hc!)
His hair is usually tied back in a bun —not for the aesthetics (though yes, he knows he looks good) but because he hates it getting in his face. Especially when he’s working. It’s practical first, then beautiful. (But he definitely notices when you stare. And he smirks. Just a little.)
If you’re someone he truly trusts and if he’s having a hard time emotionally, he’ll come to you. Quietly. No warning. Fully dressed. He’ll lie down beside you without a word. No explanation. Maybe he falls asleep. Maybe he doesn’t. But he needs you there. He doesn’t say it. Doesn’t have to. He came to you. That means something.
He’s incredibly patient. Quietly, almost unnaturally patient. He’ll wait through rants, hesitations, even insults —watching, listening. But make no mistake! His patience is not infinite. Mirage Basim was sensitive. Valhalla Basim was dangerous. This Basim? He’s… both careful and calm. You can relax around him. Just don’t mistake calm for weakness.
You know what? Basim loves wrapping his arm around his partner’s waist. Whether you’re walking side by side, standing in a crowd or just lying down together —his arm naturally finds its place there. It’s not just possessive. It’s grounding. It means, “you’re here and I’m here and that’s enough.”
Speaking of a partner… yes, he wants one! Maybe even needs one. 🤷🏻♀️ But he chooses with absolute care. In his heart there’s always a quiet fear, “What if I lose them?” He knows he can’t die as long as he carries the staff. But they? They’re mortal. And if he ever truly falls for someone… He’ll find a way. Trust me. A way to keep them with him… in this world or another.
Technically, he’s 1181 years old. So when you two walk through a museum, he sometimes stops in front of an artifact and says softly, “That belonged to me.” Or “This doesn’t belong in glass. It belongs beside me.” And people might start whispering, pointing —trying to figure out if he’s joking or if they should alert security. But you just laugh and say, “My fiance’s obsessed with ancient history. He really wants a job here.” You elbow him hard and whisper through gritted teeth, “Basim! Stop it.” He just chuckles under his breath, leans toward you and murmurs, “Where’s the lie? I am an ancient artifact.” (You know some of his memories are older than our entire civilization 💀😂)
He likes pasta. For some reason. Maybe because you do. You once mentioned Alfredo as your favorite food and when he heard the name, his face visibly dropped. “It means… the wise counselor. I once knew someone by that name.” You didn’t ask for details. (My favorite pasta, actually! Alfredo… Alfred o… Alfred oh?! 💀 Fellow Italian friends! Where you at? 🍝 Okay this one was way too personal lol)
He’s great with animals. One time, walking past a vet clinic and a pet store, he stopped and stared through the window like a child. “I think… I would have liked working in a place like this,” he murmured, “Healing. Caring. No blood on the floors.”
When he hugs, he doesn’t rock side to side or squeeze too tight. He just holds you —still, strong and steady. The kind of hug that says, “I’m here. You’re safe.”
The modern world? He finds it fascinating. Chaotic. Alive. Full of shallow beauty and hidden rot. He once said, “Humans today are like glass; clear, sharp and easy to break.” But he also added, “They’ve always been like this. Even in my time, we mistook movement for meaning.”
And yes, he still thinks about Hytham. 🥺 The boy who called him mentor. The boy who trusted him completely. “He was like a son,” Basim admits quietly. “And I left him.” He doesn’t know if Hytham will ever forgive him. But he hopes.
Hmmm… Basim’s desk is a world of its own! In the modern day, his workspace isn’t flashy or overcrowded; it’s curated. A single plant. A handmade paperweight. Several pens, each lined with precision. And most importantly, a leather-bound journal always open, always half filled. His handwriting is… good.
Sometimes he can’t sleep. Not because of nightmares; those are long past. But because his mind won’t stop. He’ll pace the kitchen barefoot in the dark, sip water, lean against the counter with a faraway look in his eyes. If you wake up and come out to find him like that, he won’t say much. Just a small tired smile and maybe, “I wasn’t always like this. I used to sleep like a rock under the stars.” If you walk over and wrap your arms around his waist from behind, he melts —a soft hum in his throat, one hand rising to hold yours. He’ll finally whisper, “Let’s go back to bed. Not because I’m tired… but because you’re there.”
When things get intimate, modern Basim doesn’t need to say much. One look (slow, deliberate, dark) and your knees go weak. His voice? That low whisper against your ear that ruins you for the rest of the night. You’ll never win at this game. And he knows it.
Hytham
To Hytham, Basim was never just a Mentor. He was a guide. A standard. A shadow. And sometimes (painfully so!) a stranger. There were nights Hytham would sit by the fire, sharpening his blade in silence, while Basim paced the far edge of camp, lost in thought, unreachable. Hytham would look up and wonder, “What are you thinking?” Basim was a thousand miles away, emotionally and physically. And yet… he was the person Hytham admired the most. Someone he wished he could understand. Someone he wanted so badly to save. (What is a drabble? What is a hc? 🫠)
Even if Basim never said it, Hytham knew. Knew the quiet glances of approval. The subtle corrections. The way Basim would let him take the lead on missions just to build his confidence. And when Basim disappeared (when he was gone) Hytham kept telling himself, “He was proud of me. He had to be.” He wore that belief like armor. Not for protection but for warmth.
Hytham never understood why Basim let Eivor keep the Hidden Blade. It went against the Creed. Against everything they’d been taught. He never asked directly; Basim wouldn’t have answered anyway. But the memory lingered like a thorn, “Why her? Why break the rules for her?” Hytham didn’t hate Eivor. He just hated the things he’d never get to understand.
Even after Basim was gone, Hytham kept thinking about what else he could’ve learned. Basim never talked much but when he did, the words mattered. And sometimes… Hytham would dream of finding an old notebook, something Basim had left behind. Some final lesson, written just for him. But there was nothing. So Hytham tried to live in a way that would honor him instead.
Hytham received something from Eivor. A brooch. It used to belong to Basim —worn at the base of his cowl, near his heart. Only much later did Hytham realize the carvings on it weren’t random; they depicted three figures from an old myth, the children of Loki. He never found out why Basim had chosen that symbol. But he kept the brooch anyway. 🥺
He can cook! And he’s good at it; simple meals, practical flavors, nothing fancy. He’s not trying to impress anyone. He just wants to make sure the people around him are fed and safe.
He spends most of his time in the bureau (bent over books, scrolls and reports) but that doesn’t mean he’s unaware of what’s happening around him. He has a quiet sense of humor and surprisingly good banter with Randvi. (Not romantic. Not even close. She belongs to someone else and he respects that.)
He’s always dreamed of finding one of the six Hidden Ones bureaus himself. 😭 Discovering it, stepping into the ruins and uncovering stories no one’s heard in centuries. But he knows his body won’t let him do that. Not alone. Not anymore. Still, he’d give anything to be at Eivor’s side when she finds the next one. (Our poor little meow meow)
The pain in his back is… constant. Some nights he barely sleeps, shifting restlessly on the hard wooden bed, biting down on curses. He doesn’t complain. He just gets up earlier. (He calls it his own fault.)
He has Basim’s hunger for knowledge but with a softer edge. His handwriting is neater tho. If Basim ever saw his personal scrolls, he’d probably roll his eyes and say, “Why does this look like a monk copied it?”
He never borrows Basim’s tools. Even if he loses his own whetstone, he won’t ask. Not out of pride but out of principle. Some things you just don’t share.
Hytham speaks more languages than most people have fingers! (Banshee once said this and he was right) When a strange letter arrives in Ravensthorpe, the entire longhouse goes silent, then turns to Hytham. He’s already reading it. Brigid’s poetry? He almost understands it. Gunnar thinks he’s bluffing.
He’s not all sunshine. There’s darkness in him. A part of him shaped by shadows and loss. But unlike Basim, he’s learned to hold it still. Taught by Reyhan, mastered by himself.
He once asked about Roshan! The name came up, once or twice. He’d always hoped to meet her —mentor of his mentor. But every answer was the same, “She’s long gone, child.”
Hytham knows Basim is in exile. He doesn’t know why and he’ll never ask. What matters is that Basim still walks beside him. Not every scar needs pointing out.
He listens. To Petra’s wild hunts, to Tarben’s stubborn bread recipes, to Yanli’s trade stories, to Gunnar’s hammer-heavy memories. Everyone, really… except Dag. Dag talks and Hytham just… leaves. (Everyone hates Dag and Dag hates everyone 🤷🏻♀️)
He misses his homeland. But Ravensthorpe feels like home. Basim noticed once and simply said, “You found what I couldn’t. Cherish it.”
Out of everyone in the settlement, Hytham worries about Eivor the most. Not because of the Hidden Blade or the burdens of her responsibilities but because he sees something in Eivor’s warrior spirit… something that could lead her down a path of isolation or even ruin. He’s tried, more than once, to talk to her about it… but he’s never quite sure how to do it without sounding like he’s scolding her.
Sometimes Hytham wonders; if his mentor had not been born human, what would he have been? A majestic black Friesian stallion, maybe. (That’s my favorite horse breed, hands down! 😭) Or perhaps a lone wolf, strong and relentless. There’s something about both creatures that remind him of Basim; fierce, untamed, always watching, always carrying more than they let on.
Hytham is faaaaar more warmhearted than Basim ever was. He speaks easily with people, blends into groups without trying and has a way of making others feel seen. Basim once told him, with a rare smile, “You remind me of who I used to be, long ago.”
