Your name? [ This truly threw Tazim off. That niggling sense of familiarity rose again- but this time it wasn't so easily pushed down, forgotten, or pushed off as coincidence. ]

You can't be. [ He insisted it now with an edge to his voice, the denial he was feeling present in his tone. ] It's impossible. My mother-

[ This was all becoming too personal, and Malik was drawing more out of Tazim than the younger man was willing to share. He steeled himself once more, pushing down all of the tumultuous feelings that the memories of stories about his father stirred. ]

Enough. My father is dead, I have seen his grave. [ An unmarked thing- that he had one at all was a surprise, Malik was lucky that while the Assassin's had chosen to follow Abbas, they had not allowed him to desecrate his father's body- or so he had heard. It was possible that those he had spoken to of the matter were lying, but Tazim preferred to take their words for truth. It was far better than the thought of the alternative; to think that not even his father's bones could rest. ] No matter how you seem to look like him- claim to share his name. It is not possible. Malik Al-Sayf has been dead for twenty years. Died the day Grand Master Altaïr fled, and never looked back.