Dion

ℰxpedition for the ℬanner of St. ℱriedrich

The morning of the duel, Najla had awoken as usual, repeated her morning prayers, and immediately set upon the task of preparing herself to face the events of the day. While for Ketill, that had meant servants to hand him weapons and help him into his armor, for Najla, it meant servants to fix her hair and fit her into her dress, finally placing that thin gold ring upon her head once they were finished. She looked every bit the Sultana whose honor would be restored, though she did not quite feel this way. Regardless of what happened today, she would find no victory. The most she could hope for was that her honor would be restored for her family’s sake, even if it would not do so in her husband’s eyes.

They would begin to head towards the duel early into the afternoon, as soon as Najla and her family were readied. The process went as expected, with her mother escorted by her father, Harith escorting Adina and his son trotting behind both of them, and finally, Najla, gripping onto Basim’s arm as they spoke. She could tell that he was trying to ease the nerves he imagined she held, and so Najla allowed him to do so, never quite telling him that she felt no worry. That would indicate that there was a desirable option, one she was worried they would not reach. All she could feel now was dread, and as they stepped towards the arena, she felt it consume her.

Here, they would have to exchange their niceties, following each of the tedious Sawarimic rituals to the letter, before they would be allowed to settle in their seats and watch. They had approached the Sultan as a family first, and Najla initially stood back and watched as he greeted them. It was custom, after all, for him to speak with his brother briefly first, and then it was Harith who’d approach him, bowing his head and kissing his hand, before carefully instructing Mehmet to do the same, though he would not understand the meaning of the gesture. Finally, it was Basim, after which her uncle finally motioned for Najla to come before him, to kiss his hand and press it to her forehead, before straightening up. Her family was not yet out of earshot, and Basim was only a few paces away, waiting to escort his sister again, but Najla was the only woman of their family who’d speak to the Sultan without her escort’s presence beside her. It would go unnoticed by most of the crowd, certainly, but to Osman’s family, Najla knew it would not be forgotten.

<“I admit, my blood, I was excited to see your Servant fight. I simply wish it had been under different circumstances.”>

<“As do I, Sultan. I cherish none of the blood that is to be spilled today, only the peace that it will bring.”>

<“I hope so. This will be the last day I hear of this matter again.”>

<“Yes, Sultan, it will. You have my word.”>

For a moment, Najla simply stood before her uncle, waiting for him to say something. He simply looked her over with that same gaze he’d held all day, all her life really, one that never quite betrayed what he was thinking about, only that he was thinking. Basim held a near-similar gaze when he was deep in thought, a shared quirk among blood that brought her some comfort, even when she was waiting for her Sultan to continue expressing his disapproval.

<“Are you nervous, Aynaya?”>

My eyes. These were the first words that brought a smile onto her face that day, however brief it was. It had been the nickname given to her as a child, not long after she had been given her own name. She’d heard it when she had scurried through halls as a child, and when her family had lovingly chided her afterwards. It had been years since then, and Najla had not heard the name in any voice but her mother’s for some time, so to hear her uncle speak it again felt strange. More than anything however, it gave her a brief hope, an indication that perhaps this would truly be over.

<“No, Sultan. I hold no fear of the Sawarim’s judgement. His will has acted upon me in far more trying ways, and each time, he has shown me that those who retain their loyalty to both him and to you, will always return to his graces. Whether I should win or lose today, so long as I emerge as a better servant to my God and my Sultan, I see no need to fear.”>

<“May the Sawarim will it so. Go, return to your family.”>

Najla nodded at the command, before leaning down to kiss her uncle’s rings again, finally turning and walking towards Basim to take his hand. He escorted her to return to her family, though Najla knew that this would not be the end of it. They had greeted the Sultan, acknowledged his impartial right to determine this matter as the enforcer of the Sawarim’s will, but now, they would be made to face their opponents. For Najla’s family, that would mean standing behind their daughter and drinking in the greetings of Osman and his family, but for Najla, that meant standing before Elif herself, to speak cordial words she did not mean. Hopefully it’d be one of the last times she’d have to do so.

So she waited amongst her family, where they would only have to wait briefly before Elif approached the Sultan, escorted by Osman, who could barely look Najla in the eyes as he walked by. Yet she would not tear her eyes off of him as he bowed low before the Sultan, straightening up to recite a few familiar lines before the Sultan was through speaking to him. Najla could only hope that Osman would not notice what she had suspected, that her uncle’s opinion of Osman had been substantially lowered by this matter. He had proven all too clearly that he had little ability to control his wives, and a man who could not even win the obedience of his wives would be hard-pressed to find it elsewhere. Her uncle’s opinion of Osman did not quite matter to Najla now, who knew that on some level, it would make Osman more reliant on her to keep his influence with the Sultan. After all, it seemed her uncle would forgive her eventually, though she did not yet know when. But these were not matters that could quite concern her now, for before she could think too long regarding the matter, Osman and his family had come to approach her. They greeted her father first, as expected, repeating the cordial greetings that she was certain none of them felt. Yet Najla could not listen to such words, for she was all too focused on the eyes she could feel burning into her, watching her so fiercely that Najla was worried she might speak.

Yet she was silent. Even when Elif and Osman came to Najla, and even as they forced out the few well-wishes and expressed their acceptance of the results, whatever they may be, she was silent. When all the niceties and formalities were over, and the families could move to ascend their platforms, Najla would have been quick to forget those piercing eyes, if it had not been for her brother’s soft whisper in her ear as they walked back.

<“Did you see the way she was looking at you?”>

<“I can’t blame her. I’m about to take her sons life.”>

An unpleasant matter, but the way Najla spoke of it seemed almost dismissive. It was not Osman’s mother she was worried about, after all. It was certainly regrettable, but there was little that her mother-in-law could do to her. It was her husband that she was worried about, and it was the look in his eyes that she could not forget, the one that told her she’d never be forgiven for this. It was this look that she tried to shake from her vision as they sat down in their seats, with nothing to do but wait for the fight to begin.

Even so, it seemed they’d find some entertainment while they waited, for Sa’aqr was quick to enter the arena. Najla leaned forward in her seat, ready for Ketill to exit after him, but a voice pulled her back quickly.

<“I don’t think they’re starting.”>

Najla moved back in her seat, looking up at her father as she replied. <“Then what’s he doing out there?”>

<“Embarrassing himself. These are the last words his mother will ever hear him speak, and they’re going to be lies.”>

This reply had come from her brother, though her father’s silence was proof enough that he agreed, though he wouldn’t say it. It would not take long for Najla to understand why, as Sa’aqr was quick to begin parading himself before the crowd, making grand gestures and making various grand claims about vanquishing a Servant to the crowd. It was an entertaining show, and though most of the crowd seemed to appreciate it, Najla found little humor in it. He would die soon, and each and every one of these claims would be forgotten once he did. A glance around at her family seemed to suggest the same, for those who had seen Ketill fight seemed to understand that these were the last few words he’d be able to speak. Those who had not seen her Servant were likely worried, or simply uncomfortable with the grandiosity of it all, bar Mehmet, who was enjoying the show all too much.

Finally, it was time, and the crowd’s attitude seemed to change entirely when Ketill stepped out, his armor flashing under the Sawarim sun. However excited they had been, however riled up Sa’aqr’s words had made them, the crowd seemed to quiet for a moment as they took in the beast their Sultana had brought. The facemask only made him more fearsome to look upon, and Najla felt as if she could see the ice of his eyes from where she sat. As the crowd’s volume began to rise up again, likely now excitedly discussing the ‘Bear of Broacien’, Najla’s mind had turned to another matter entirely, and she leaned over, whispering in Harith’s ear softly.

<“You never told me, what did you do with the armorer?”>

The question elicited a grin from Harith, who glanced down at her briefly before turning his gaze onto the arena once more. He had told her of the man’s transgression, and though he’d had to explain a few points regarding the armor to Najla, she had been quick to agree with Harith, this could not go unpunished. Yet Najla had left the matter to him, for it was Harith he’d lied to, after all, and Harith who had volunteered to find a just punishment.

<“You don’t need to hear about such violence.”>

<“What?”> Her whispering was slightly louder now, harsher even, though she could not quite tell if Harith was joking or not. <“You brought your child to see a man die, but you won’t tell me that?”>

<“He’ll see plenty more death before his time, I’m not going to pretend otherwise.”>

<“And I haven’t?”>

She would get no chance to pursue this further, at least not today. The silence of the crowd was quick to indicate what was about to happen, and the armorer was quickly forgotten as the prayers began. They were the same as ever, the familiar words that preceded harsh deaths and blood-stained sands, yet they felt different to Najla when she spoke them. The last time had been just before Thamud’s death, or the slow procession towards it, and even then, she had not felt that sense of dread in her stomach.

It would not be given long to settle, for as soon as the prayers were over, the fighters were ready to begin. Najla merely watched for a moment, though it was not long before her father spoke up, pointing out some of the details he believed his daughter was missing. Perhaps her father should have been whispering this knowledge to Basim, who would find far more use for it, but it was Najla that seemed far more eager to hear it. While Najla appreciated the distraction from the events that were to come, Basim would likely not be half as eager to have the details of the violence pointed out to him. And her father would be wasting his breath on Harith, who would be whispering the same to his son in time, but for now, was grinning like a maniac.

<“See how they’re testing each other? Watch the way they’re estimating each other’s movements.”>

He’d have to begin to explain some of the finer details to his daughter, who continued to ask her father questions about their movements, trying to see if she could understand the tide of the fight better this way. It was also a helpful distraction from her nerves, though Najla would not reveal this to her father as she continued to ask questions, hoping he wouldn’t notice. There was no sense in revealing her nerves to him, he was not a man that would help her to calm down. If that had been her goal, Najla would have asked her mother, but now, her father’s words were giving her some sort of insight she had not had before, which were a comfort in themselves at least.

She had felt a hint of nerves set in when Sa’aqr first struck out, grazing Ketill’s armor with his dagger, though it faded rather quickly when Ketill set upon him, slamming into his shield. Or rather, it was not Ketill that eased her, but Harith’s soft chuckle, as he leaned over where she sat to speak to his father.

<“Didn’t I tell you I wasn’t just wasting those shields? It’s no wonder he went through the supply!”>

Harith’s amusement had been a stark contrast to her father before, though this comment managed to bring a smile onto his face briefly. It did not last long, for Najla’s hand was quick to shove Harith out of her line of vision, letting him settle back in his seat as she focused on the fight once more. It seemed her father had caught the impressed look on her face when Sa’aqr dropped his shield to grab the spear, for he was quick to speak again.

<“He’s performing. Don’t let it worry you.”>

His words were affirmed quickly whenever Sa’aqr began to spin the weapon around in his hands, and so Najla simply watched as they finally approached each other again, as Sa’aqr moved to slam his spear into Ketill’s head. As the two tangled together, the fighting seemed to grow more violent, more brutish, and she felt her body tense as they exchanged blow upon blow. When they finally split apart, as Ketill moved back to call for an axe, Najla just watched the way they walked, feeling that dread seep into her stomach again. They were beaten and bruised already, there was no question as to that, and so she could only hope that they’d end this fight soon.

Unfortunately, she’d get her wish. The sounds of the crowd cheering and gasping fell silent as the pounding of Najla’s heart rose in her throat. He’d been hit. She could not tell how badly, but the nerves she’d been trying so desperately to hide showed themselves now, as she gripped her father’s hand tightly. He said nothing as to this, offered no words of comfort, for soon Sa’aqr’s yell filled the arena as Ketill dragged him down, only to be followed by a familiar voice.

Najla looked up across the arena, only to settle her eyes on her husband. He looked terrified, as did his mother, both watching as Ketill raised the axe towards their son. Though she glanced down when Ketill struck, the excitement of the arena would not be able to keep her attention for long, and her gaze returned back to her husband. For a moment, Najla felt only pain, remorse that she had caused such a hardship upon the man she loved. This would not last, for a stern voice in her ear would be quick to redirect her attention.

<“Don’t look away. You sentenced him, you owe him that much.”>

So Najla looked, her expression fading to something completely unreadable, no trace of the remorse or pain, no sense of worry or fear. She merely watched as Ketill pulled the tip of the spear out of his side, raising it in the air, and though her father had told her to look at Sa’aqr, her gaze was on Ketill. She could not read his expression from behind the facemask, but Najla felt as if she could feel his eyes on her, boring through her, harsher than any weapon he’d touched before. Perhaps she was imagining it. Her eyes followed the spear as he lowered it, stabbing it through Sa’aqr’s neck, twisting it and letting the man fall upon the sand. The crowd roared to life behind her, even as Najla watched the blood spread across the sands, staining each grain. She’d sentenced her brother-in-law, and now, the crowd behind her cheered even as her husband grieved across from her. Perhaps she would suffer for this too, later, when the people realized they were cheering for a Servant. For now, they had seen only violence, and they had loved it.

The crowd would quiet as the Sultan stood from his throne. His voice carried across the arena, announcing that the Sawarim had decided in Najla’s favor, officially deciding this matter. As ritual demanded, he would turn to Najla’s family then, and call for them to demand their recompense. This compensation typically varied, from a small sum to the murder of a near relative, depending on the crime. But as promised, Najla shook her head at her father, who stood, his voice answering his brother’s question on her behalf. It was a strange comparison to the first time Najla had sentenced Ketill, where she had stood to announce her will to the court, but it seemed here, in the face of violence, the Sawarim had separate rules about their women’s roles. It mattered little to Najla, who could only tear her gaze off of Ketill when the Sultan would accept this notion, leaving before allowing the crowd to disperse after him.

<“My daughter says she will reject any Qisas that is offered. This suffering is regrettable, and we will see no more of it.”>

With that, it was over. The Sultan would leave, and the crowd would move out just after, gossiping and talking amongst themselves about what had just happened. Najla’s family would not remain, but leave just after the Sultan. She could hear Harith and Adina’s hushed arguing behind her, likely about the violence their son had just witnessed, she could hear Mehmet speaking to Basim, who pulled his nephew along as he spoke about anything but the violence the boy had just witnessed, and finally, her parents, though she could not quite hear what they were saying. Najla however, was quiet up until a slave ran up to approach her, bowing quickly.

<“Sultana, forgive me, the Servant-“>

<“Has a healer gotten to him yet?”>

<“Yes, Sultana.”>

<“Good. If he needs further attention, have the healers sent to his room. And instruct his servant to notify me once he’s healed. Otherwise, I don’t want to hear anything more regarding him unless he dies.”>

---

The Sawarim believed in burying the dead as soon as they were allowed, and so Sa’aqr’s body would be taken quickly, carried off the arena and into a temple. Here, he was joined by his male kin throughout the day, who were tasked with cleaning the blood off his body, preparing him to meet his God. Perhaps it was a cruelty, to force family to do so mere hours after his death, but the Sawarim God was not a soft God, they had long since seen that. Once they were done, they’d wrap his body in a white cloth, securing it tightly with rope, before leaving him to wait until they could bury him. As with all other aspects of their lives, death was a highly ritualized process, and so they would have to wait until the next day to bury him during the proper hours. Until then, they would allow visitors. First it was Osman and his family, of course, but they tapered off throughout the night, until Najla could finally call upon him herself.

The sound of her steps against the tile seemed to reverberate against the temple walls, indicating just how alone Najla was now. There was only Sa’aqr before her, though he was not the man he remembered. She had recalled him as a boastful man, entertaining when he was drunk, prone to large gestures and a penchant for playfully teasing his younger brothers. Now he was a corpse, wrapped tightly in white cloth and set upon a slab of marble. Though his body had been cleaned, so that the white cloth could not be stained despite the injuries that had left him here, it still smelled. Najla was hard-pressed to keep from wrinkling her nose, and instead uncorked the small bottle of pressed rosewater she had gripped in her hand, holding it to her nose as she walked closer.

Najla seemed to hold no fear of a corpse, and so she felt no hesitation as she walked around the slab, stopping behind it to look down at the white cloth that so tightly wrapped his body. It was stainless, an indicator of how he would leave this world, though Najla was certain it would not be so by the time he was buried. They would have to rewrap him if it was dirtied, but she had seen enough funerals to know how many corpses were buried with their mother’s tears upon them. Still, she did not touch it. Rather, she simply lowered the bottle of rosewater from her nose, using a small amount to wet her hands in preparation for prayer. As she set the bottle down on that slab of marble, just beside the corpse, the sound of a footstep came. Far heavier than hers had been, and faster. There was no question as to who it could be, for there would be no one else allowed within the temple while she was here, and so Najla did not even look up as she continued to rub the scented water into her hands, though she could feel her heart starting to race.

<“Were you waiting for me?”>

<“For some time. I was beginning to think you weren’t coming.”>

<“You shouldn’t have waited.”> Najla’s voice was soft, making it clear that her words were coming more out of concern for him than herself. Finally, her eyes lifted up to her husband to be, and she felt herself falter before her next words. She had never seen Osman so hurt, his eyes bloodshot with grief and lack of sleep, his voice hoarse despite his strangely calm demeanor. It pained her to think that she had brought this upon him, even though she would not acknowledge it yet. <“You need to sleep. I can see that you haven’t rested since.”>

<“Of course I haven’t.”> Osman was quick to walk closer, stopping on the other side of the slab which held his brother. His tone was growing angrier now, though the grief that permeated them was unmoving, resistant to any other emotion. <“I spent the day washing his corpse, and the night scrubbing his blood off my hands. How could I have rested, when my hands still burned with his blood?”>

<“May your pain be taken from you.”>

It was a formal response, though the tone she spoke it in was soft, as if it could bring him some comfort. Osman’s eyes lifted to her, still burning, and Najla could tell that he had noticed. She had not offered to take his pain onto herself, for she could have done that long ago, had she named Harith as a champion. Whether that would have evened the score in Osman’s eyes, she did not know, but something in her words seemed to ease him. It was not that he was not entirely angry, but he was precariously balancing between his emotions, perching halfway between grief and anger. It seemed as if the former won out, briefly, for Osman’s words felt as if he was aching for some comfort, even from her.

<“I feel as if I’ve already forgotten his face. Every time I try to picture him, I don’t see a man anymore I just-“>

He paused here, drawing a deep breath to steady himself. Najla wanted nothing more than to reach out to him, to pull him into her arms and take such a grief from him, but she couldn’t bring herself to lift a hand. Instead, she spoke again, her voice barely heard above his heavy, tortured breathes.

<“His face will return to your memories as it is meant to. It will take time, but-“>

<“Stop lying!”> His hands suddenly found the marble slab, leaning against it to steady himself. The anger had returned to his voice, and for a moment, it had caused Najla to jump as his demand echoed against the tiles of the temple. It was a lucky thing that the guards were outside, though Najla did not feel so lucky as Osman continued.

<“Do you see Jalil’s face in your memories? Do you see the boy he was, can you picture that? Or is it just a rotting, crushed skull on a man’s body?! Sa’aqr still bleeds, in my mind he has not stopped bleeding, I cannot see anything else!”>

<“I hear his voice.”> Najla forced herself to continue speaking, though the way his hands tightened upon the marble, mere inches from his brothers corpse, should have been a warning. <“And I- I feel his presence. They say the witnesses never truly leave us, and they speak the truth.”>

<“You made him a witness.”>

The accusation was spoken through clenched teeth, and suddenly, it felt as if Najla was more aware of how empty the large temple was, how the only one that stood between her and her lover was the corpse she had created. The fear had settled for some time, but Najla would not give in just yet, could not bear to show it, in hopes that perhaps his grief would overwhelm his anger. Elif could not understand his grief, but she had spent nights in Osman’s arms, seeking comfort when her memories of Jalil could not be put away by sleep or wine. It was a fleeting hope however, for Najla knew by now that their memories of before would not be enough.

<“I didn’t want this. I didn’t name him.”>

<“Or Harith, hm? Was my family the only one meant to bleed?”> He finally released the marble, now slowly walking around the slab where his brother lay, his eyes frozen upon Najla. She had to force herself not to take a step back, praying that he would not be so stricken as to hurt her here, in the presence of their God.

<“No, I would never wish this upon you. I didn’t want him named, I could never have imagined this.”>

<“Don’t tell me you didn’t know what your dog would do.”>

<“My love, you’re grieving.”> Osman halted, for now he had made it around to her side, though he was still a few paces from her. <“We’ll deal with the dog later. We shouldn’t talk about such things now. Not here.”>

For a moment, Najla wondered if her words had worked. Osman shot a quick glance at the white cloth that covered his brother’s face, and Najla watched as his eyes moved upwards from there, tracing the ray of light that led straight up past the decorated tiles, as if he could see his God in the sky above. After all, while it was the law of God that a man was allowed to strike his wife, it was not a tradition that was smiled upon, especially not in so sacred a ground. Perhaps, given more time, she could have spoken to him, convinced him of the difficult situation Elif had put her in. Whatever brief hope of that had begun, it was quickly dashed, for Najla watched as Osman’s gaze snapped back to her, the anger still very much apparent within them.

<“You think God will judge me here? After all that you have done? You unleashed a Monarchist dog upon your people-“>

<“Osman-“> Her plea was cut off as Osman took another step towards her, and finally, Najla tried to step back, out of his reach. Still, it was too late, for his anger had peaked. Whatever those brief moments of thought had brought, it was not peace, Najla could see that in his eyes. He seemed nothing like the man she had fallen in love with, he was not her husband, but a beast that wanted her gone, dead. Another among many, it seemed.

<“I listened to the people cheer, for the end of my brother’s life, for the glory of an infidel! Look what you have brought upon my family. You should never have returned, you should have rotted beside your brother-”>

<“Please-“>

Her words were barely spoken when they were cut off by a harsh crack, followed by a sharp sensation of pain in her lip. Najla would have fallen over from the force, but Osman was quick to grab her before she fell. His hand wrapped in her hair, as before, but Najla was helpless to do much but struggle as he turned her around, forcing her to face the corpse beneath her. One hand gripped at her left arm, keeping her from utilizing it, and it was her right that gripped against the slab of marble, the sole obstacle besides cloth that stood between her and Sa’aqr now. Osman did not push her lower just yet, content to spit words into her ear, as Najla felt the tickle of blood as it begin to move from her lips.

<“Look what you have done! LOOK!”>

Najla tried to turn her face away as Osman pressed her head farther down, and she could feel that trickle moving on her face now, threatening to spill down onto the precious white cloth. Even in her pain and fear, Najla held one clear thought in her mind: Don’t stain the cloth. They’ll notice. She tried to hold her bottom lip in her mouth, ignoring the pain and the coppery taste that filled her mouth now.

It was not enough. Osman’s words were nearly as harsh as his hands, spilling forth his grief in between accusations, but Najla could not hear them. She could feel the tickle of a drop of blood as it ran down her lip, moving down her chin, aching to fall onto the pure cloth under her. She wanted nothing more than to speak, to beg Osman to release her before he stained his brother’s body with her blood, but doing so would only serve to stain the cloth more, this she knew. So Najla held silent for these brief moments, praying that the drop would not fall, but this too, was to no avail. Finally, when she felt as if the drop would fall from her face, Najla released the slab with her arm. In this moment, she reached up, hoping to stop the blood from falling, and Osman’s strength pushed her down farther without such resistance, so that she nearly fell against the corpse. This moment was short-lived however, for Osman’s arms were quick to pull her back, throwing her to the side, away from his brother. Najla fell onto the tile harshly, the first cry of pain escaping her lips as she did so.

For a long moment, they were silent. Najla slowly pushed herself up to sit upon the tile, looking up to see that Osman was bent over, his head resting on the marble beside his brother’s head, as if in prayer. He was not praying however, the way his shoulders rose with his labored breaths, or perhaps sobs, was enough to tell her that. In this silence, Najla slowly took account of her injuries, touching the arm he had grabbed, the side she had landed on, knowing that these were likely to bruise. Finally, she raised her hand to her lip, and when she pulled away her fingers, Najla could see that the red of her blood had already stained them.

The silence endured, and finally, Najla pushed herself to stand. At the sound of her movements, Osman lifted his head, stepping back from Sa’aqr’s body and away from the slab he was laid on, walking around as if he meant to leave the temple. However, he did not quite seek to leave yet, and his eyes remained on Najla as she stepped towards Sa’aqr once more. She did not look at Osman, nor would she speak, only walking towards that bottle of rosewater she had left, the one that miraculously had not been shattered in the wake of her husband’s assault. Once more, Najla uncorked this, but rather than offer it to the dead as intended, she poured a small amount upon her hands, scrubbing the blood off. Again, she filled her palm with the scented water, wincing slightly as she wiped the blood off her chin and lips, wiping it on the black fabric of her dress. It did not escape her that she had dirtied her own clothes to keep that white cloth spotless, and briefly, she felt thankful that she was draped in all black. Perhaps it was lucky that they were mourning, for Najla was quick to lift the black cloth that was meant to cover her hair, draping so that it exposed little but her eyes. No doubt, she would have to wear the fabric in a similar fashion for some time, though none would question her as to the reason, not until mourning was over. When that was done, Najla offered the rest of the water, pouring the final few drops at Sa’aqr’s feet.

<“Ya Sawarim, forgive our living and our dead. Be generous onto him, and cause his entrance to be wide and wash him with water and snow and rain. Cleanse him of his transgressions as white cloth is cleansed of stains. Take him into Paradise, and protect him from the punishment of the grave.”>

It hurt somewhat to speak the prayer, but Najla persisted, though it was mumbled under the cloth that covered her mouth now. It did not matter. Osman, who was still watching her with those burning, bloodshot eyes, knew precisely the words she was speaking. It was only when she was finished that Najla closed the empty bottle again, finally looking up at her husband.

<“Are you waiting for me?”>

<“Others saw me enter after you.”>

Najla did not need more of an explanation than that. They would have to leave together, with her upon Osman’s arm, or else it would raise suspicions. Refraining from mentioning the fact that it was bad timing to get a handle on his emotions, Najla began to walk around the slab, slowly moving towards Osman. He seemed impatient at her pace, and would close the final few steps himself, stopping just before her.

<“Let me see.”>

<“Don’t touch it.”>

He disobeyed her to reach up, at which Najla flinched. The sight of her flinch caused him to halt, but only briefly, and his touch was gentle as he reached out, peeling the cloth that covered her lip. It was a gesture she would have expected years ago, but not here, not now.

<“It will heal quickly.”> Though his voice held no softness in it, his touch did, and Najla would not fight or struggle with him now. Her eyes only searched his, as if hoping to see something other than grief in them, though nothing came.

<“Pity. You should strike my eye next time.”>

It was the first sentence she had spoken to Osman that made her feel as if she was fighting back somewhat, as if she had not given herself over to endure until his grief was satisfied. There could be nothing farther from the truth, but Najla knew that this could not last forever. She could not survive like this, treading lightly so as not to spark his anger, there was no life there. Perhaps it would have been easier to have Osman taken out, removed as a danger to her, but there was no winning there either. To even begin to make up for her misdeeds towards her family, Najla knew she would have to endure, but her words had made it clear that this was no easy task for her.

<“When you take another of my blood from me?”> She opened her mouth to protest, but Osman’s thumb scraped against her lip then. Whether on accident or on purpose, Najla did not know, but she let out a soft hiss of pain as she pulled her face away from his grip. Osman did not try to hold her to him, but let his hand fall to his side. <“The dog will be long dead before you have that chance.”>

<“Even so, what then? I’ll bear you sons and daughters, to pay the debt of death with life? We cannot build a life upon skeletons Osman, our home will crumble.”>

The silence that followed was all that answered her questions, though her eyes spilled plenty more to Osman as he stared down at her. Whatever grand dreams of their future they had held before Najla first left Al-Tirazi, they had been dashed long ago. There was no happiness to be seen in their future, where Najla would be left to fight endlessly against Elif and Osman, and where Osman would have to face her every day, knowing she had ordered the end of his brother’s life. There was no hope to dissolve the wedding either, unless by one of their deaths. Najla had come to fear this prospect for some time, the pain in her lip convinced her that if Osman had wanted her dead, he would have had every opportunity. She wondered if Osman feared that as well, though as far as Najla was concerned, her husband was already a ghost.

<“Others are waiting to pay their respects. We should go.”>

---

The Sawarim held rituals for nearly every aspect of their lives, but none were so carefully decided as their deaths. Sa’aqr’s body would not be given long to rot in the temple, for the day after he had been washed and shrouded, a crowd had gathered outside the temple to mourn. It was Sawarim custom that any who wished to attend the funeral were encouraged, so that while the first few rows of mourners were filled with Sa’aqr’s family and friends, there were many beyond that, often people who had never seen him before the day they’d watched him die. There were only a few men who would be allowed to enter the temple that day however, as it was Sa’aqr’s male kin that lowered him into a casket, which they would lift onto their shoulders and carry before the crowd.

Osman had been one of the kin meant to carry his brother’s body, which left Elif alone beside his mourning mother and sisters, listening to their grieving wails. Najla felt lucky that she was not expected to stand beside them, but allowed to stand alongside her mother, as tradition would demand of them. Still, it was a small comfort, for the rows of mourners were separated according to gender for the most part. They would slowly start to merge as they walked him to his burial site, but for now, it left Najla standing too near to Sa’aqr’s mother. Had it not been for her wailings, Najla might not have even realized who she was, for many of the Sawarim women looked similar now. They were all shrouded in black, most only showing their eyes and the bridge of their nose, their prayers and tears covered by this thin cloth. An irritating tradition, especially in this miserable heat, yet Najla would not complain about the sweat running down her forehead as the other women were so prone to do. It was a lucky thing, for none could see how swollen her lip was now, nor would they until it had healed. Osman’s family would mourn for forty days, no longer, and Najla would do so as well, out of respect for the man she had killed.

Suddenly, the crowd that had been melting under the heavy heat seemed to come alive, as the first words of the prayer started to move over the crowd. It was her uncle that spoke them at first, as he had given Osman’s family an incredible honor by offering to recite the first of the prayers over their son. As soon as he had finished however, others would pick up the prayers. These were religious leaders with forceful voices, who carried over the crowd and who never faltered, regardless of how far the burial sites were or how heavy the heat weighed on their shoulders. Thus, even as the crowd began to repeat the prayer, it was the voice of these leaders that carried it over the wailing and the chest-thumping, as if their God himself would hear.

As familiar as the words were to Najla, she faltered in her prayers for a brief moment when the casket was carried out past her. It was a simple casket, covered in a black shroud embroidered with golden lettering of prayers, but this was not what gave her pause. The casket was perched against Osman’s shoulder, and though he stood straight, as did those of his kin that helped him, there was still no mistaking the pain in his expression. They halted before the crowd for a moment, and once the first verse of the prayer was completed, they began to walk past the parted crowd, who would begin to follow them as soon as they had passed. Najla reached out and took her mother’s hand, for she knew how easy it was to be parted in such a crowd, though none would push and shove where the Sultana stood. That would occur near the back of the train, where those who had been strangers to Sa’aqr would mourn, not where the royal family had gathered.

There was nothing quiet about a Sawarim burial, and it was often said that every death within the walls of Al-Tirazi deafened the city. It was only partially true, for every death within the city did not matter. No one mourned for the street urchins or peasants, no one wailed for the slaves. Had Ketill been killed in the duel, none would have gathered to mourn, and even providing him with a burial site would have been a kindness. For Sa’aqr, the city halted. As if the position granted by Osman’s new attachment to the Sultan’s family wouldn’t have been enough, he was a Sawarim, killed by a Servant. He was a witness now, and for that, the whole city would find cause to mourn.

Those who carried the casket were silent, and though Najla could no longer see Osman’s face, she had not forgotten the look in his eyes as he stepped out with his brother’s casket. Those who followed behind however, were not. The men in the crowd beat their chests as they called out the prayers, some, like her brothers in front of her, did so lightly, more for show than any real desire to mourn. Others would walk away with their chests black and blue, their backs marred with whatever weapons they had seen fit to unleash upon themselves. Every drop spilled for a witness was an honor, after all, and so many of those who beat themselves so thoroughly were not even of Osman’s family, but had simply hoped to gain some favor with God. Noticeably, the women did not scar themselves so, with a few unintentional exceptions. Osman’s mother had not stopped her wailing, and could barely follow along with the prayers, for she could only pull at her hair and beat her chest, crying out for her son. Najla, who followed a few paces behind, only gripped her mother’s hand harder, wondering if she had done the same when Jalil had passed.

The procession had begun within the palace walls, though it would proceed beyond these walls, out to a suitable burial site for Sa’aqr. These sorts of funerals were one of the few times the citizens of Al-Tirazi saw their royals family, and Najla recalled how they would try to edge their way to the crowd near the front of the procession, hoping to catch a glimpse. Perhaps it was a strange sight to them, to see the royals walking, with none of the luxuries to hold them above the rest, but they seemed to enjoy it, regardless of the circumstances. This time however, Najla felt as if she could already hear their whispers, hoping to find Sa’aqr’s killer among the crowd of mourners. Perhaps they would have been drowned out by the sounds of prayer, but Najla would have no chance to find out.

<“Valide, Sultana-”> Najla’s eyes jerked up to see a guard standing near her, clearly uncomfortable at his position in the procession. The Sawarim had strict rules regarding these sorts of burials, and though he was not breaking any by approaching her this way, he would be if he lingered too long. Najla however, seemed to have little desire to make it more comfortable for him. More than anything, she wanted to ask how he’d pointed her out among the sea of women, though there was no time for such questions.

<“You shouldn’t go past the walls. Come, turn back.”>

The request was rather strange, and Najla looked up towards her mother in confusion. Her mother only nodded, indicating that she agreed with the guard, though she did not let go of Najla’s hand as they continued to walk forwards. Women were not allowed to attend the burials anyway, it did not make sense to stop her this soon, not when she could simply turn back when Osman’s mother and his family were meant to. Al-Tirazi had never been her enemy before, who believed it had turned on her so quickly?

<“On whose order?”>

<“Sultana, please-”> They were nearing the entrance to the palace walls now, and Najla showed no sign of stopping.

<“I’m not turning back for a plea.”>

<“It’s your father’s order. Please Sultana, come with me.”>

For a moment, it seemed as if Najla was ready to disobey him, but finally nodded, much to the guard’s relief. Her mother followed her as they wormed their way out of the procession, mostly unnoticed by other mourners. There was no way this could be taken as an insult, for the female members of the royal family rarely had an excuse to leave the palace walls regardless, funerals did not do much to change that. However, it was slightly strange, for it had been under Najla’s command that Sa’aqr had perished, it made little sense that she would not see the consequences through. As they finally moved out of the column of mourners, Najla turned back, searching for Osman, who was likely sweltering under the heat and weight of the casket at this point. However, though she could see the casket he carried, Osman himself was lost in the midst of a sea of arms rising into the air, only to be thrown onto their chests again in a hypnotic rhythm.

<“Where is my father?”> Najla asked the guard, who was about to respond before her mother quieted her with a sharp tug on her hand.

<“He knows best Najla, don’t go asking him questions.”>

<“But I am not in danger, I shouldn’t be leaving like this, it’s not right.”>

<“It’s right if your father says it is. Come, you’ll have much more time to mourn, you should ready yourself for the visitations soon.”>

Whatever protests Najla held were quieted, though not by her mother’s words. It was Ketill’s that rang in her ear now, reminding her of just how little control she truly had. She had not wanted to kill Sa’aqr, but she had set Ketill upon him anyways, the best choice she had in a difficult situation. She had not wanted Osman to punish her for it, but she was reminded of his grief every time she spoke. Now, she was not even able to finish the proper recitation of the prayers to the grave, all from her father’s demand, only to be chastised for even wanting to speak to him. Perhaps her father was right to do so, for while Ketill had put on a splendid show for the crowd, Najla had heard the whispers in the city. Not everyone was pleased with how Najla used her new tool, for while it made for an impressive display, so did Sawarimic funerals, and none seemed to enjoy those either. Whatever the reason, there was nothing more for Najla to do, and so she simply stood aside and allowed the procession to pass her as she continued to whisper along to their prayers, intending on at least finishing her recitation, so that the Sawarim would not seek to abandon her to her sins.

<“In the name of our God and his wife, in the name of the Sawarim, the highest, the ever-present, the lord of worlds, in the name of the Umma, the giver of life, the merciful, the witness to truth, I profess there is no God but the Sawarim. May the Sawarim forgive the dead for their transgressions and reward them for their deeds, may they find peace in their eternal place by your side. May the Umma offer their blood a comfort, and may the dead seek only the highest, for they have died in your name. There is no God but the Sawarim, and it is to him, the all-knowing, that I make this plea.”>

With that finished, Najla was quick to turn back, allowing her mother to lead her into the palace once more, her mind racing. Whatever reason her father had for this, Najla had gotten little hint of it, and that worried her more than the command itself. She only hoped that Elif had not seen her turn back, nor Osman, for that would be a difficult situation to explain without arousing more anger. She could not blame her father, for he could not have guessed what a simple command could mean for his daughter, but it was not as if she could tell him either, only endure.

---

Though the issue of the funeral had weighed on her mind for a great deal of time, Najla knew she could not address it so quickly. After all, her father and brothers were going to be at the burial for some time, and there were few others that could give her a clear answer regarding this matter. Her mother had been little help, only insisting that Najla not pester her father with questions. Rather, she had returned Najla to the palace, telling her to go ready herself for the visitations later. It would be a long few days for her, for Najla knew she’d have to spend a great deal of time with the bereaved’s family, as tradition demanded. It would be a great deal of crying, praising a witness, and retelling stories of his past braveries, none of which she was eager to hear. Still, she would not abandon this matter so soon, and after she was certain the burial was over, Najla had headed off to find her brother, hoping to get some answer from him.

There were few reasons for her father to issue such a command, and in all likelihood, he had done so out of sheer caution. After all, the people believed Sa’aqr was a witness, there was always the chance that they could begin to whisper that Najla herself had created a martyr. It was a prospect that worried her greatly, for there was no easier way to perish in this desert than to lose the favor of the Sawarim God. Still, she’d heard nothing of real consequence from her contacts in the capital, but even that was hardly a relief anymore. Most of her enemies were inside these walls now, and if they had wanted to kill her, they would not have to bring her beyond the walls to do so. Even here, on the path to Harith’s rooms, would be easier for them.

The guards at the entrance were slow to recognize her, but the sound of her voice, or perhaps the commanding tone she spoke in, was enough to touch their memory it seemed. One went ahead to confirm that Najla could enter, a formality Harith usually didn’t bother with, but it seemed he had asked for some privacy today. Still, it wasn’t enough reason for her to wonder just yet, for she was allowed in briefly afterwards. There, Harith’s large rooms were empty, save for the sight of her brothers, leaned back on their cushions still dressed in their black robes. Still, Najla could sense that something was not quite right, for they were both silent as she entered, making it rather obvious that their conversation had been stopped for her. Even more telling was the fact that neither Adina nor Mehmet were present, though Najla would not mention this just yet.

<“What are you doing here, Basim? I thought you’d both be ready to rest.”>

<“We’re just talking. Did you need to talk to Harith?”>

<“Not about anything important. How was the burial?”>

<“Same as the all the others before him.”> It was Harith that replied now, his voice dulled by the exhaustion of mourning under such heat. <“More blood though. I guess that’s to be expected, seeing as they’re calling him a ‘martyr’ and all. I swear, they’d find any reason to bleed.”>

<“Did you not bleed for him today?”>

Though Najla’s tone had been somewhat amused, she could see that her words had brought a rare cloud of seriousness onto Harith’s face, which was surprising, given that his nonchalance seemed to have endured through the funeral. He responded as she moved to join them, settling herself on the cushions far more gracefully than either of her brothers.

<“They only call him a witness because Ketill killed him, as if every cockroach he steps on deserves the blood off my back. Jalil was a martyr. I bled for him.”>

<“May the Sawarim grant him peace. I’m happy to hear your words, but be careful who you repeat them to.”>

<“I won’t have a chance. Who besides you would ask a question like that?”>

It seemed that some of the amusement had returned to Harith’s voice, nearly as quickly as it had fled. Najla did not spare it much of a thought, instead turning her gaze onto Basim. He was oddly quiet, which was out of character for him, though perhaps it could be attributed to the violence of the past few days. After all, the duel itself had been difficult to witness, and to be among the mourners as they sliced their backs open with lashes was hardly a comfort. It was a blessing of sorts that Sawarim women were forbidden from attending the burial ceremonies, though Najla wondered if perhaps that privilege should have been granted to Basim rather than her. Still, something told her that this silence was not entirely due to that, for while it could certainly have been enough to weigh on his mind, her instincts told her otherwise.

<“Who else was bleeding?”>

<“If you’re asking about Osman, don’t worry.”> Again, it was Harith that responded, though Najla could feel her younger brother’s eyes on her. Though he was silent, the way his gaze seemed to see right through the veil that covered her injuries almost unnerved her, and so it was easier to focus on someone who had no reason to suspect anything from it. <“He didn’t seem as eager to beat himself as the others. Not after what happened with his mother.”>

<“What happened? Is she okay?”>

For a moment, both of her brothers frowned as Najla glanced between them, seemingly surprised that she hadn’t heard. To Najla, it suggested that they had not heard of their father’s command to her, for most of the women were expected to turn back at the same time.

<“She lost her mind when they told her to turn back. They had to stop the march for a few moments after she tried to jump onto her son’s casket. How did you miss that?”> This was a common occurrence at Sawarim funerals, where grieving mothers would often beg to be buried alongside their children, wives their husbands, blood onto blood. It was not meant to happen, and disrupted the processes, but it seemed most were quick to forgive the actions of those who mourned.

<“I turned back at the walls. You didn’t notice that I was absent?”>

This drew a laugh from Harith, despite the rather morbid nature of their conversation. They had both seemed surprised, which indicated to Najla that she was right in assuming her father had not warned either of them about his command. She was not surprised that Basim did not know, but her father trusted Harith with a great deal regarding his activities. It did not always use to be this way, for Harith’s unpredictability was not always an asset to their family, but Jalil’s death had changed a great deal. Still, this only indicated that she wouldn’t have much luck understand his reasons why, at least not here.

<“I can’t tell any of you apart during funerals, you all look like a flock of ravens. Speaking of, take that thing off now, it’s too hot to pretend you’re mourning.”>

<“I am mourning.”> Najla replied, trying to hide the slight panic that had arisen at Harith’s words. She hoped that she could simply ignore them, figuring that Harith would be quick to forget, though Najla was not so certain Basim would miss this so easily. Still, she forced herself to make eye contact with her younger brother regardless, hoping he’d see the anger in her eyes above anything else.

<“And shut up about ravens. It’s all I ever hear from Ketill anymore, I can’t stand it. He’s worse than Majnun, except his Leyli is a fucking bird.”>

This drew a grin from Harith, though she saw no such reaction from Basim. He had never insisted that she thank Ketill, or even mentioned it, though she knew there was a great deal he did not quite understand about that night. To be fair, there was a great deal Najla did not understand as well, but she had long since given up on the Servant, labeling him as an irreconcilable madman. Basim seemed far more reluctant to do the same.

<“What did you do with him?”> Najla’s eyes turned to Basim as he finally spoke. There was little hint as to what he truly meant, but Najla would not begin to guess, answering as truthfully as he could hope for.

<“Nothing.”> There was only a moment’s pause before she’d have to speak again. <“Really, no punishment, no reward, nothing. Why, you don’t believe me?”>

<“It’s not that. I’m just surprised Osman hasn’t insisted on something.”>

<“Even if he does, it doesn’t mean I’m going to give it to him. Do you think I’m that weak?”>

<“You’re not weak, it’s just that-“>

Basim trailed off slightly here, and Najla’s eyes flitted between both of her brothers, trying to determine if they were nearing the truth. If Ketill was not the reason they’d come here to converse, then Najla could only hope that Basim had not told Harith about the rest of what had happened that night. He would not be so easily to ignore Osman’s actions as Basim was, and even that had not been a simple process. But if Ketill was the reason, then it would mean that they had sought to have this discussion without her present, a thought which brought along no comfort either.

<“What do you think about giving him to me?”>

Najla’s eyes widened when Harith finally spoke, and for a moment, all she could do was look between her brothers in shock. She had been right then, in guessing that they had come to speak about Ketill, though Najla could not have guessed that they would come to such a conclusion so quickly. The shock in her eyes was enough proof of that, though there was only a few moments before it rapidly turned to anger. With a sudden motion, Najla stood, pushing herself off the cushions.

<“Is this what you two were talking so secretively about? You had a discussion about my slave and decided I shouldn’t be present for it?”>

<“Najla, we never meant to go behind your back. We’re asking you now, aren’t we?”>

Najla turned around then, her face contorted into a frown, though they’d only be able to see the anger in her eyes. Basim’s voice was a carefully controlled calm, trying to ease his sister from making another mistake. She had always found it amusing that he was so level-headed, considering that all his siblings had turned out so differently, but today it only served to irritate her.

<“Should I be grateful for that? Neither of you get to make decisions regarding my property. Ketill is mine.”>

<“He’ll still be yours this way, he just won’t be Osman’s.”> These words made Najla pause briefly, and upon seeing this, Basim turned to Harith. <“Explain it to her.”>

<“We were thinking, you could grant him as a gift to me. I’d find a use for him, and you could still use him to fight whenever you needed. I promise you that. This wasn’t intended as an insult, so don’t go taking it as one. Basim only hoped it’d make this ordeal easier on you.”>

<“Is this true, my blood?”> Najla turned her gaze back to Basim then, who seemed somewhat annoyed that Harith had outed the plan as his so easily. She would not have needed that confirmation, for Najla knew her brothers well enough to guess at whose decision this was. Still, she was furious that they had even sought to consider this option, especially after having told Basim that Osman would not take Ketill. It also hinted that Basim had told Harith about Osman’s threat, leaving Najla only able to hope that he had not told him of the rest. Though her tone was somewhat sarcastic, Basim opened his mouth to reply, only to be cut off by his sister, whose voice was rising despite the pain it brought to her injured lip.

<“Do you have so little faith in me? I already told you, Osman will not touch Ketill, because Ketill is not his. He’s mine.”>

<“Yes, for now. But when you’re married, nothing is yours anymore. It will change-“>

<“Nothing fucking changes, Basim. You’re smart enough to see that. What do I own now that is mine, outside of where your hands can reach, what do I own that father could not take?! Baba wouldn’t even let me go past the castle walls to see Sa’aqr’s funeral, and you know what? He’s still dead!”>

Najla finally halted in her yelling, taking a long breath as she tried to calm herself. She could see from Basim’s expression that he was more worried than anything, for he had seen how easily Najla’s anger had slipped in front of Elif, and perhaps was simply worried that she’d do something dumber this time. However, Najla saw something else in his eyes, something she didn’t want to address. He had not realized that their father had pulled her out of the funeral, it seemed, and while her father did not know the consequences it might have, Basim’s eyes suggested otherwise. If Osman were to find out that Najla turned back midway through his brother’s funeral, it would certainly be a cause for anger. Perhaps that was why he didn’t defend himself, or likely because he didn’t see a need to, but a glance over at Harith showed that he was not quite as calm as Basim now.

<“Is that why you’re so worked up, because baba asked you to stay in the walls? Ya Sawarim, Najla, don’t yell at the boy because of that, he can’t fucking control it. Besides, baba was just trying to protect you, just like Basim is.”>

<“Protect me from what? The only enemies that concern me now are the ones within these walls, but it’s not like baba would consider that. Making decisions on my behalf is hardly any sort of protection.”>

<“What does that have to do with Ketill, or us for that matter? If you’re going to be this ridiculous, we should just have father take him.”>

<“He’s not his to take!”>

<“Shut up!”>

Though his siblings were far more used to just shouting over Basim’s attempts to quiet them, this was far more than an attempt, it was a command. Perhaps it was the still-present surprise at Basim’s newfound confidence, but regardless, both Harith and Najla fell silent. He stood then, and when he glanced between his siblings, Najla found herself regretting her words to him almost instantly. She did not want to drive him away, all this had been for that very reason, and yet she had lost control of herself entirely, it seemed. Even worse, was that Harith was the only one who seemed angry. Basim held none of that anger when he looked at her, only annoyance coming through his words as he spoke again.

<“If you think you can keep Ketill, what do I care, just keep him. But if you’re letting your pride speak before reason, don’t be surprised when both fall. It’s not like it matters, we’ve got another forty days before the mourning is over, you don’t have to decide which voice to speak with now.”>

Najla had meant to respond to him, perhaps even to apologize, but Basim gave her no option. He simply walked past her, and out of Harith’s room, closing the door after him. For a moment, Najla watched him leave, feeling regret that she had allowed herself to yell at her youngest brother on such a day, though she knew Basim was not the only reason this regret consumed her so now. When he had finally left, she turned back to Harith, who simply sat back and raised an eyebrow at her.

<“Are you sun-stricken?”>

<“No, I’m just- angry I suppose. I’ll apologize to him later, it’s not him I’m angry with.”>

<“Is it father?”>

<“I don’t know. It doesn’t matter anyway, this will all be over soon. By the time the mourning period has ended, it’ll be settled, I promise. I don’t want you to have to shoulder any more of my burdens.”>

<“We’re blood, Najla, we don’t have a choice on that. Why do you even want to keep Ketill anyways, I thought you could barely stand the sight of him.”>

<“That’s true, but it doesn’t erase his value to me. Besides, even if he had none, I wouldn’t pass the Djinn onto you.”>

She had meant to say more, but Harith let out a short laugh, before leaning back on his cushions again, just shaking his head. <“You don’t really believe that, do you?”> When Najla didn’t respond, Harith only laughed again. After all, she knew Ketill was a man, he was flesh and blood just as see was. But Harith had not seen all that she had, he had seen a beast, not a demon. <“You’ve got to be sun-stricken then. Just give me the Djinn, he’ll become a man in saner hands.”>

<“No. And if you try and take him behind my back, I’ll tell Adina the names of every one of your bastard’s mothers.”>

<“Don’t make empty threats, my blood.”>

For a moment, Najla thought her words had served their purpose. Harith’s grin faded briefly, and his eyes seemed to dim, leaving Najla to wonder if she’d made him angry. After all, while they both knew she would never divulge the information, they also both knew that she held it. Harith had never quite held the same skills in obtaining silence from the women, and Najla was always prepared to aid her brother in that. Still, it was a topic they never spoke of unless necessary, and there was good reason for that. Yet it was not a touchy subject either, that much was clear when she watched Harith try to repress that all-too-familiar grin as he spoke.

<“You know you can’t count that high.”>

<“You’re an ass.”> His grin finally broke through at these words, though Najla would not wait to see it, turning around and leaving her brother on his own.

@persianversion

ℰxpedition for the ℬanner of St. ℱriedrich

The situation the past days had grown rather precarious when the argument that Basim had started ended with a fight between Najla and Elif. Osman had threatened to raise a hand at Najla, and Ketill had stopped him. Hate her or not, he would be the one to hurt her, not Osman. That uptight dog had less honour than even the lowliest of peasants. But Najla had not seemed pleased – much rather, she had ordered him out of the room right away, to which Ketill dutifully followed her order. He had nothing else to say, and it seemed Basim didn’t need him anymore. Whatever the purpose might’ve been for this visit – Ketill had not managed to follow half of it, after all, so the purpose was lost on him – it had obviously failed.

He returned to his room, without an escort for once, and continued his daily business – which was to say, a lot of lounging about. Occasionally he’d call in Yasamin and tell her to get him food, or something of the sorts, but overall he spent his time alone – precisely how he liked it. And perhaps better for Najla too. An unchained bear of Broacien walking around the palace was likely to raise a few eyebrows left and right.

This time he did not have to call Yasamin in himself, as she knocked on his door a few minutes after his arrival. ‘’Yes, enter,’’ Ketill was quick to say, expecting a guard or Najla, or perhaps even Basim. Though to be fair, it was a stupid assumption. Najla, nor Basim, would not knock on his door, but enter at will.

The door opened and closed right after her, as the freckled Broacien-Sawarim halfblood entered, standing in front of the door with her small stature while Ketill laid back, eying here up and down waiting for her to speak. ‘’Yes?’’

‘’What was it this time?’’ she replied, a hint of curiosity or perhaps annoyance in her voice as she spoke. Still, she spoke soft as always, as expected of a harem girl. Gentle, like a flower. Ketill learned long ago that it was deceiving. ‘’You were brought to the prince’s chambers. You’re in trouble again, aren’t you?’’

‘’How did you even know about th-’’

‘’Guards like harem girls. They can’t touch us, but that doesn’t mean they don’t like talking to us. You should stop getting in trouble. You’ve already been whipped by Osman for punching him, and the Sultana can’t always protect you.’’

‘’I suppose I’ll be dead soon then.’’

‘’Ya Sawar- I mean, dear Monarch. What did you do?’’

‘’Not your concern, Yasamin.’’

Her face formed a frown then, her unpleased nature with the answer being more than evident as she stepped closer to him in that typical womanly fashion – not the manner at which you walked if you wanted to seduce, more so the manner at which women walked if they were displeased. ‘’No, you’re wrong. I may be your servant, but we both know that’s not how things are. So tell me,’’ she told him, with an attempt to sound more stern. She merely earned a laugh from Ketill, who couldn’t help but be amused with her failed attempt at being bossy or stern. She did not possess the same skills Najla possessed. Luckily.

‘’He tried to strike Najla, and I stopped him.’’

‘’Who, the prince? You know you’re not allowed to touch him, right?’’

‘’No, Osman, but I suppose that I can’t touch him either. Not that that stopped me before.’’

‘’That’s… no, you’re not allowed. And he’s allowed to strike her – that’s the law. But she’s a Sultana, so I don’t think it’s that easy. Even so, I think you did the right thing.’’

‘’I suppose. Was that all?’’ Ketill seemed rather bored with her already, and this only furthered her annoyance, it seemed. She raised an eyebrow at him and waited a moment to collect herself before continuing.

‘’It’s been a week and some since you were granted me as a servant. Yet you’ve not bedded me. Is there something wrong with me?’’

‘’What is it with the Sawarim and their obsession with sex?’’

‘’There’s no obsession with sex, and I’m not a Sawarim, you.. you oaf!’’

‘’Then why are you complaining?’’

‘’Nor am I complaining! You just- alright, never mind! Why didn’t you just tell me you weren’t interested!’’

‘’You didn’t ask.’’

By now, Yasamin had gone entirely red, and in an effort to speak, could only bring forth an angry noise before turning around and walking out of the room. The door slammed shut behind her when she left, the loud bang echoing through the hallways momentarily before fading away. Ketill merely leaned back some more and rested his head on his hands, folded behind his head. He shook his head in confusion before closing his eyes, mumbling something about among the lines of ‘’… women…’’ before dozing off.

---

The next days were uneventful entirely, and from the hushes and whispers that passed his doors he could only make out who was involved – Najla, Elif and Osman. Basim was mentioned in passing only, so it seemed he had escaped the wrath of this conflict, but Ketill did not make the mistake of assuming he wasn’t involved. It was rather obvious what had happened to cause this after all, at least to Ketill, since he had been present for it. But nobody came to bring him to his execution. And so, he could only assume that Osman had kept his mouth shut about being touched by Ketill – and instead, they had focused on the fight between Elif and Najla. He did not realize yet how spot on his assumption was, but as with all things in the Sultanate, in due time the secrets were spilled to him.

Once Yasamin had cooled off, she had visited Ketill again, apologized half-heartedly for her outburst which was met with the wave of his hand. He was undoubtedly indifferent to the girl, and was remarkably at ease with indicating as much. She had spilled the secrets rather easily, too, seeing as she knew Ketill had a stake or two in Najla and her situation. Najla would likely never have told him, but Yasamin did, and she continued to tell him about it all – the meeting she had had with her parents and brothers, though she knew not the contents. She explained its’ significance, but she was honest when she said that she herself knew little of what it actually meant. She was not royalty after all, so how could she know?

‘’All I know is that something more is going on, the word got out and someone, somewhere, must’ve gone to the Sultan and complained. These meetings don’t happen for nothing, and the way that people have seen Najla around – she’s bothered by it, it seems. So whatever it is, it’s serious. And the court knows, and we also know that there’ll be a duel.’’

Ketill had been entirely disinterested in her explanation as he could not care less what happened to Najla, as long as she survived and wasn’t hurt physically, so that none could take that right from him. But the mention of a duel did interest him. ‘’Between her and Elif? Women fight?’’

Yasamin covered her mouth as she laughed at his remark. It was rather stupid, of course, but the way she’d said it made it sound like it. ‘’No, they will pick a champion. Usually a brother, or a relative of sorts. They’re volunteers, though. Usually. In theory she could force you, but…’’

‘’But?’’

‘’Well, it’d make sense to put forth one of her brothers. And we both know it won’t be prince Basim.’’ Her mention of Basim was noticeably more respectful, using his title of prince, compared to Ketill, who just spewed the name like it was a commoner. Broacien habits died hard, it seemed, but it also seemed like Ketill had little care to what Basim thought of it – Basim so far had appreciated Ketill more for his foreign culture and knowledge, and not because he was particularly respectful. There was little reason to change that now.

‘’Why not? Basim cares enough for his sister to offer.’’

‘’Well, yes. Our prince is a good man like that, but he’s also smart. He knows he’s not a warrior – ya Sawarim, dear Monarch, he is anything but a warrior. It’ll be prince Harith.’’

‘’That’s smart. Sounds like something Harith will suggest, and Basim will support it. I’m sure whoever Osman picks will not dare to fight a prince at risk of killing him.’’

‘’It’s not Osman that picks. It’s Elif.’’

‘’It matters little, no? If you kill a prince you may win the battle, but you lose the war. Nobody will respect them anymore. Who picks them makes no difference.’’

‘’You… understand little of Sawarim politics, I see. I forget at times that you’ve not made any attempt to learn the culture and language.’’

‘’Why would I. Freedom will come. One day.’’

‘’One day, Ketill? You know how long I’ve been here?’’

‘’No. But I’m not you. I’m ‘’Daab al-Broacien.’’ We are different.’’

‘’Very much so. In fact, that’s probably the reason why my skin is clear as a freshborn and yours is marred with whips.’’ Her reply was snide and quick, and though playful as it may have been, it was clear that there was truth in her jab. Perhaps she’d attempted to catch Ketill off guard, but she would find that this did not work.

‘’Good thing that I don’t have to fuck the Sultan. I just have to kill whoever I get told to kill.’’

‘’Hm, yes, that is much better. I suppose I should pick up a sword, then. Regardless, prince Harith will fight, that’s my prediction.’’

‘’I look forward to it. Harith is a good fighter – and a respectable man.’’

‘’I suppose so, but it’s still not sure. There are various reasons why she wouldn’t pick him. What if she intends to lose the fight? I wouldn’t wish to offend the first wife if I were the second, Sultana or not.’’

‘’I saw what happened that day. Najla wants to win. If she wants to lose, she’s a fool, and deserves whatever comes out of this.’’

‘’Very well. I’ll take my leave now. I need to mend your tunic, still.’’

Ketill shrugged and let her leave, seeing her leave and, just before the door closed, spotted her bowing before someone in the hallway. Then the door fell shut, but Ketill had the slight feeling someone was coming for him. Nobody ever came through these halls otherwise – except when they were walking from one of the visitors rooms to the bathing house. And even then, someone important enough to bow for? Ketill got up, and headed for the door, and by the time the guard had knocked, he was quick enough to open it right away. But he’d quickly have to make way for the guard that came through the door, followed swiftly by the princess herself, Najla. He could’ve guessed. She was quick to parade around his room, commenting on it and taking a seat at the desk. She looked a lot more collected now, a few days after the fact, but this didn’t impress Ketill. She showed her skin proudly, which was equally unimpressive, though that was likely because Ketill did not understand why she did that. You would not see him flaunting his scars, so why would she be proud of not getting wounded. Perhaps he just didn’t understand.

‘’Your brother gave me it. One of the gifts I’ve been granted whose value goes beyond what you can see,’’ he answered her. He obviously referred to Harith, who had granted him this room after their fight. He did not answer her remark about Yasamin, deeming it unworthy of a reply.

She was quick to explain the point of her arrival in his room. She was quick to elaborate that it would not be Harith, no, but him instead that would fight for her. This was not a problem though he found it strange that he, the one she despised, would have to defend her honour. But perhaps it was for the best, because when she revealed who he’d fight, it was a bitter payment for the danger she was putting him in. ‘’It won’t be a problem. Osman’s line is weak. His brother will be no exception,’’ Ketill merely added to her statement about Sa’aqr’s skill. Sure, the man might’ve been good. But he was no bear.

Her next words, however, irked him. She was forcing him to fight someone that she didn’t want to die. But essentially, she was ordering the man’s death now. She shouldn’t complain if she was signing the man’s death now. ‘’Yes. It pleases me greatly knowing I will have a hand in diminishing Osman’s family. That you may win your honour back. I have many requests, but this time I will do it without. His blood will be my payment. Perhaps with my victory they will see that your god does not favour them at all. And in doing so, you’ve promised yourself to a man whose own god does not love him.’’ His eyes spelled out the rest to her, and she did not need to ask to find out how he felt about it. He had no feelings towards Sa’aqr and as such, had no real feelings about killing him. He was just a man that stood in the way. Elif had made a poor choice, and that was the end of it. But he knew that wasn’t the full story. If Osman’s brother died, Osman would never forgive him – and by extent, he knew that Najla would bear the brunt of that anger. She was essentially giving herself up to be beaten again. If not outright assassinated. She would not win regardless. But that was not Ketill’s problem.

She walked away, but then turned back, seeming to remember something. He listened her through, his grin growing larger as she spoke to him. At the end, all he had to say were a few simple sentences. ‘’How far you’ve fallen. You started as a slave, but got back your title of sultana. But in the end, all I see is that same girl. Scared shitless, no clue what’s going on, eyes always looking for some form of leverage. ‘’Saina.’’ Oh, how little control you truly have. Sa’aqr will die. And then, if the ravens command it, many more. You will receive the bruising’s you so desire in time.’’

---

After being chosen as the champion, Ketill was granted access to the training grounds again. For some time he trained alone, falling into a repetitive state of improvement as before, like how he had always trained in Coedwin. It wasn’t long before a familiar face showed up to observe, and this time it was neither Basim nor Najla. In their stead, Harith had found his way here. He stood at the sidelines, observing as Ketill was merely lifting objects to become stronger. It took a good ten minutes before Ketill even realized the man’s presence. Once he did, he dropped the large log that he was lifting and looked over to the man, who approached him. ‘’I heard you’re fighting as my sisters’ champion,’’ he said as he approached, before putting his hands in his side when he reached the training grounds.

‘’Yes, it seems that way. I expected you to fight,’’ Ketill answered, not really elaborating too much, nor offering a lot of insight into what he thought.

‘’I offered, but eh, Najla did not wish for it. Basim thought it was a good idea, but it seems Najla wants to clean this mess up herself.’’

‘’You mean she wants to risk her pet bears’ life to fix it for her.’’

‘’Hmm… yes. That’s what I mean. But you need not worry, I can be-’’

‘’I never said I am worried.’’ The words were quick enough to interrupt the prince, who was taken aback a bit that a slave dared speak in the middle of his sentence. Ketill’s eyes were dulled as he looked at Harith, and when he spoke again there was a lack of emotion in them. ‘’My prince.’’

‘’No. I mean, you shouldn’t be. That makes sense. Sa’aqr is a good warrior, but not good enough. He’ll never win. I think Elif knows this. Osman… Osman probably thinks Sa’aqr has a chance. But it’s idle hope – deep inside he knows. He just had to convince himself. ’’

‘’The implication is that if I kill him, they’ll hold a grudge, and if he kills me, Najla loses her honour. Do we really win either way.’’

‘’My family wins, if you win. Najla loses. Her honour is restored, but Osman would never get over the death of his brother. This is just… ehhh… it’s politics. Even something as simple as a duel, you know, two men deciding the fate of a trial, even a duel is politics. I imagine it’s the same in Broacien, no?’’

‘’No. We don’t duel for our women’s honour. We go to war for it.’’

‘’War?’’

‘’Years ago, long before our current king ruled, a duke’s wife was found in bed with a younger woman, who turned out to be the daughter of another duke. She had seduced the girl, and bedded her, and the duke was so insulted he demanded the head of the duchess. Of course, the other duke did not comply. So, they led armies to war to settle it.’’

‘’And? Who won?’’

‘’The king. After the war he declared them both to be unfit for rulership, and took their lands to distribute it to other men. It was a just action, but he benefitted from it too.’’

‘’Sounds like something the tribals would do, here, in the Sultanate,’’ Harith added, seemingly unaware of the insulting nature of that statement. Not that Ketill minded, he wasn’t wrong after all.

‘’I think we just prefer our business to be in the open. There’s less sneaking and subterfuge. It’s more honest. Everyone knew what had happened. The dukes were lucky that the king didn’t intervene until after the fact.’’

‘’I… see. That’s something I can appreciate, but it’s just not how we do things here.’’

‘’I know. Najla has shown me that by now. This Sa’aqr, who is he precisely?’’

‘’Sa’aqr? Well, he’s Osman’s brother. He’s skilled and well known, and has been involved in a lot of battles. I know that minor families have paid him to represent him in duels like these before. Not that he’d acknowledge that, but it’s happened.’’ ‘’’’

‘’So he’s a duelist?’’ Ketill then asked, raising an eyebrow at the prospect. Duelist or not, he was going to win this fight. But it certainly gave him an insight into what to expect. But Harith carried on, putting a finger on his beard as he thought.

‘’No, he’s lead a few raids against the Servants. Perhaps you’ve fought him, but evidently you didn’t meet on the field, as you are both still alive. He was in charge of the heavy infantry, last I recall, but it’s been a few years since he went North to fight. Not that his skill has waned, though. But like I told my family – he won’t beat me. So he certainly won’t beat you. Just remember that it’s a fight to the death. There’s no second chances.’’

‘’I won’t need any.’’

---

They were given little over a week to prepare, with the appointment of the champions taking place somewhere in between. Harith had arranged for other guards to practice with on the condition that Ketill would not destroy them. It was a promise easier made than actually fulfilled, but Ketill did not intend to break it. Never the less the guards were cautious – the mans’ reputation preceded him and it was hard to convince them to actually fight him, rather than try and find ways to surrender as early as possible. Even so, their addition was worthwhile and made the process easier – and helped him prepare better.

The day before the event itself however was one that was met with some disdain as he was forced to raise out of bed early by Yasamin, before the sun had reached the horizon. As he’d be representing a princess, he was taken out to the bathhouse, to be given a proper washing. Yasamin was quick to force him into the bath, and though she acted like she did this of her own volition, Ketill was convinced that Najla had ordered her to. Or perhaps someone else. It mattered little, since this was a luxury he was normally not afforded. The illusion was soon shattered, however.

‘’You should hurry. They’re coming to fit your armor soon,’’ Yasamin informed him, seemingly under the impression that he already knew about this. But much to her surprise, he did not.

‘’Armor fitting?’’ he replied, looking over his shoulder at the woman, who was walking back to the hallway to let him do his thing.

‘’Yes, you’re fighting a nobleman, and you’re representing a princess. Did you think you could go bare chested?’’

‘’I wasn’t going bare chested. What armor are they giving me?’’ he asked, seemingly a bit concerned about what they were going to give him. He’d never fought in anything except for clothes, or otherwise his suit of armour. However, never had he fought in a Sawarim suit of armour. Although it seemed trivial, any warrior would agree that such small matters could make the difference in any fight. This wasn’t just for looks – it was life or death. He wondered if Najla had realized that – if she had even been the one to orchestrate this.

‘’I don’t know, you’ll see soon,’’ the woman replied, louder now as she left the bathinghouse and left to go do something else. It seemed like she was taking well to the life of a servant – compared to being a harem girl, it was easier, Ketill supposed. Especially because he didn’t require much of her.

Sighing slightly, he leaned back into the pool and let the water consume him. Slowly he sank down as air bubbles left his body, until his lungs were empty and he went as low as he could. For a moment, he felt like he was without weight, and he closed his eyes. His vision went dark, the shimmering of light going through the water but this, too, fading eventually, seeping away from his vision like the breaths of a dying man.

In the darkness of his mind, he heard the cawing of ravens and the clattering of shields meeting axe and sword. Were they signs of what was to come? It could not be a thought of the past, for it had been long since he’d visited the North, and the ground was white as snow. He did not recall such a battle in the snow, none of the scale that could produce these sounds. The clattering got closer then, and he began hearing voices.

Slowly they came closer, and one voice in particular stood out, misplaced in the battlefield as it was soft and feminine, not warlike like the grunts around him. ‘’My name is not Saina. I am not a merchant’s daughter.’’ Violently he shook his head, as if to deny this inevitable truth. The voice’s person was clear, but they were not within vision, and whatever wish he had to strangle the person whose voice it was, there was nothing of the sorts he could do. ‘’My father is Ali al-ibn Wahad, brother to the Great Sultan and a commander in the army.’’

The echoes of battle faded as the voice began taking precedence, just like how the person whose voice it was had taken precedence in his life through the torture of his Gods. A cruel joke, he remembered. Yes, it must be.

‘’And he will part you in four, and send your members back to Broacien.’’ No. Again he shook his head. That’s not what she said, he knew it. He wanted to open his mouth to yell, to vent his anger and beat this voice, but nothing happened.

‘’Were there ever the rumors in the South, of Najla al-ibn Wahad and her brother, Jalil?’’ The voice soothingly asked, seemingly following the script of past events again, but Ketill’s heart continued to thud hard in his chest, with a mixture of adrenaline and anger. ‘’Then you must know who I am, and so when I kill you, it will be honourable, for you know your killer.’’ But once more the voice strayed from what had been said, and his heart pounded harder, again he shook his head and tried to yell. His mouth moved slightly now but it would not part, for the burden of the darkness around him was too heavy and weighed too heavily on his lips for them to move.

‘’So few people knew where we were going, but the Servants of all people are not blind to the on-goings of the Sultanate. Some Sawarim here must know how great I am, my boundless power, ask them and they will confirm. They will tell you Najla and her brother disappeared over a year ago from the Sultan’s court. The reason for that was to end you.’’

With those words, Ketill once again tried to yell, shaking his head more violently than before. Finally, his lips opened wide, but instead of yelling, he could only feel the water entering him. With a look of shock he opened his eyes, only to see the blurry visage of Yasamin looking over the edge of the water. Suddenly the realization that he was drowning was setting in, so he promptly pushed himself upwards towards the surface. Luckily for him, the baths weren’t deep whatsoever. As he broke the surface of the water, he gasped for air while Yasamin looked at him with a confused and concerned glance. ‘’What on earth were you doing?’’

‘’It’s… nothing, get my clothes and bring me to the armorer.’’ Though Ketill did his best to seem collected, the panic caused by drowning was visible in his eyes. When Yasamin left, her face betraying her lack of understanding, he breathed heavily, looking around rather panicky. He was quick to leave the bath once she reappeared, getting dressed and promptly leaving to the armorer. The walk there was quick and silent. It seemed Yasamin did not dare bring up her questions, and Ketill had no desire to speak about it. But the panic in his eyes had now made way for anger, and his steps were filled with the very same anger once more.

The armorer was checking out some chainmail when Ketill was brought in, but was quick to redirect him to the centrepiece of the room, which had been prepared days ago it seemed. It was flashy, certainly, and it was obviously of Sawarim make. The pants flared wide, and were largely uncovered by the chainmail except for the long edges on the side. Over that went a tunic, with a mail vest over it, followed by a lamellar breastplate. It was relatively simple of design – but the details were astonishing and the polish on it could reflect light so well it’d put the sun to shame. It was certainly a piece of equipment reserved for ceremonies and the like, but the crown piece was the helmet, which had a plume of horsehair on top, and a facemask that was opened at the moment. Ketill curiously walked up and inspected the armor, feeling it left and right.

Sadly, he was quick to determine that while the armour looked good, it was certainly not of superior quality. The metal was weak and the openings in the armour did not close properly. Of course, there was little time to mend this now – certainly not with only the word of a slave to demand it. Without much time being spent on other things, the armorer pushed Ketill into position and started fitting the armour, adjusting where required. This turned out to be a rather big timesink, as Ketill was a fair share larger than most Sawarim men. Most straps had to be adjusted outwards and made larger to accommodate his size, to the point where the armorer began getting annoyed at the changes he’d have to make. And all that for a sub-par armour. Likely, they had just refashioned a ceremonial armour.

‘’Yasamin, tell him this isn’t good,’’ Ketill told his servant, who was waiting at the door. The girl was quick to comply, walking closer and pointing at the breastplate.

<‘’He says it’s not good,’’> she said, flawlessly in a Sawarim accent. To be expected, as she’d lived here for a long time, but it was still strange to Ketill, who could still utter little more than that common insult he’d learned long ago.

<‘’No, it’s good, no need to change it,’’> the armorer retorted, while he grabbed a new plate of metal to attach to the lamellar to lengthen it. <‘’He’ll win for sure in this armour, tell him that.’’>

‘’He says you’ll win for sure in this armour. And he also said it’s fine, and there’s no need to change it.’’

‘’He’s wrong. The plates are weak, and there’s too many gaps. This isn’t fighting armour.’’

Yasmin sighed, it becoming quite evident that she was going to have to translate an entire argument. <‘’He says it’s too weak, and that there’s too many holes.’’>

<‘’Ya Sawarim! What do you think I’m doing now? I’m getting more plates to cover the holes!’’>

<‘’Those plates won’t help if the metal is too weak.’’>

<‘’You dare insult my craftsmanship?’’>

<‘’No, that’s not- that’s not what I’m saying, I’m sorry. The fighter believes the metal is too weak.’’>

<‘’I’m sure he also believes that there are more than one God, the great Sawarim! Pfah! What does he know!’’

<‘’He’s fought in armour many times, he’s a Serv-’’> Yasmin said, but she was interrupted by a louder voice, the thick Sawarim accent ruling out that Ketill had spoken up himself. Instead, the doorway was filled by a taller stature, followed shortly by a slightly shorter one, though they were both taller than the average Sawarim would’ve been. Harith seemingly had found reason to come observe the process, while Basim seemed to have tagged along. However, it was not Harith’s loud voice that had rung this time, for it had been Basim that had overruled that of Yasmin.

Yasmin was quick to turn her body to face the two princes, bowing her head and continuing to look down, even though the princes didn’t even address her. Instead, Harith’s eyes were focused on the armour, scanning it for weaknesses and strengths, walking closer to him while Basim stepped to the armorer. <‘’He’s a Servant. He may be an infidel, but he knows his way around a sword – and a set of armour. You say the armour is strong enough?’’> Basim’s voice carried weight now, as opposed to earlier. If the armorer had not listened to him because he of his rank and stature – he would’ve because Basim seemed to carry himself with more authority than before.

<‘’Yes, my prince,’’> the man said, bowing his head lightly, glancing at Harith with a side-eye as he did so. <‘’It was requested that I made the armour look as good as I could, to ensure that the savage looked somewhat presentable. He couldn’t fight in our Sultana’s name if he looked like an unkempt beast, after all.’’>

This remark earned a small laugh and a grin from Harith, but Basim seemed less amused, merely nodding at the man in a fake agreement with the statement. <‘’Very well.’’> Basim looked at Harith then, who was prodding at the lamellar and lifting the plates to see how it worked. He then looked at the armorer, and grinned more wide than before.

<‘’What did you use for this?’’>

<‘’Only the finest steel, of course! Nothing but the best for the al-ibn Wahad family!’’>

<‘’Good. My sister will be pleased. Ah- but, I am not.’’> Harith then answered, his eyes turning to Ketill then, who seemed confused as ever at the situation. ‘’Bow your head,’’ Harith hissed at him, and Ketill complied, allowing Harith to pull the lamellar contraption off of his body. He stepped over to Basim, and promptly pulled the lamellar over his head, resting it on his shoulder. Basim was clearly caught off guard but adjusted quickly, looking at his brother with a confused but curious glance.

<‘’What’s the meaning of this?’’> the armorer asked, before adding a clearly forgotten <‘’… my prince?’’> at the end. He seemed a bit more nervous now that things were actually happening.

<‘’Well, you said it’s only the best for the al-ibn Wahad family, but the armour was being worn by a slave. Now it’s a member of the family. So we will see if it holds true, no?’’> he explained, but remaining just vague enough for the armorer not to understand. But it was made clear when Harith pulled the dagger from his waistline – not a ceremonial one, like that of Basim, but a real one, made of cold hard steel.

<‘’Ah, I…’’> the armorer stumbled as he stepped closer, reaching to grab Harith’s hand but not coming close enough, while also being held back mentally at the thought of touching a prince. Harith put the dagger against the lamellar with the tip, before looking at the armorer then. The thought of a prince dying at the hand of the faulty armour seemed a bit more pressing than the death of a slave to the armorer.

<‘’Hm? Something wrong?’’>

<‘’A-ah, no, my prince, it’s just that every armour has its’ flaws… you are a brave soldier, surely you understand that there is nothing other than a soldiers skill and bravery that can protect him from death? Armour can only do so much, yes?’’> This gave Harith reason to pause, and then he nodded and lowered the dagger, before taking the lamellar off of Basim’s shoulders, who seemed relieved the heavy armour was finally removed. While Basim rubbed his shoulders, Harith turned around and faced the armorer, holding out the armor.

<‘’Armour makes a difference, but it is not the end solution, you are right.’’>

<‘’So then, if the Servant is as great a fighter as they say he is – then he should be fine, right?’’>

<‘’Perhaps,’’> Harith spoke, softer now, as he looked the armorer deeply in his eyes. Without a warning, the dagger shot forwards again and shot straight into the armour. It went one side in, the other side out, going through both the front and back layers of the armour. A simple dagger wasn’t meant to penetrate even one layer – so for it to penetrate two was quite miraculous. Harith’s eyes were dark then as he looked the armorer even deeper in the eyes, staring him down with the power of a lion. <‘’But this will not do. It may be a slave in the arena, but it is the name of my sister he is fighting for. Look at him,’’> he said, and the armorer did as he said, and looked at Ketill, who was quite amused by the spectacle. <‘’That’s not a slave anymore. That is my sister. Would you dare give her this armour?’’>

The armorer dropped to his knees then, folding his hands together and putting them down in front of Harith’s feet as he begged for forgiveness. <‘’No, my prince! I would not dream of it! Ya Sawarim, I would not dare!’’>

<‘’Then see this fixed,’’> Harith hissed, before dropping the armour in front of the man’s fists. He glanced back at Basim, who nodded at him, and then Harith turned to Ketill. ‘’It’s good now. It’s the finest steel, he said. It seems we will need to find new steel then.’’

‘’I told him it was bad,’’ Ketill replied, hiding the amusement in his voice rather well, but not well enough for Harith to not notice.

‘’Sometimes, speaking the right language is the key,’’ he replied, a smug look in his eyes before glancing back at his younger brother again. <‘’Is it not, Basim?’’>

Basim’s eyes found themselves on Ketill, and not Harith, however, which gave the impression that he was speaking more to Ketill than Harith. ‘’Yes, it is.’’ The couple then turned and left, leaving Ketill and Yasamin alone with the armorer once more.

---

The next day the duel took place – it was set to take place early in the afternoon, so that everyone could be well rested and the champions had time to prepare. The fight was set to commence the moment the sun was at its highest, and so most people had arrived slightly before, to talk among themselves and find a good place to watch. Rather than taking place in the training area, a special site had been set aside, within the confines of the palace walls, but slightly removed from the palace itself. The ‘’arena’’ itself was little more than a circle drawn in the sand, marked along the edges by stones placed along the edge of the circle. But the circle was so large, it might as well have not been there. There were then raised platforms all around, with benches placed on them in case the fight would last a long time. But, as Ketill knew from events like these, most people would stand so they could see all there was to see.

At the center there was a single large platform, with a throne set on it. Most likely this was for the Sultan himself – he was, after all, meant to spectate the fight, given that not only did it involve his family, but also the need for justice and lawspeaking. But Ketill couldn’t help but feel that, besides justice, this fight was also meant for politics. And perhaps a smudge of entertainment, though that amusement would be lost on either of the involved parties, bar perhaps Elif, who even if she lost, won.

Ketill was brought out about four hours into the morning, where he was helped into his armour by other servants. It seemed that, though he was nothing more than a slave, he was given access to some privileges he’d otherwise never have. Once he was lifted into his armour and the straps were all fastened, he was brought to the armoury, and allowed to select a weapon. Though most blades were curved, he managed to find a standard straight blade, meant for two handed use but capable of being used with one hand. This ‘bastard sword’ seemed the perfect fit for Ketill, who had the strength to use it with either one hand or two. He then grabbed a standard shield made of wood, imagining he’d be better off with than without, and he could always drop it. But to his surprise, he wasn’t allowed to leave yet.

‘’If you drop your weapon you’re allowed to take a new one from a servant. If you can reach them in time,’’ one of the servants explained in rather broken Broacienien, and so Ketill selected a few other weapons. However, he didn’t quite anticipate to need them. In his mind, the battle would be settled quickly.

He was then kept inside for another hour – to allow people to settle down on the stands, which were large enough to hold at least a hundred people. But, perhaps also to allow Sa’aqr time to parade around, as one of the servants made an off-hand comment about how the man was parading around like he had already won. Entertaining the crowd before a fight was a ballsy move, and one that Ketill did not entirely appreciate, but there was little they could do, because the time to fight was soon arriving. Some hour before the fight, he was finally allowed outside, and was escorted into the circle by a detachment of four guards. He held his sword by the blade, casually gripping it as he looked over the crowd. His eyes scanned for the familiar faces – Najla, Basim, Harith, Osman, Elif. His eyes also found the Sultan, who glanced at him with an air of disinterest – but what his eyes did not betray, his focused gaze did betray. There was more vested in this battle than just Najla’s honour, it seemed.

His visor was still opened, but the fact that he had a facemask at all seemed to shock some of the people in the crowd. Sa’aqr was dressed in similar fashion – his armour was flashy too, and shone like a sun itself, but it did not beat Ketill’s armour, which had been retrofitted during the night to have a stronger breastplate. What happened to the armorer after that, Ketill did not know, but he knew that Harith would not be quick to forgive such a transgression if he was a wise man.

There was silence on the field of the arena, but the crowd was noisy, a jarring juxtaposition between those that were about to enter a fight to the death and those that merely had to watch. But at some point the crowd went silent, and Ketill looked at them to see what happened. Now the Sultan stood up from his throne with his hands spread wide, to calm the crowd and call them to attention. He spoke words that Ketill could not understand, and the people bowed their head, and they began their prayers once again, repeating what he’d already seen at the tribe when he was forced to fight there. Sa’aqr joined them, bowing his head too and mumbling his prayers. It left Ketill with the time to observe the crowd. His weapons would not be blessed this time – there were too many – so he assumed he’d just fight as if he were Najla herself. A strange thought, and he wasn’t sure if he’d interpreted it correctly, but it was the easiest explanation. He didn’t need one to fight, so it’d do for now.

His eyes befell on Najla and her family, flanked by the man he presumed to be her father. It was the same man he’d seen when he had arrived at the palace, who had welcomed her back. Momentarily he wondered if he even knew just who his daughter was. Perhaps he did, as it seemed that nobody in the Sawarim Sultanate seemed to care much for misdeeds, as long as they were carried out in name of the Sultan and their God.

The chanting echoed off after their prayers, and the eyes returned to the battlefield, focusing their attention on the two combatants once again. Was this the sign to start? Sa’aqr’s eyes betrayed very little, as he pulled his blade from its sheath. He was evidently a very skilled fighter, far above the tribal peasants Ketill had kicked around not long ago. Ketill merely raised a hand to lower the visor and pull down the eerie facemask, before giving one final glance over the crowd. Their looks of amazement at the helmet betrayed how little they knew of fighting and how much they knew of indolent, cruel entertainment provided by death. Little did they know that it would not be him that died today.

He readied the blade in his hand and stepped towards Sa’aqr, who waited for Ketill to approach. Once they were close, they started circling each other – it seemed repetitive, similar to what had happened before, the men sought out the weaknesses in each other’s stances but could find none. For a moment it seemed like they were equals, though Najla would know this to be false, and so would Harith. Ketill was first to strike, a warcry erupting from his mask as he swung his sword at Sa’aqr who graciously stepped away from the strike and then stepped closer again once the sword had passed, swinging his sword at Ketill in return. This dance continued back and forth – one would swing, the other would step away or block, and then they would swing and the other would block or step away. It started slow, the occasional clatter of the blades being the only sound between the warcries that Ketill gave, loud enough to pound thunder into the hearts of the spectators. But the speeds picked up, and the clattering of blades began getting quicker, as did their swings and movements.

They were just testing each other now, to see what steel they were made of, how they fought, what made their movements tick. But for everyone else it already seemed impressive, bar those that had fought before. They would be able to read the movements and understand, as it was something you did not quite understand unless you had been in this position before.

Finally, it seemed like Sa’aqr had seen an opening. He was quick, and with a rapid swing struck at Ketill’s head, who dodged it by ducking low, only to be caught off guard by Sa’aqr. He had reached for his dagger with his other free hand, and quickly jabbed it forwards. Ketill attempted to move his body to dodge it but wasn’t fast enough, and the blade grazed along the side of his body, luckily catching only the lamellar. The dagger cut loose one of the leather straps as it passed, and the metal plate fell down into the sand. Although the lamellar armour was stacked, it was not a good sign for Ketill.

The crowd cheered at this, but quickly quieted down when Ketill responded with his own attacks, using Sa’aqr’s exposed position he caused by stepping forward to stab him by raining down blows on him. He first struck at Sa’aqr’s head with the pommel of his blade, striking him harshly and without any reservations, causing the man to rear back slightly. He then tried cut downwards into his shoulders, striking him once, twice, thrice. Sa’aqr caught the attacks with his shield, but under the pressure of the continuing attacks felt his arm shake under the pressure of Ketill’s strong arms smashing the blade into him like he was a training dummy.

They were broken up when Ketill stopped swinging at him and instead stepped forward and kicked Sa’aqr in the stomach. Again, the crowd cheered, seemingly pleased with whatever manner of violence was presented to them. Sa’aqr himself seemed less pleased as he fell backwards, rolling over before managing to quickly land on his feet – it seemed he was experienced enough to know how to roll without ending up exposed. Ketill stepped back momentarily, and again circled Sa’aqr who did the same. They were like wolves, their eyes fixated on the other as they looked to see what to do next.

Again Ketill was the aggressor, stepping forwards rapidly and swinging his sword low, aiming at Sa’aqr’s feet, who nimbly hopped over the sword and struck Ketill with his sword, though unluckily only hit the shield Ketill used. Again they exchanged blows, the clattering of swords overtaking the cheers of the crowd, until Ketill managed to strike Sa’aqr perfectly on his hand, cutting into his palm slightly, but more importantly knocking the blade away into the air, the sword landing in the sand beyond his reach. Now Sa’aqr was forced onto the defensive, as he raised his shield in front of him with two hands, one supporting it while the other aimed it. Ketill seemed overtaken by a fury as he struck again and again, the shield splintering every time he hit it, while Sa’aqr looked back to his servants and pages. <‘’SPEAR!’’> he bellowed at them, and he was promptly thrown a spear. The moment he saw it coming towards him, he moved his hands in such a way that the shield dropped and was tossed to the side, before jumping back very quickly and catching the spear mid-air. It was very flashy, a move by someone that was confident enough in their abilities to mess around and give the people a show, but it was also a move that indicated that he was underestimating Ketill.

Now that the man had a weapon again, Ketill stepped back, waiting to see what Sa’aqr would do. Rather than attack, Sa’aqr seemed content to spin the weapon around a bit, as if he were trying to impress the spectators. The blood that seeped from the cut in his palm seemed not to bother him, though the blood seeped down the wooden base of the spear.

Finally he was done, and approached again, running at Ketill. Once he was close enough, Sa’aqr jumped into the air and plunged his spear forwards, forcing Ketill to step to the side, while readying a strike of his own, but Sa’aqr seemed to have had planned for this, and when he landed merely twisted his body to face Ketill and strike the men with the blunt end of the spear. His spear landed on the side of Ketill’s helmet, who stepped back in confusion and pain while trying to get his bearings again. Before he could do as much he was hit in the head again, from the side, further confusing him as the mask obstructed most of his view on the sides.

The crowd cheered then, as they were glad to see Ketill receive some punishment too, but their amusement was shortlived as Ketill rushed forwards. Being unable to see what was going on, and realizing that if he didn’t get close enough the spear would be his death, he just plunged himself into Sa’aqr, losing his weapon in the process though Sa’aqr lost his spear too. The two were then on the floor, tangled in a contest of who could get control the fastest. Sa’aqr seemed to have the benefit of vision as opposed to Ketill, who could only look straight ahead. With a few nimble moves, Sa’aqr pushed himself off the ground and rolled himself on top of Ketill before using his armor-clad gauntlets to pummel him in the helmet a few times. Ketill replied in kind by ramming his fist into whatever body part he could find, before luckily managing to push a finger into the opening between Sa’aqrs helmet. He pried at it momentarily, but then got aggravated with it and just pulled at it the hardest he could.

Sa’aqr was forced to come closer with his face first, before being forced backwards, lacking any control over the movement of his head at this point. He was only freed when Ketill pulled in the right direction and ripped the man’s helmet straight off of his head. Though this wasn’t a big loss, it certainly opened him up to Ketill’s next attack. While Sa’aqr had pummelled him in the face a few times, the blows were all caught by his helmet. Now Ketill merely moved his head forwards fast enough and headbutted Sa’aqr straight in the nose, and though it’d hurt all the same without a helmet, it was no big surprise that it hurt twice as bad since Ketill was wearing a metal helmet.

Sa’aqr fell backwards relinquishing control of Ketill, gripping his nose with his hands. Before he could get up to get a new weapon, Ketill was upon him and pounded him with his fists, blow upon blow falling on his face while Sa’aqr desperately tried to punch Ketill back. They exchanged blows like this for a good minute, before Ketill got up and stumbled backwards. His walking was clearly not quite as straight as it had been before, but Sa’aqr was definitely worse off than he was.

Ketill walked to the edge of the arena and held out his his, while barking for an axe. Once he got his two handed long axe, he dropped the shield that was still stuck to his arm and turned around to face Sa’aqr, who had crawled to his spear again and was in the process of getting up. Ketill, however, was determined to end this now, so he stumbled towards Sa’aqr, his footsteps kicking up dust as he went. The moment he was closed enough he swinged his axe upwards and sent it down towards Sa’aqr, who only barely managed to bring his spear upwards horizontally to block the attack. The sound of wood against wood was new, but the cheers were not, but it was not just once that Ketill attacked him, but again and again, until he caught the wooden pole with his axe’s head and cleaved it clean in half. This left Sa’aqr with nothing more than a wooden stick and a stick with a metal point on it, which obviously was far less useful. So when Ketill’s next swing came, headed straight for his skull, Sa’aqr could only jump to the side and hope for the best.

He dodged the initial attack, perhaps, but Ketill stumbled right after him, preparing his axe for the next swing, intending to take his head. He breezed inside the helmet, which was warm and annoying but had seemingly protected him so far. Then he swung.

The sound of armour shattering could be heard but it was not Sa’aqr who had been struck. Ketill could only look down as he felt the stabbing pain in his side, realizing instantly that he had been struck. Sa’aqr had quickly gotten up and stepped into Ketill’s attack, pushing the broken tip of the spear into Ketill’s body. It had gone through the armour, though luckily the armour had softened the blow. The tip wasn’t in deep, but when Sa’aqr let go, it was deep enough to stick in there. Under the facemask, it was obvious that Ketill was confused, but there was little time to think. He had to end the fight now, or he’d bleed out.

Sa’aqr turned around in an attempt to request a new weapon, but Ketill’s hands gripped at him, catching him by the hair and pulling him downwards, with such force that Sa’aqr could do nothing else but yell in pain. Ketill let go as he threw the man down and walked around him, standing in front of him as Sa’aqr tried to inch backwards on his hands, forced to look up at the menacing figure that was Ketill, who overlooked him and readied his axe. As Ketill raised the axe, a familiar voice could be heard from the crowd, yelling ‘’NO!’’ as Ketill brought the axe down. It was Osman’s voice, to be sure, as none other than him would’ve reacted that way. The axe caught Sa’aqr in the shoulder, which seemed to be a common place for Ketill to strike people – he had hit Thamud in exactly the same place after all. The axe went deep in the area that was uncovered by armour, and even though Ketill tried to pull it back, the axe was stuck, so he just let go.

Sa’aqr fell backwards in pain, resting on his back while his hand gripped at the axe trying to remove it, but only making it worse by pulling on the weapon that was so deep inside of him. But he was given no time to rest, as Ketill gripped his hair again, pulling him upright and putting him on his knees. He forced Sa’aqr to look towards the crowd, and like he had done with Thamud, spoke to him, though he was sure that Sa’aqr did not understand. ‘’You are not the man I want to kill, but as you are his family… I will take joy in making his family a member smaller. You made a mistake by volunteering, knowing you could not win.’’ He pulled his hair back, exposing Sa’aqr’s throat, and with no time to ask for a knife, pulled the tip of the spear that was stuck inside of him out. Some blood gushed out that had been held back by the spear, but it seemed to matter little to Ketill, who did not even wince or scream at the pain.

Triumphantly, or perhaps in a dash of arrogance, Ketill put the tip of the spear in the air. For a moment, time froze, and Ketill looked into the crowd. He looked at Najla, and then at Harith, who seemed pleased, and then at Basim, who seemed taken aback by the violence. And then the Sultan, who maintained that air of indifference, and whose thoughts could not be read. On the other side of the stands, opposite Najla, there he saw Osman, whose eyes were filled with terror, whose hands clutched the woman he could only assume was his mother. Her eyes, similarly, were filled with terror, but also tears as she covered her mouth due to the sigh she was about to witness. Elif was there too, but her eyes betrayed nothing more than sadness – though, not for a loss. For the loss of her husbands brother, perhaps.

He wondered if Osman’s mother was now convinced that he was a devil, a Djinn. Perhaps she was. It mattered little. With Sa’aqr’s beaten and bruised face staring at the sky, waiting for what was to come while trying to struggle against it, Ketill reading the spear. With a moments wait, he then plunged it down, deep into the mans neck, and then twisted the blade twice, before moving it to the side to cut open his entire throat. Blood spewed forth, and Ketill let go of his hair, pushing him forward. Sa’aqr fell down face first into the sand, the blood quickly spreading through the sand. Ketill looked around and though the crowd may have cheered, in that moment he could not hear whether they did or not. All he could see were the faces of Najla and her family, and on the other side, those of Osman and his family.

@Odin

ℰxpedition for the ℬanner of St. ℱriedrich

The few days since her fight with Osman had been quiet, though they had not certainly not been peaceful. Neither she nor Osman had even attempted to speak to one another, kept silent by their pride. Any further discussion would be pointless, for her decision would not be altered, not as it had been before. Then, all that was required for her to give in was a harsh grip on her wrist and the threat of losing her lover to another. Yet neither of those could outweigh her dedication to her brother, and when Osman found that his words were not enough either, he abandoned her to her decision. She was left to absorb the consequences alone, to feel them flit about in her mind in a voice that had long ceased to resemble her own, one that spent days clawing into her in every moment of rest she found, taunting her with what was to come. It would not tell her just what this was, but Najla could not shake the feeling that she had wrapped her fist around sand, and was forced to watch as each grain fled from her desperate grasp.

Thus, Najla had opted to allow herself as few of these peaceful moments as possible. The walls of her room were not enough to keep that horrid voice out, the one that forced her to think on nothing but what she had done, and what she would reap from it. Rather than listen, or dull such notions by wine, Najla spent her days trying to replace them with new ones, burying herself in fresh work. Now, the light of the morning filtered through her windows, illuminating the papers and books that piled onto her desk. Najla sat behind this, dressed simply, with no gold or jewelry, nothing applied to her face that could distract from the exhaustion in her eyes. Clearly, the past few nights had been relatively sleepless, as if she was even afraid to relinquish control of her consciousness.

Her eyes snapped up at the sound of a door opening, only to abandon all thought of the work before her at the sight of her brother. For the barest of moments, Najla could have smiled. For all her worries of the future, Basim had not been among them. She had always believed her blood would return to her, and while these were questions Najla would not enjoy answering, she knew it had to be done. She would have to restore her brother’s faith in her, as painful as the process would be, for Najla could not bear the thought of losing both him and Osman.

It took no time for that hope to abandon her, for her eyes were quick to move to the figure who came behind him. He was rather difficult to miss, after all. At the sight of Ketill, Najla’s eyes narrowed, and she stood from her chair.

<“Basim, what’s-”>

Despite the confusion apparent in her expression, the sight of Ketill was enough to bring anger back into her tone, though her voice was kept soft. It would not last however, for Basim’s words were quick to quiet her. Perhaps it would not have been so before, but as Najla looked upon the man in front of her, she realized that whatever change she had seen in Basim earlier had held. Her eyes snapped to Ketill then, and there would be no doubting the anger in her eyes as she studied him, wondering just what he had said to Basim for him to approach her so.

<“Of course I didn’t.”>

The words snapped out of her like a whip, just as her eyes snapped to Basim again. Her expression did not change, and though it felt strange to look upon her brother with the same anger she did Ketill, Najla found that she could barely contain this. He had brought the dog into her room, to assault her with his presence, he could hardly expect for her to respond pleasantly. She opened her mouth then, clearly hoping to continue, but it was to no avail. Basim began to speak again, and once more, Najla found that his words were able to override her own will, silencing her. However, this time, it was not his tone or anger that stopped her from speaking, but the words themselves.

Even if Basim had allowed her the time to answer, Najla would not have been able to form a reply so easily. The mere mention of Zahira’s name had shocked her, and now all she could do was watch her brother with burning eyes as he continued. What would she be able to tell him? To cast the blame onto her cousin would have been easy, but Najla knew that Basim would no longer accept it. She was not so weak as to be pulled around by another’s whims, and yet Najla could not bear to take the blame onto herself, to fully become the monster he was seeing now. Even these thoughts were not given enough time to settle before worse followed, and though Najla would try to interrupt Basim, it was to no avail.

She wanted to speak, to tell him that she would never seek to endanger her family, nor was this power intended for her own use, but it seemed there would be no chance to convince him. Even if he was to fall silent, what words could she use to convince him otherwise? He was not wrong, after all, at least not completely. The risks he spoke of were true, but to tell him of how she concealed it, how she tried to keep such risks from occurring, that would only make it worse. Perhaps it was best that Basim could not be quieted, for all that Najla had to say was only more damning. It was only when he turned back to address Ketill, suddenly switching to Broacien, that Najla finally tried to move from her position. Though she could not speak yet, she stepped out, trying to walk around the desk towards her brother, only to stop when she saw him approaching.

This was not her brother that walked towards her now, Basim had never held himself in such a way. If it had been Osman before her, Najla might have flinched, or moved out of his reach. But she held no such fear before her brother, and so she only looked up at him with that same burning expression, the one that spoke every word he could not allow her to. Despite all her waiting, when he finally took a breath, Najla would be unable to speak.

How could she explain to Basim that she had tried? That she had intended to taunt Thamud into a fight, but that Basim had been right in the desert, no man wanted to fight Ketill after he had burned a man alive. Could she have told him how she had tried, would it truly be better to be a whore as well as a murderer? She bit her lip as she watched Basim, her expression edging on anxious now. Though her brother seemed unwilling to allow her to speak, Najla’s face might have provided enough answers on its own, certainly more than her words in the desert before. Even Osman had not brought such a hurt into her expression as Basim’s words did now, though there was nothing in her attitude that could garner sympathy. Even though her brother would invoke her God, it seemed that she had already made peace with her actions. Yet, when Basim would finally fall silent for a few moments, Najla did not tell him this. It was a rare occasion when she lost her words, and yet Basim seemed to have accomplished this, for Najla did not speak in his silence. There was simply too much to say, too much to explain. Though it seemed as if she wanted to speak, to begin to ease her brother however she could, he had taken those words from her now.

It was only when he spoke again that Najla’s eyes finally snapped to Ketill again. Her frown was easy to read, for clearly, she had never assumed that Ketill would have let her pray. It was the least of her concerns at the moment, but it would gnaw at her later, she was certain, even when the larger bites had healed. She could hardly comprehend such a thought before Basim began to walk over to Ketill, only to pull up his tunic and reveal her lover’s handiwork. Najla would only catch a glimpse before she turned her head, casting her eyes away as if the image disgusted her, as if she had not been the one to allow it. Likely, it was not the scars that caused her to look away so, but it would not matter. The sound of Ketill’s laughter was enough for her to look back up at the pair, her eyes narrowed in anger now as if she truly believed he was the Djinn who had brought this upon her.

Her thoughts had overwhelmed her, Najla felt as if she could barely fit together the pieces of her brother’s words, and yet, she knew that Ketill was to blame for this. Somehow, this was his fault. She had given Basim answers, he had spoken to Ketill, and returned with more questions. No, not questions, accusations. Insults. And he had brought the Servant with him to laugh, to taunt her with all he was seeking to take. It brought a sense of anger that Basim’s words had not brought, and perhaps she would have responded, but another set of voices was quick to divert her attention again. Her eyes widened at the sight of Osman and Elif entering her room, her breath halting in her chest as a new panic began to rise in her chest, joining the anger that had settled like a weight.

<“Osm-“>

<“What’s going on?”>

Osman began to walk towards Ketill and Basim, but Najla was quick to speak again, hoping to halt him. She could not begin to imagine what Osman had come here to demand, not after he had refused to speak to her for some days. To do so with Elif in tow would have been enough cause for anger most days, but Najla barely seemed to register it now. With all that swam around in her thoughts, it felt as if the only thing she could clearly understand was that Osman could not be here. Not now.

<“We can speak later.”>

<“We’re talking now. What is he doing here?”>

The rising tone of his voice was unmistakable, as was the spark of rage in his eyes. Rather than stay back, Najla was quick to start walking towards them, as if hoping to put herself between Osman and Ketill. Perhaps it was a dangerous thought, but not quite as dangerous as the two interacting once more. Before she could get close enough to place herself between them, Osman had already moved to approach her, his posture now entirely overwhelming. Regardless, she would not back down, and the effort to keep her voice stable as she spoke to him was apparent in nearly every word.

<“You need to go. Just wait-”>

<“I’m not waiting for a dog!”>

<“I don’t see a dog here.”> Najla’s gaze snapped to Basim as he spoke up, a new sort of worry now apparent on her face. Basim could not see this however, for his eyes rested on Osman, a frown appearing on his face. He’d never seen his sister’s husband-to-be as anything but respectful to his sister and her family. Now, Osman had entered without even acknowledging a prince, but this was not what caused a new spark to appear in Basim’s eyes, one Najla did not want explained to her. <“I’m speaking to my sister, whatever you need can wait.”>

Osman turned at this, suddenly facing Basim rather than Najla. For a split second, it looked as if Osman was about to step towards him, but Najla would not wait to see if it was true. Her hand darted out to grip Osman’s wrist, holding onto it as firmly as she could. It was not her strength that kept him, but his eyes turned back to her quickly, allowing her to speak. Her voice came in something akin to a whisper, rushed and hurried as she tried to ease his temper.

<“You know why they’re here, please, just go. You’ll only make it worse. I’ll come to you when-”>

<“When you’re done with him?”> Osman snatched his hand back to him, and though he did not move to strike her, she could see his fists beginning to clench, indicating something she wasn’t eager to see. Before Najla could respond, beg him to leave or consider what he wanted, he’d begin to speak again, his voice rising even though Najla tried to pretend like she couldn’t quite hear this change. <“Which one, your brother or the beast? Is your dog so high above me now? Don’t insult me like this, I’m your husband-”>

<“I’m your Sultana! And your prince has asked you to leave.”> There was a rising anger in Najla’s words, though her volume was carefully controlled, for the precarious nature of the situation had not been forgotten. It was difficult to let her anger simmer quietly however, and her ‘guests’ would not make it any easier. <“I have not insulted you, do not make me do so by ordering you out.”>

<“I don’t take your orders. I’m not your precious fucking dog, I won’t bark for some cunt.”>

Whatever anger she had been holding was entirely visible now, and though Najla’s hand twitched at the thought of smacking her lover in the face of such an insult, she managed to subdue this. It was a lucky thing, for the way Osman towered over her now told her she would be a fool to smack him, to invite that which she had dreaded before. But Osman knew better than to do so in front of her brother, or at least, she had hoped he would.

<“Enough!”>

There it was again, the voice of a man she was only beginning to recognize. Both Osman and Najla turned their eyes towards Basim. Her brother seemed angry, understandably so, for there was an underlying meaning in Osman’s words that, even if translated, only the Sawarim would have caught. Osman was not only referring to Yasamin, but Najla herself. It was simply another phrasing of an insult she knew well, one that Osman had not learned on his own. One glance over at Elif was enough to confirm this, for even though the girl seemed rather timid, Najla could see from her eyes that she was pleased. Perhaps she had imagined it, but it felt like someone had set her veins alight to see such a look when her world was falling apart.

<“I won’t hear you insult my sister, I don’t care if she’s your wife. I don’t know what business you have, but seeing how you’ve spent your time here, it clearly isn’t urgent.”>

<“My wife insults me.”> Osman began to step forward towards Basim then, at which point Najla was quick to try and step between them. His next words were thus directed at Najla, despite the fact that he seemed to be halfway responding to Basim still. She could see that Basim wanted to speak up again, to interfere, and Najla was quick to gesture for him to stay back. <“He insults you, and you protect him, knowing they call you a Servant’s whore.”>

<“They? Are the people screaming it in the streets now? Or was it one little whore who lost her tongue and found yours?”>

Najla’s angry gaze snapped behind Osman now, to where Elif was standing. She had not forgotten the girl’s presence, though Najla seemed worried as to Osman’s actions, especially now that she was so close to Basim. Najla’s words had emboldened Elif, though perhaps it was the shield her husband brought upon her. When she spoke, her words could not match the barely-contained rage Najla’s held now, but it was growing.

<“How dare you call me a whore. How dare you?! You’re not even his wife yet, you just think no one can touch you! But you’ll be a second wife soon, you’ll have to learn respect.”>

Najla nearly scoffed at that, a new sort of disbelief apparent on her face. <“For you? I could never learn. How many nights did you spend alone, knowing your husband was warming himself in my bed? You shouldn’t need a man’s tongue to demand respect.”>

<“You’re only a second wife, don’t forget. You won’t be a Sultana when you’re married, you’ll be-”>

<“A Sultana.”> The word was spoken like a hiss, through clenched teeth, and Najla could feel her fists curling up. She would not be able to strike Elif, for Osman was standing more or less in between them, though it seemed as if Najla was eager to try. <“I will not bow to you, I will not kiss your hand, and I will feel no pity when your husband chooses to spend his nights with me, again. My name remains my own, and with it, my title. You cannot take that from me.”>

<“But I will take the Servant.”>

Najla’s eyes widened as she looked up at Osman, and when she glanced back towards Ketill, she could see the same surprise in Basim’s expression. She knew the laws as well as he did, but she never could have imagined that Osman would go so far as to enact it. This had to be Elif’s doing, her suggestion, but Najla would have a lifetime to find such evidence.

<“It is my right. As your husband, all that is yours will be mine. Since you cannot be made to tame that mangled beast, I will. Sultana or not, you are not above this law.”>

<“Believe me, I am. I will not allow you to hurt him any more than you have.”>

<“I punished him fairly, he swung at me! And you chose to protect him, like the dog-fucking cunt-”>

<“Fuck you, Osman!”>

<“Am I lying? He goes unpunished, even rewarded! He shouldn’t even be standing here, but you- Najla, you won’t let him fall! He says what he pleases, does as he pleases, and you just give him all he wants! That filthy fucking infidel bastard!”>

At these words, Osman had already set his eyes upon his target. Najla had not positioned herself between Osman and Ketill, but more unconsciously between her brother and her lover, so he did not have to push against her to go after the ‘beast’. It would have been foolishness regardless, especially now that there were no guards around to tame him, but luckily, he would not get that close. Basim was quick to speak up again, moving so that he was the one facing Osman now. He was not quite as tall as either of them, and far less accustomed to violence, though perhaps his anger seemed to offer him some inches now. Perhaps it was the shock of seeing Basim so self-assured, but Osman stopped in his path, staring him down as Basim spoke.

<“He’s not your property yet, you have no right here. You’ve spoken enough nonsense, I don’t want to watch you embarrass yourself any further. Get out.”>

There was a brief moment, a charged stare between Osman and Basim, and in this moment, Najla worried that perhaps Osman would choose to swing at her brother. Rather than wait for this to occur, Najla stepped forwards again, closer to Osman than before, closer than she should have dared. Though she opened her mouth to speak, it was Osman that spoke first, his eyes seeming to spark with anger as he looked upon her again. He had found a easier target in her than in Basim, it seemed, though perhaps he was not quite so eager to attack Ketill as he seemed.

<“Your prize Broacienien pig suffers no punishment, and yet I am insulted for asking to bring him to justice?”> Najla tried to speak again, but she found that Osman’s words would not stop now. <“Even your brother has been brought to his side! You truly are a Servant’s whore! Aren’t you ashamed?!”>

Though her brother seemed quite tired of Osman’s presence, Najla would not allow him to speak up now. Perhaps there was some instinct that told her to keep Osman away, or perhaps her own anger had taken over, but regardless, she was quick to dismiss Basim when he tried to speak up again, pushing him to stay back before she turned on Osman once more.

<“I’m not going to let him speak like that, Najla-“>

<“Basim, this isn’t your business, stay back!”> She whipped her head back around then, glaring at Osman as her voice resumed that awful shouting. <“Curse your tongue, don’t you dare drag my brother in this! You’re a coward Osman, you won’t lay a hand on anything unless you’ve got a whip in it!”>

<“You’re calling me a coward? Zahremar! A liar should have a better memory Najla!”>

Their words had devolved even as their volumes rose, and now they stood hurling insults before each other. While Osman had done so before, Najla had never felt herself quite so angry, so filled with loathing for the man she loved. The past few days had certainly been a strain on her, and for it to culminate in this was a disaster she could never have assumed. It was clear that she was no longer in control, not of those around her, and barely even of herself. Amidst this heated exchange, Najla could see Elif reach out for Basim from the corner of her eye, likely to take him away from the two of them. It did not warrant a second thought however, for Najla was quite distracted with her lover screaming in her face. They exchanged these heated words even as Najla refused to look away or back down, despite how imposing Osman had made himself to be now. While she hoped Basim would not interfere, there would be no time to know if he would, for she said the wrong words too soon.

<“You are a coward! All you can speak are insults, like I wouldn’t rather have a pet bear than a simpering, shit-licking, calf!”>

Her words were halted by the sudden grip of his hand, tight and unforgiving as he gripped her hair painfully, wrenching her gaze upwards. It was enough to draw a sudden gasp of pain from her, but this would quickly devolve into insults as she tried to shove him away, only to feel him grip her forearm with his other hand. She heard only yelling, he was far too close for her to hear much else, not even the sound of Basim’s voice. All she could hear was the sound of a man raging in her ear, all she could feel was the tight, painful grip fixed in her hair and on her arm, until suddenly, it was ripped from her.

Najla stumbled back as Osman released her, his hand suddenly untangling itself from its grip in light of a greater shock. As she looked up now, her breath coming in deep gasps, Najla was shocked to see the figure of her lover replaced with another, far larger, who sought to protect her from him now. Even as she felt Basim reach for her, taking her arm with a gentleness completely opposite Osman’s, Najla’s eyes remained on the figure who now stood before her, blocking her husband’s path. Osman’s protests were lost among the racing of blood in her ears, and Najla’s eyes were wide as they remained on Ketill, trying to comprehend what had just happened.

Her lover had humiliated her that much was certain. But the throbbing on her arm and head was quickly forgotten now, lost among a greater shock. What was Ketill thinking, defending her like this? He hated her, surely, seeing her in pain should have been nothing but a reward for him. She could not understand him, she would never be able to understand his reasoning, but hearing Osman’s words would be enough to force her to halt. He was far less bold now that there was a Servant between them, but the words stung all the same.

<“Get out from behind your dog and face your husband.”>

<“Son of a thousand whores.”> It was Basim that spoke now, his voice tight and angry as he tried to control himself. He wouldn’t attack Osman, especially with Ketill standing between his sister and her husband, but he would not hold his tongue now, not even for his sister’s sake. Najla did not speak now, but she reached up to grip Basim’s hand gently, as if the touch would keep him from moving forward. <“Tuck your tail between your legs and go.”>

<“You have no-”>

The comfort of Basim’s hand was suddenly torn from Najla as he stepped forwards. <“Leave.”>

Najla had been silent since Ketill had stepped forwards, as it seemed she was still reeling somewhat from the shock. It was not as if this was the first time Osman had done this, but Najla never could have imagined that he would do so in front of her brother, or that Ketill would be the one to stop him. Her mind was racing, past fear and anger, past hatred and shock, until her eyes turned to Elif. The girl seemed shocked by the situation, though not in the same way that Najla was, accompanied by dread and horror. There was a smugness to her surprise, one that Najla might have been imagining, and yet, it was enough for her other emotions to settle down, making room for one, all-encompassing anger. Perhaps she could have ignored it, allowed it to pass, but Elif had caught notice of her gaze. Now, she turned towards Najla, a new courage in her now that Basim and Ketill were preoccupied with Osman.

<“It seems you’ve also found a man’s tongue to cower behind.”>

Whatever anger Najla had towards Osman could not have matched the surge of fury that followed Elif’s words. Her fists clenched, her eyes narrowing as she eyed the girl, her body turning towards her. She had seen how Elif had pulled Basim away, leaving Najla to be the sole target of Osman’s fury. Even as Elif continued to speak, Najla felt only that surge of anger, no longer able to decipher whether it came because of the girl’s words. Elif had known, she knew that Osman would attack Najla. She had taken Najla’s husband from her, and set him upon her like a dog.

<“Did I cower, cow?”>

<“You knew your dog would defend you. How many nights did you spend trading your cunt to return to my husband? How many countless infidels fucked your religio-“>

She would not be allowed to finish, her words quickly replaced by a cry of shock. Najla practically dove at the girl, before wrapping a fist in her hair much the way Osman had done moments before. She pulled Elif’s hair down, yanking the girls face towards her, striking her in the cheek with her fist. She could feel Elif’s hands on her, trying to land a blow, trying to yank her hand away, but she didn’t care. She couldn’t even think to care, for she was quick to raise her fist again, trying to strike Elif once more. Najla had nearly reached her face again when a figure tried to pull her back, though Najla felt her nails catch the girl still, a slight victory. Before she could do anything else, Basim had yanked her hand off of Elif, pulling Najla back with him. Osman had forgotten about Ketill, rushing to Elif’s side to help her, even as Najla struggled fruitlessly in her brother’s grip.

<“Let me slit that donkey-fucker’s throat!”>

<“Najla, shut up!”> Basim had managed to pull her away from Elif, and now released her, pushing her back slightly. Even while Osman aided Elif, Najla stood before her brother, her breathing heavy, her eyes still wild with anger. However, she did not try to step forward now, only watching her brother. For a moment, they stood in a tense standoff, but their eyes were torn off one another when Elif’s voice rang out again.

<“You crazy cunt, this will be answered for!”>

<“Then answer it!”> Najla dared. Though she was still angry, it seemed her brother was still enough to calm her somewhat, for she would make no more dives at Elif. Still, Basim held a hand back as if to stop Najla, for her words certainly seemed as if she was prepared to attack her again.

<“Ya Sawarim, enough! Najla, stop this!”> He turned around to face Osman then, whose anger seemed to have faded in the light of something new, something far closer to worry. This incident did not bode well for Osman, who would have to settle a debate between his wives, all while pretending he held any control over them. It did not bode well for Elif either, for she had grown bold enough to insult a Sultana, understanding that there were consequences to this. However, it would be worst for Najla, though she did not quite seem to realize this yet. Rather, she allowed Basim to hold her back with a careful grip on her arm, even as he spoke to Osman. <“You should go, now.”>

<“No! I’m not going to let that cunt get away with this, Osman!”> Even as Elif called back for her husband to help, Najla dragged her gaze onto Osman, waiting for his answer. Her gaze was still angry, as if she was daring Osman to side with his wife, but as she calmed a growing sadness could be found in them, a slow realization that she had truly lost him.

<“No Elif, not now. We’ll settle this later.”> Osman turned his gaze past Basim, onto his wife to be. <“But it will be settled.”>

<“Get out.”>

These were the only words Najla could respond with, as anger still gripped her tongue, silencing her further as Osman and Elif turned to leave. She would only look upon them with burning eyes, feeling Basim release her hand only when the door slammed shut behind them. As the warmth of his hand left her, it seemed that Najla herself unraveled with it, most of her anger falling away with it.

<“Najla... what have you done?”>

<“I- I don’t know.”>

<“Are you hurt?”>

The sudden concern for her well-being should not have been surprising, but given the circumstances, it brought a slight frown onto her face. She reached up then, touching at her head gently, feeling where Osman had gripped it before shaking her head. There was no pain left, she could only worry about what was to come.

<“What were you thinking?”>
<“Basim, please.”> Her voice was exhausted, and it sounded almost as if she truly was pleading with her brother, to simply allow her a brief respite. <“Please, just leave it alone.”>

<“Leave it alone?!”>

<“Yes, leave it, I’m losing my fucking mind, just leave it.”>

<“I’m not going to leave it, Najla!”>

“She asked me how many infidels had fucked my religion!”

It was the first time she’d spoken in Broacienian since Ketill had appeared in her room, a strange transition from screaming in her mother tongue, and yet Najla seemed to have done this intentionally. It seemed she blamed Ketill for this still, as this incident, that particular insult never could have been spat at her if it wasn’t for his presence. Then again, if it had not been for that night in Coedwin, perhaps she would not have reacted quite so violently. However, it was quite a vicious insult, the reaction upon Basim’s face was enough to confirm that.

“She accuses me of trading my cunt, mocking all that I have endured, I just- I couldn’t hear it any longer.”

“Well, you haven’t done much to shut her up. Fuck, what happens now?”

At that, Najla turned her gaze onto Ketill, raking her eyes across his figure, as if sizing him up. There were two routes to this now, one, that both her and Elif would back down, which seemed impossible at this point. The second was that it would be settled as it started, with champions to take the place of those who weren’t meant to fight in the first place. Rather than answer her brother however, Najla locked eyes with Ketill, choosing to speak with him first.

“Go, get out.”

There was no indication of gratitude, almost as if she had forgotten what he’d just done. Still, she’d wait for him to leave before turning to Basim again. Before he could speak, to ask about the future again, Najla reached out and took his hand with a soft sigh.

<“I’ve brought a world of trouble upon you, upon all of us. I’m sorry, Basim. You deserved better from me, always.”>

<“I don’t want to hear your apology, I’ll wait till I hear Osman’s first.”>

<“No, my blood, you cannot do that. You cannot tell anyone what he did. Take mine. You won’t hear one from him.”>

---

It would not take long before news of the incident had spread. Najla had hoped she would be able to contain it, but she had known it was a baseless hope. Elif had demanded an answer for such an insult, and Najla would not back down, asserting her right to retaliate for Elif’s words. Whether such a right truly existed or not was uncertain, but none would doubt that it was foolishness to insult a Sultana so blatantly. Perhaps not as foolish as a second wife attacking the first, but that was yet to be determined.

It would have to be determined by the fight. There was no other way. Najla held an authority as Sultana, but Elif held authority as a first wife, and so they stood at a standstill before the law. They were meant to be equals before their husband, but Osman’s inability to keep this matter within his household was apparent far too quickly. Had it not been for an initially unspoken agreement on the part of his wives, later solidified by Osman himself, far more could have fallen apart for him. As it stood, the official story was simply that Elif had insulted Najla and that Najla had retaliated. There was no mention of their accusations of infidelity, nor the way Osman had grabbed her. It would prove no benefit, only more trouble for either to reveal such secrets, and so it was kept hidden, leaving her story with far too many gaps.

Yet she’d found that she’d have to address these gaps again and again, in speaking to her family, her Sultan, and even in the brief, tense conversations she’d had with Osman. He was still furious with her, but had come just long enough to be assured of the precise story that she would speak. Now, she found herself sitting in her father’s room, with the judging eyes of her family upon her, forced to repeat this story again. She sat on a chair before her father’s desk, pulled out slightly so that she could face the family that had scattered across the room. Her mother sat before her, facing her with eyes that reflected far more sympathy than anger, though Najla found no comfort in this. She chose to focus on her father, who stood behind her mother, staring at her with stern eyes. Of her siblings, only Basim and Harith were present, and though this incident seemed to have amused Harith more than anything, Najla found she could not quite tell what Basim was thinking. Yet none had said a word, none had dared to speak while Najla’s father still spoke.

<“Najla, this was senseless.”>

<“I know, baba.”>

Najla’s voice was soft when she spoke, though this was unsurprising. She would never dare to raise her voice to her father, nor did she have the right to be angry at her family now. When she looked across their faces, Najla could have cursed herself for the trouble she had put them through. She had taken on every admission of guilt she could have, there was little left to do. They were forced to see this matter all the way through, to take it out from the shadows and before clear eyes. It was an uncomfortable notion for Najla, who was far more used to handling her business away from prying eyes. Even being forced to sit here, and apologize before her parents and siblings was a struggle, Najla already sat in dread of the Sultanate’s eyes upon her. In losing control of herself, she had lost control of this situation, and she was beginning to realize that perhaps she had lost far more.

<“I would never have expected something like this from you. Your brother over there perhaps, but not you. Since when have you acted so violently? Your actions have jeopardized our name, do you have no care for that?”>

<“Of course I care baba.”> Her voice was strained and tight, still trying to reign herself in. They’d spoken of this before, she’d heard every one of these criticisms and admonishes before. It was wearing on her nerves, and now she had little clue as to why her father had chosen to gather her siblings before her one more time to hear them. Whatever it was, it couldn’t have been good. <“I’m sorry. I would undo my actions if I could, believe me, I never meant to put you through this.”>

<“But that’s exactly what you have done. Because of your inability to control yourself, you have brought a stain onto our name.”>

<“I know, baba. I understand what I have done, but I promise, it will be over. I have given you no cause for shame before this incident, after it is resolved, you will never see another.”>

<“And you believe this fight will resolve it?”>

<“Yes.”> There was a brief silence then, and Najla simply frowned before continuing, trying to read her father’s gaze. <“Isn’t that the whole point? It’s not as if the Servant will lose. Besides, I have already promised you and uncle that I would not demand any sort of recompense from Elif when he does, so that we can put this behind us.”> Again, her words were met with silence. <“Baba, I’m sorry. I am so ashamed of what I have done. I never meant to bring this upon you, none of you. I would take all your pain onto me, I have told you a hundred times over. But I’ve done all that I can to resolve this, there’s no other way for me to ease your burden but to see this through.”>

Again, silence. She glanced around the room then, to see if her brothers had any indication of what was occurring. This silence was hardly pleasant, and Najla was left wondering why they could have been brought along. Harith was watching her father, clearly just as curious as Najla was, but Basim was looking at her. It was a knowing gaze, one that held her own secrets deep within them now. She turned her gaze away from him, unable to deal with such a reflection now.

<“You haven’t heard then, have you?”>

<“Heard what?”> Najla’s gaze flashed to her father now, and she found a new panic beginning to rise, worried that her father was finally getting to the news he’d wished to tell her. <“Ya Sawarim, what’s happened now?”>

<“Elif has chosen her champion.”>

<“So soon? I haven’t even announced my choice to Uncle yet, surely she’d have more volunteers if she waited.”>

<“It seems there was no need. Osman announced it to the Sultan today, it’s going to be your brother in law, Sa’aqr.”>

Najla closed her eyes, taking in a deep breath as she trying to comprehend this fact. Around her, she could hear her family’s voices, Harith’s muttered curses, her father’s disappointed sigh, and her mother’s whispered prayers. There was a reason she hadn’t known about this, there was a reason they had decided their champion so early, Elif was getting her first taste of a game she needn’t have entered. She had ensured that Najla could not win, if she lost, they would say the Sawarim had decided against her in this judgement. If she won, Osman’s brother would be dead. Perhaps the thought should have worried her more, but as Najla tried to examine the consequences, wondering if she could alter this development somehow, an anger had settled in the pit of her stomach. Elif had placed too much faith in Najla’s ‘fear’ of Osman’s anger. She had not realized that Najla held little fear of Osman, only an anger towards the man her lover had turned into, and the woman she blamed for making him so.

<“Osman didn’t tell you?”>

Her mother had finally spoken for the first time, her voice far kinder than any words her father had spoken. Najla finally opened her eyes at this, looking over at her mother in silence for a few moments before she shook her head. The look of pity in her eyes was near unbearable, but there was an understanding in them that she had not seen from her father or brothers. She certainly didn’t condone Najla’s attempt on Elif, but she seemed to understand her hurt on a deeper level, or perhaps only felt more sympathy for her daughter. Regardless, Najla could not bear to look at her for long. For a long moment, she did not speak, tapping her fingers on the arm of the chair nervously. Her family picked up the chatter around her, discussing this new issue. All their words on Sa’aqr’s quick agreement, the sheer number of volunteers Elif must have had, it all filtered through her thoughts, never quite drawing her attention or gaze until her father’s stern voice finally called her name.

<“Najla, say something. This is your mistake, so this is your decision to make.”>

<“It’s been made.”> At this, Najla finally looked back up at her father. <“Ketill should still fight, no?”>

<“I can beat Sa’aqr.”> Harith finally spoke up, his voice carrying a confidence that worried Najla now. Though she could not see it, for her gaze had instantly turned to her brother, the look her father gave him must have been damning, for he was quick to defend himself. <“What? It’s tradition that blood should defend blood regardless. It’s not as if I mind. If he’s going to defend Elif after such words, I would be thrilled to put him in the ground.”>

<“Naming Harith might take Sa’aqr out of the fight.”> Now it was Basim’s turn to defend himself from his father’s glare, and he looked over at Harith quickly, as if hoping for some support from his brother. <“I’m not saying Harith should fight him, I don’t want to see that. But they could refuse to allow Sa’aqr, for fear of breaking the Qawanin. Or he’d withdraw himself. If he isn’t going to balk at the thought of killing a Servant, he might at least hesitate to kill a prince.”>

<“He’s not going to kill me.”>

<“I’m not saying he will, but the threat itself-“>

<“Is meaningless, since he can’t kill me.”>

<“Would you shut up Harith, that’s not what I’m saying.”>

A short, terse hiss from their father was enough to quiet her brothers, though it almost seemed as if Najla hadn’t heard them. She could only wonder if this was why her father had brought them here, to provide her with an option for a champion besides the Servant. Basim had a point, after all, there was a chance that Sa’aqr would only be deterred after she named Harith, rather than the Servant. It would have been a pleasing sight, to see Elif scramble for another champion, but it was still only a chance. It was difficult to consider this option however, for Najla’s thoughts could not release the notion that Osman had kept this from her. Rather than come to her and mention that his brother had volunteered, Osman had gone straight to her uncle, cementing the choice before she could have any say in the matter. Perhaps it was the smartest option for him, as she would have taken any opportunity to sway Sa’aqr from fighting, yet she couldn’t help but wonder why Osman would have allowed his brother to fight in the first place. He knew she intended to name Ketill, had Osman meant to dissuade her from that? Or had Elif convinced him? Whatever it was, it would be near impossible to understand without speaking to her husband, and Najla had never felt so far from him.

<“What do you think, baba?”>

<“These are not my games to play, my blood. I could only tell you which of your fighters would win, not if they should.”>

Najla looked up at him for a moment, and it was clear in her eyes that she was lost. Her father could offer her no advice on this matter, the only ones she trusted loathed her now, or were too far away to reach her ears in time. Basim’s words were only suggestions, and she could sense that he had no desire to see his brother fight as well, though perhaps he was thinking more clearly than she was. Najla had lost herself to her thoughts, she had lost herself among the loss of her husband, the pain she had brought upon her family, and the indignity of having to go to her uncle, and explain why she had done what she did. It was a blessing that she was a Sultana, and thus allowed to have such an audience in private, but it had been little comfort when she was made to repeat Elif’s words. She could imagine nothing that would bring her comfort when she would have to answer it.

<“I can’t let you fight for me, Harith.”> When she finally spoke up again, her voice had grown soft again, with a tenderness she had not spoken in for some time. His attempt to protest would be cut off rapidly, and a glance up at her parents showed a semblance of relief at her words. It was a slight comfort, to know that she had eased their worries somewhat, but it did little to balance out the pain she had brought them. <“Even if I could bear to let you answer for my mistakes, you have a son. You don’t get to gamble with your life anymore. The Servant will see this insult answered.”>

<“I’ll go tell my brother then, so that we can set a date for this fight. I’d like to see this matter settled as soon as we can manage, so your wedding can go on as planned.”>

<“No need, baba, I can speak to him. If you’ll let me.”>

Her father looked down at her in surprise, though Najla had little surprise as to where this was coming from. She had already spoken to her uncle at length about this matter, and it had been an exhausting affair, to have to defend herself to her own family. Her uncle had shown some sympathy, especially when Najla had relayed the words that had caused her to hurt Elif, but it was not enough to console her regarding the matter. The worst had been when he asked her why Osman had not been the one to decide this, why he had let his wives run ahead of him, and Najla had been forced to defend her husband when she could think of few kind words for him. She could not bear to repeat that process, but Najla moved to stand from her seat, indicating that she would do so regardless of her own emotions.

<“This was my mistake, I have not forgotten that. May I be excused?”>

Her father nodded once then, allowing her to leave. Before she could, Najla reached out, taking her mother’s hand and kissing it gently before pressing it to her forehead. She repeated this with her father, who did not look at her with quite the same compassion her mother had held, and yet, she knew he wanted to reach out and offer some sort of sympathy. It would not happen however, and Najla simply turned to leave, before hearing her father speak again, this time to her brothers.

<“Basim, go escort her. Your uncle might want to hear your testimony on this matter again. Harith, stay here, I need to speak with you.”>

With that, the discussion was ended. Najla waited for Basim to pay his respect to his parents in the same manner Najla had, as Harith moved to take her seat. When her brother had approached her, Najla took his arm, and the pair left their fathers room together. It was a strange feeling, for Basim to be escorting her so, for the past few times she had seen him had not been pleasant. She had met with him, practically begging him to settle on the same story she and Elif would tell the Sultan. Basim had tried to convince her that she should tell the Sultan about Osman’s attack as well, but after some discussion, had managed to be persuaded otherwise. It was her plea for peace in her household that ultimately convinced him, though Najla wondered if his agreement came because he wanted to give Osman no more cause to harm his sister. Regardless of the reason, he had spoken to the Sultan alongside Najla to ensure the truth of her story. She had brought a great deal of strain upon her family, but mostly onto her younger brother, and his own issues with her actions regarding Thamud had been set aside in this process. It would be brought up again, Najla was certain of that, but it seemed Basim was still struggling with just how to handle his sister. Anger did not quite fit anymore, but neither did pity.

<“You think uncle will have the time for an audience now?”>

<“Hopefully. Let’s not check just yet though. I’d like to visit the temple first. If you’re willing to wait, of course.”>

<“I don’t mind, so long as you’re willing to answer some questions on the way.”>

Najla frowned slightly, looking up at her brother in confusion. They had spoken about this matter at great length, both alone and with the rest of her family present. There was simply nothing left to say. She’d assured Basim that Osman had never done such a thing before, and that he never would again. She had tried to explain her attack on Elif further, though there was little more to explain besides her apologies. Her brother understood the necessity of choosing Ketill, she could not imagine what qualm he’d have now.

<“After all that you have done for me, you should know there’s no need to bargain for answers. I could hold no secret from you.”>

<“It’s not a secret, at least, I should hope it isn’t. I was only curious, what are you planning on giving Ketill to fight this time?”>

Najla bit her lip as she considered the question, before shrugging. <“I haven’t even begun to consider that. I’ve been preoccupied with other concerns.”>

<“That’s understandable.”> They fell quiet for a brief moment as the pair encountered a small cluster of nobles, who bowed their heads as they passed. Though Najla and Basim both returned this, Basim was quick to look ahead, though Najla’s gaze lingered. She could see them peering up at her through their lashes in curiosity, judging her in silence, but Najla could not dwell on this. She only adjusted her light grasp on Basim’s arm as they continued walking, only speaking again once she was certain they were far enough behind her.

<“I will give him whatever he asks for, I suppose. I can’t afford to lose this fight.”>

<“You also can’t afford to win.”>

Najla knew he was right, but when she looked up at Basim, she began to suspect that there was a deeper worry there, something he could not quite name to her. Elif naming Sa’aqr could become a major cause for political conflict, but she knew that this was not quite what Basim was talking about. There was something more personal in his anxiety, and it would not take Najla long to understand what it was.

<“Osman and Elif have put us all on a difficult course, but they’ve had to peddle their own flesh like goats to do it. I’ve already put a great deal upon all of you, whatever else happens, I want it to be mine to handle. You might have been right about Harith, but I have already lost a brother, I won’t risk another on a gamble.”>

<“It’s not just about Harith. You understand, you can say you’ll take the consequences, but the reality is that it won’t be up to you. Besides, I believe our family’s reputation can withstand this. Uncle loves you, his anger will fade.”>

A long pause followed, at which Najla found that she could not quite think of the words to speak. Something in the way he spoke of their uncle was telling as to his concerns, for if it was not his family he was speaking of, and not the Sultan, there were not many options left. When she spoke up again, her voice as soft as a breath, trying to convince Basim of all that she wanted to believe.

<“Osman loves me too.”>

<“Will it be enough?”>

<“Enough for what?”>

<“Najla, you’re not stupid. A few insults were all it took for him to grab you like that, knowing your blood was there to witness. What happens tomorrow, when Ketill takes his brother’s life, and you’re left alone with him?”>

He was starting to get worked up now, and Najla could tell that they were nearing the temple, so she changed her course briefly. Maintaining her grip on his arm, Najla pulled Basim out of the center of the hallway, standing beside the colorfully tiled wall as she turned to face him.

<“You’re worried for me? After all I’ve done?”>

<“Ya Umma, of course I am. You’re still my sister.”>

<“Your kindness shames me, but it’s best kept for another. Osman won’t hurt me.”>

<“You can’t guarantee that. Even if you survive this trial, he threatened to take Ketill from you. He has that right, just as he has the right to correct you if you refuse, don’t you think he’ll use it?”>

<“No. He won’t.”>

<“Don’t tell me you’re going to give him Ketill. He’ll have him killed.”>

<"He’s not going to touch him. Ketill is mine. Osman will have to understand. Trust me when I say that he will. Elif can whisper what she likes, she will not take my husband from me.”>

Before Basim could continue to protest, Najla reached upwards, placing a hand delicately on his shoulder as she raised herself to kiss his cheek. It was a tender gesture, one that would have embarrassed Basim in his younger years, but he did not seem to mind now.

<“I am not afraid of Osman. I fear only God. And so long as God has seen fit to keep you by my side, I know I hold his blessing.”>

With that, she released him, smiling slightly as she stepped back. With a practiced motion, she took the thin fabric that had been left across her shoulders, pulling it so that it covered her hair. With that, she began to walk towards the woman’s section of the temple, before looking back at Basim.

<“I’ll keep my prayers short, if you’d like to wait out here.”>

<“Take your time. I think I need to pray too.”>

---

It seemed that despite the strange circumstances, Najla was content to follow a similar pattern as before. Again, it would be some time before Ketill was to hear from her again, before she came to fetch him with guards. However, something had shifted since the incident with Osman. Perhaps Ketill would know little of it, unless his new servant was to tell him, for it had been Najla that had been forced to speak with her family, to spend her thoughts endlessly reliving the situation. It had been Najla that had sat before her brother, to explain to him why her husband had treated her so. And now, rather than have him brought to her room, it was Najla that came to him.

It was just after noon when the sound of knocking would come at Ketill’s door, loud and masculine, clearly not that of a Sultana. Ketill would be allowed to open the door, but only if he hurried, for Najla’s patience had not changed despite the circumstances. If he did not, the guard would open it, walking in just before the Sultana. Najla walked in, taking a look around the room before she would ever train her eyes upon Ketill. It was all that was visible of her face now, for she had wrapped her head and face with a thin fabric. Whatever she was looking for, Najla would not find it, for she was quick to move towards the empty desk provided for him, removing the fabric that wrapped across her head, only to sit in the chair before it, her body turned so as to face Ketill. Her appearance had changed slightly, for while she still wore that gold circlet on her head, there was no jewelry to adorn her body. Thanks to Ketill, Osman had not latched onto her long enough to leave bruises, and so Najla had nothing to cover. She did not need to gold to wrap around her bruising, and her hair was piled atop her head now, exposing an unbruised neck as well. It was a strange victory, but she was not ignorant to the fact that she was flaunting her lack of injuries, not to Ketill, but to Osman. She had dressed similiarly during their brief conversations, but then, she had not felt as if she needed to hide her face. Clearly, coming to see Ketill was a different matter.

“Do you like your room? It’s better than the alternative, I imagine. Although I don’t know why they gave you one of these.” She rapped her fingers on the desk, leaving no question as to what she meant. “I can’t fathom what use you’d find for it.” It was a strange way to start the conversation, yet Najla rested her elbow on the desk, reaching up to toy with a tendril of her hair absent-mindedly, as if she was truly engrossed in this meaningless chatter. “It’s a bit plain, isn’t it? Why not ask for something prettier than that desert to adorn your room? Although… I suppose that you already have. I hope she’s been satisfying, I don’t have many more to spare.”

Her words were strange, her tone too familiar, as if she was speaking to a nobleman whose presence was waning on her nerves. It would sound almost as if she had completely forgotten the incident, though there was something in the way she studied Ketill that indicated otherwise. She would never forget, and as her eyes studied her ‘protector’, Najla realized she might never understand either.

“I suppose I should get to the point, though I’m certain you’ve already guessed at it. I don’t know what you’ve heard, but…” Najla let out a soft sigh now, closing her eyes as she did so, as if steeling herself for her words. There was too much to say, too many words to sort through, yet for once, Najla was somewhat quick at getting to the real point of her words. “That cunt demanded that the insult be answered for. It’s pathetic. Yet I cannot back down from such a demand, not even in the name of peace for my household or husband. Truthfully, if she had offered herself, I would not have wanted to.” Najla did not try to justify her actions, for once, she had no need to. It was a strange sort of comfort to know that she was in the presence of someone far more violent than her, who she had seen do far worse than a blow to the face. It was still a small comfort however, for she took in a deep breath then, steeling herself for her next words.

“Instead, we’re to choose champions, to settle this matter before the clear eyes of the Sawarim. I have of course, chosen…” She did not say the word, instead gesturing with a hand towards Ketill. No one would be surprised to hear who Najla had chosen. Typically, this role would be given to brothers or cousins, to be an extension of those who quarreled, but those were far too dear to her. Besides, Ketill represented far more than a blood tie, she would put that which she had survived before the Sultanate, and watch it strike Elif down. Still, Najla clearly found little thrill in the notion, and her next words would leave no question as to why.

“Elif had quite a few volunteers to choose from, but she will announce the final one in some days. Sa’aqr ibn Hakim Al-Suwaidi. He’s a skilled warrior. Unlike his brother, he sharpens this ability on warriors, not women.”

She paused slightly before speaking again, though her expression would indicate nothing about the problem she had revealed to Ketill. There was no winning, not for her. If Ketill was to die, she’d be humiliated, if he won, her husband’s family would never forgive her. Perhaps she should have chosen a brother as well, to place the fear of killing a prince upon Osman’s family, but she could not have brought herself to do so. This had been her mistake, she would not bargain Harith’s life to fix it.

“Does it please you, to know you’re to fight Osman’s brother? My husband loves his brother dearly, as I love Osman, so I’m certain you’ll find some sort of pleasure in his grief.” The way she said his was rather telling, though Najla would not have to explain for Ketill to understand. She did not care for the death of her brother-in-law, just as she had not cared for Thamud. “Will that be enough? Or will you be asking for another girl? You’ve become awfully bold, so just spit out your price. So long as you can take Sa’aqr’s life, it’s yours.”

This bargain was all that she had come for. Najla could hardly bear to be in his presence for long, it was a reminder of all that was to come, all that he had already taken from her. She would hear his answer before standing up, pulling that fabric up over her hair, though she did not wrap it around her face just yet. Before she could leave, Najla stopped, turning back to look at Ketill. It seemed as if it was spoken as an afterthought, but it was a weight that had laid upon her chest for days, one she could not have forgotten so easily. Her voice was slightly softer as she spoke now, for though she would issue a command, there was little sternness in her voice. It seemed almost empty without the poised yet forceful tone of a Sultana she had learned to adopt.

“I do not know why you did what you did. I should thank you for your intentions, I suppose, but something…something tells me not to. Perhaps you have dragged me into your own madness, or perhaps it is the knowledge our years together have brought, but I intend to trust it regardless. You have given me no reason to thank you.”

It was a harsh statement, perhaps rude in any other context, but Najla would be quick to explain herself. Ketill had brought only brought hardship on her, and though she could hardly settle on a reason for his actions, Najla had seen the consequences all too well.

“You shouldn’t have protected me. I cannot keep you by my side like a guard dog, and I cannot be separated from Osman now, not ever. I would never wish to be. You’ve only given them more cause to call me a Monarchist whore, and Osman cause to punish you for it.” Now her eyes seemed to find that sternness they had been missing, likely as she realized the command she was giving Ketill. It was a horrible sentence to speak, to even assume that her husband might try something like this again, but Najla had been wrong before. So long as Ketill was breathing, Osman would find a reason to loathe her.

“It is his right as my husband to strike me. You do not know our laws, I understand, but that does not take this right from him. Next time, stay your hand. For my sake or yours, I don’t care, but you must let him do it. There are worse fates than a bruising.”

@persianversion

ℰxpedition for the ℬanner of St. ℱriedrich

After the journey Ketill was left to his devices for the first time in what seemed to be ages. Purely the fact that he had to sleep in that healer woman’s tent had been a strain on him, so being able to return to ‘’his’’ bed in ‘’his’’ private room on the side of the castle that peered out over the vast expanse of desert… it was a pleasure that he’d never expected to find within the confines of his captors. Not that they resembled anything close to captors at that point – he was a slave, yes, first and foremost he’d always remain a slave until the ravens prophecy came true. But second, he was a guard dog. And though his loyalty was questionable, his position as a ‘’beast’’, ‘’the Bear of Broacien’’… all of it came together to form a nearly impenetrable defense against those that would seek to tear him down from his position within the court, as minimal as that position was. Indirectly, the ‘’honour’’ of being a slave of a sultana meant that he was above even a citizen of the city, even if they’d never acknowledge as much. It was a dual nature, being above them and below them at the same time. A very strange thing. But not one that he objected to.

As he entered his room, he noticed that some things were being shuffled around in the room next to his. And as far as he was aware, nobody slept there or lived there. Perhaps wisely he decided against checking inside the room, afraid to startle some noble person, or perhaps walk in on something he wasn’t meant to see. Instead, he just put away his things, which was a very limited number of things to begin with.

He then intended to take a nap, but before he could lay down on the bed, he was interrupted by a knocking noise on the door. He initially thought that it would be Najla – or rather, a servant sent by Najla. Najla would never set foot in this dusty area of the palace. It was simply too filthy for someone of her status. Something along those lines, Ketill mused, as he approached the door and pulled it open.

‘’It seems you carry more influence than the girls thought,’’ a feminine, emoted voice rang. In the doorway stood Yasamin, the Broacienien-Sawarim girl that had attempted to entertain him a few weeks prior.

‘’I have no idea what you are talking about.’’ The answer was simple enough, as was the fact that Ketill slammed the door shut in her face, or at least attempted to. But he was stopped by Yasamin, who slammed her hand into the door and put her foot up against the bottom of it.

‘’Don’t pretend. I’ve already heard. You have to be real useful to get a sultana to give up a harem girl to you.’’ Her eyelashes fluttered as she looked back into the hallway, before looking back at Ketill, as if she was about to spill a secret. ‘’Perhaps they weren’t wrong about you.’’

Without waiting for an invite, she stepped into the room, finally allowing Ketill to close the door. He seemed somewhat annoyed – which was strange, considering he’d asked for her to be granted to him – but didn’t tell her to get out, so obviously he wasn’t that annoyed.

‘’What do they say?’’

‘’Things. Many things are said in the palace. You just need to listen,’’ the girl replied, and for a moment Ketill thought he was speaking to Najla. It sounded almost precisely the same. Sure, the voice was different, the looks were different, but… the words that they spoke were exactly the same.

‘’No. I am here to kill. Not to listen.’’

‘’… yes, you’re right, that’s one of the things they say about you.’’

Ketill seemed bored of the conversation already, walking to a nearby table and picking up a cloth, before dipping it into a nearby washing basin filled with water and using it to was his face. Under the cloth he spoke, causing his voice to come out slightly muffled. ‘’They say many things I suppose. I eat babies, and I turn into a spirit at night. I also punch husbands.’’

Yasamin giggled slightly at the mention of that incident, covering her mouth and looking away when she did. ‘’So that rumour was true? I heard the girls mention it, but I thought that it was just gossip.’’

‘’I don’t think that Najla would appreciate if I spoke about that,’’ Ketill answered her question. It would be enough of an answer for her to figure out what he meant, regardless. ‘’Some people like poking bears.’’

‘’It seems that way. There was a lot of talk about you at first, in the harem. There still is, but it’s grown quieter now. I think when I left, they didn’t like that. I don’t think the sultana told anyone where I was going, but this type of news travels fast.’’

‘’Do they think I’m interested in them?’’

‘’No. Maybe. There’s a betting pool.’’

This answer received nothing more than a scoff as Ketill pondered just why they thought he was interested. As far as he’d known, he’d never made any advances towards them. He supposed that that was exactly the reason why they were after him, though. ‘’I have no chores for you. Just take my tunics, and wash them.’’

‘’Wait, you mean… like an actual servant? I thought…’’

‘’There more important things for me than sticking my cock into some hole.’’

‘’I… see. Not that I’m complaining.’’

Again Ketill shrugged. He seemed to care very little about what she thought, much like he cared little about what Najla thought. In a way, Yasamin reminded him of Najla. Or, perhaps not Najla. But Saina, most definitely, if Saina had not been a royalty, but remained a traders’ daughter. ‘’I don’t care. Go.’’

---

Ketill was ‘’fetched’’ once again – the process had become entirely reliable and predictable at this point. Najla would get mad at him, she’d not speak to him for a few days, and then a guard would show up to escort him. It had gotten to the point where he’d memorized a few of the guards’ that he frequently saw their names, so that he could greet them. Whatever ill intent he held towards the Sultanate had vanished when he dropped his faith and position as a Servant, even if he remained a Servant to the Sultanates’ people. Instead, his anger and hate was all burning on one focal point. Najla. It felt better that way, too.

He was lead around to one of the far away private reaches of the palace, where it was quiet as could be. As he approached, he saw that Najla was busy speaking to Osman, so he assumed more or less directly that he was going to get the punishment he’d been owed for killing the man in the fire. And Osman would be the one to deal it, most likely.

However, in the contrary, Osman merely turned around and walked away, leaving Najla to talk to Ketill. When he walked past Ketill, the two engaged in an awkward stare that would only be broken when Osman looked away – with pride, not out of fear.

Then he was brought before Najla herself, who seemed content to laze about in the windowsill. Her question earned a raised eyebrow from Ketill. ‘’Djinn?’’ he asked her, not wholly sure about what she meant. She was quick to explain it, and honestly the explanation made him grin, in a rather sly manner. ‘’Closer than you might think.’’ The explanation about the eyes, and Osman’s mother, it only made it more amusing. ‘’You have been to Broacien. If she is right, perhaps there is an entire nation of ‘’Djinn’’ waiting for you. It makes Djinn sound a whole lot less exciting, no? Knowing that there are hundreds, if not thousands of them. No, it is better to assume I am a Djinn and that my eyes have naught to do with it.’’ He carelessly looked to the side, inspecting the room he was in, taking in the details of it as if he was there on his own volition and in his own free time rather than as if she’d forced him to. ‘’It’s more impressive that way that you survived me. So far.’’

Although unintentional, his words had a double meaning. First of all, it seemed like Najla was having a hard time working with him, which was understandable given his rebellious nature. ‘’Surviving’’ that must’ve been hard for her, as he struggled against her and seemed to try and dismantle all her plans, or at the very least throw some chaos into them. But secondly, there was a more ominous meaning behind the words ‘so far’. She would find a blade in her gut, sooner or later. This much was known. The question was… when?

Her next words made Ketill shrug. The answer was obvious. Because he was worth more to her alive than dead. It would continue to be like that. Whether she realized it or not, he was quite protective of her – even if it was only because he wished for the honour of killing her. That vengeance would redeem him in the eyes of the Gods. It was their challenge to him. If someone else took that chance, well, that would be a reason for a feud. ‘’You don’t need a reason. You are the sultana. Are you not? Was I right in saying that you are not in control?’’ The words had bite, but her next words were fired with a sudden surge in anger as she released the pipe from her grasp, her eyes suddenly finding him and fixating on him when he heard the pipe shatter below. It caused him to grin, slightly. He knew he was under her skin. It was a matter of time before she would screw it up. She would be the one to bring down her palace of gold and jewelry, and she’d blame him. And then he’d take her life.

‘’You cannot put me in the spotlight to bring you status and expect me not to speak.’’

The guard interjected, seemingly worried about the pipe or something trivial, and Najla was quick to silence him. It seemed that that, too, was something she was good at. Except for Ketill. He imagined that it was quite distracting for her to be able to control everyone and anyone except for him. Even Osman seemed to follow her command – at least, as far as he knew. What happened behind the scenes were a secret for all, including Ketill, especially Ketill.

Her talk about a reward made him shrug. It wasn’t the reward that interested him. She was just… to show Najla that she was not in control. That she’d have to give things up to make Ketill do as he was asked. She’d done exactly that, but she didn’t seem to realize it. Not that a harem girl was a gigantic sacrifice to make, but still. A small victory is where it starts. ‘’It would’ve been better to slit his throat. Let him die honourably. But a dead man is dead. He can’t object now. That is enough for me. I don’t have to bear the shame of using poison. It’s your burden now.’’

He could sense that Najla was studying him, as if she was looking for a hint, anything that would betray how he felt. She would receive no such thing – perhaps because he felt nothing at that point. He just glared back, his eyes speaking books yet saying nothing at the same time. It was all she needed to know. ‘’What is it that you Sawarim say. ‘’Let your pain fall on me’’ or something. I wonder if you felt that for him too. Poison hurts. I don’t know what you used. But it took him a few days to die. It was fast – but fast poison is painful. It infected the wound, I suppose?’’ He looked to the side, before walking away from his position. The guard eyed him carefully, looking at Najla to see what she thought about it, that a slave dared insult her as such to walk away. He didn’t seem to care, inspecting a nearby piece of art before turning back to her. ‘’Fire would’ve been quicker. It’d also be less painful. Perhaps it doesn’t seem that way. But in the long run…’’

She then concluded with a question about what he said to Thamud at the end of the fight, which made Ketill laugh. ‘’You asked me to kill him, not fight him. He was already dead when I finished the fight. He just didn’t know it yet. I wonder if he figured it out before he died. He was probably too weak to tell anyone then, but I imagine he knew something was awry. I told him that I would like to push him into the fire. But that I couldn’t, because there was something I needed to do, and I wouldn’t jeopardize that. Then I told him I wished for his bones to be swallowed by the desert and to be spat out again.’’

He glanced back over his shoulder before continuing to inspect the piece of art, resisting the urge to touch it. ‘’Does it matter? He’s dead.’’

But rather than finish the discussion with this, Najla had more she wanted to say – more useless things that he needn’t know but she felt like telling him anyway. He groaned mentally but did not let it show. ‘’I wouldn’t dare…’’ he silently added to her order not to praise his false god. If only she knew, he thought, if only she knew what he knew.

‘’We’ll see. One day you will see the ravens – maybe today, maybe tomorrow, or a year – and then you will understand. You will understand who I am, and why I do what I do. Why I continue to live even if there is nothing here for me. But it will be too late then. Your brother seems to understand better than you do. He is clever. There might be hope for him yet. But you… too useless, too pampered. Too used to comfort. Poison cannot fix all your problems.’’

With that conversation finished, he bowed his head lightly to Najla, giving the guard a sense of respect being given, but just like with Basim, Najla would probably see that it was not meant as a symbol of respect, more so than a sarcastic and joking insult to their authority. Basim had not taken offense – not noticeably, anyway – but Ketill knew Najla better than that. But before she could call him back, he’d already walked away, leaving the guard behind rather confused. He was remarkably brazen and brave for a slave – only furthering his point that she was no longer in control.

But the catch was, neither was Ketill. The cogs of time were churning and it was only a matter of time before the person that was in control would show themselves.

---

It would not take long after all for the cogs of time to turn and revel who was grasping at more and more control. Two days later, Ketill was woken from his sleep early in the morning by a set of guards that he did not recognize. Najla usually sent the same few guards – perhaps because they were tasked with remaining close to her – but these were not among them. Instead, he was given some time to put on a tunic and was then promptly escorted to a corridor of the palace that he had not seen before. He was brought to a large room, and led inside, a curtain hanging behind the door concealing whoever was inside. One of the guards waited before the curtain, speaking up to whoever was inside. <‘’My prince, he’s here.’’>

<‘’Lead him in,’’> a voice came from inside, which was recognizable as Basim’s. The guard opened the curtain and let Ketill step through, who found Basim laying on some pillows on his side, while holding an item of sorts in his hand. It seemed to be made of various forms of colored glass, more as a decoration than anything. But Basim was quick to put the object aside, instead training his eyes on Ketill. ‘’Are you happy?’’

Ketill kept his mouth shut, looking at Basim with piercing eyes. Not that he did not wish to answer, but he did not understand the question, and Najla had asked him not to speak to Basim after all.

‘’I thought as much. Doesn’t really matter. My guard told me that you were escorted to Najla yesterday… I suppose that she wanted to speak to you. And now she won’t let you speak to me.’’

Ketill looked away momentarily, but did not answer, confirming Basim’s thoughts. The boy lazily rolled over onto his back, putting his hands behind his head, seemingly thinking about the situation like Ketill had become used to him doing by now. ‘’I suppose it matters little. In the eyes of the Sultan, my wishes probably overrule her, because I’m a prince, not a sultana. You can speak. She won’t punish you.’’

‘’Then you seek to ‘’protect’’ me again, is it not. You’d tell her not to punish me?’’

‘’Perhaps. I could also order the guards not to punish you. I would do what it takes. I thought about what you said – about being a tool – and I think that we don’t blame a hammer for not striking the armour perfectly, but we blame the armorsmith.’’

‘’That’s… a fitting way to put it. A hammer.’’

‘’More fitting would be a bear, but I thought you’d have become bored by that nickname already.’’

‘’It’s not the nickname that bothers me. It’s the attention it garners me. I can’t set one step before some tribal peasant spoke about poking a bear. Your people are not used to working with animals, are they?’’

‘’Goats. Horses. No bears, so you’ll have to excuse them for thinking all bears are good for is poking.’’

Ketill waved the comment away, looking at the item Basim had put away moments before before glancing back at the boy. He sounded different. A bit more grown up than the first time he’d spoken with him. ‘’Did you call me here to discuss bears then?’’

‘’Perhaps. It would be an interesting conversation, I think. Animals are interesting, we think we control them, but never the less every so often a goat will slip from the herd, or a horse will get scared and run away. We’re never truly in control, are we? In a way you are much like that. You are-’’

Ketill was quick to interrupt him then, a bit of annoyance in his eyes as he glared at Basim. ‘’If you think that, you should have let Najla punish me.’’

This earned a curious look from Basim, who thought he’d done Ketill a favour by protecting him. It was seemingly strange for him to hear that Ketill would’ve rather taken the punishment. Confused, he asked, ‘’why?’’ He did not even seem to remember to tell him to call her sultana, rather than Najla.

‘’It didn’t bother me the first time I was whipped. It would bother me even less now.’’

Basim raised an eyebrow at this, growing silent for a minute before finally replying. ‘’I see. Never the less, I’d say you are more useful to me, to us, here in the palace, rather than in the healers’ room.’’

‘’Because I am a hammer.’’

‘’Because you are a person, like me, who understands the world around him better than most people think you do. Audrun likes wise people, right? Then we must share our ideas and the information we have. It will only serve you better, because you will grow more wise. And for me… it will sate my curiosity.’’

‘’There is little I can tell you. Najla would cut out my tongue. She knows she can do that, because it won’t kill me. It’d be done before you could stop it.’’

Basim shrugged then. ‘’So be it. Why did you offer your condolences to Thamu’s brother?’’

‘’Thamud is dead. That’s why.’’

‘’Yes, but he did not know he would die. So… why?’’

‘’Because his brother would die at the hand of a woman who lacks the strength to do anything on her own and relies on a savage, Broacienien bear that fights for the wrong gods to do her chores. That’s why. He didn’t die with honour – he died at the hands of a cowardly woman that did what she did purely because she felt a desire to. My condolences were the least I could do. But Thamud himself, he did not seem like an honourable man. I would rather his brothers are offered strength and compassion than the man himself.’’

‘’You… were never told why we were there, were you?’’ Basim then asked, seemingly remembering that Ketill had no idea about anything that happened there. Ketill’s silence was enough of an answer. ‘’Thamud’s tribe had stolen horses from another tribe. The feud caused problems for the sultan, so we were sent to deal with it. Thamud refused to settle for what we asked of him, and added insult to injury by demanding the claim be lowered, and money would be paid. I spoke with Najla about it, and it seems that with Thamud’s death, Salim now takes his place.’’

‘’So she took out a turbulent tribal leader to replace him with someone else?’’

‘’It’s… Salim is Zahira’s husband. Though she denied it, the tribe is now effectively under control of Najla, since Zahira and her are close friends. If you could even call them that…’’ He scratched his head lightly as he thought about his next words, thinking about Zahira and Najla together. ‘’They’ve had a nail driven through their hands and are nailed together. Zahira would not exist without Najla, and vice versa.’’

‘’Then I wonder who benefited from Thamud’s death the most.’’

‘’First and foremost the Sultan. But I doubt he knew of Najla’s plans. He has better things to worry about than some upstart tribal village that makes a living by selling water and stealing horses. Not… not to insult them. They were very nice to me while I was there.’’

‘’You’re a prince. I imagine they would be,’’ Ketill then added, adding some scepticism about the truth behind their nice behaviour. But it was true, Ketill had seen how the men had clung to Basim like flies to a piece of shit. He couldn’t blame them either, since Basim was not unpleasant to be around, and had their meeting occurred some 8 years earlier, they might’ve had good conversations about a variety of things. But things were too different now.

‘’Even so. They are good people. Thamud was a good leader. He wasn’t kind or honourable, but he was a good leader. He just met his match in a woman that does not play by the rules. I still find it hard to believe that my very own sister was behind this.’’

‘’There’s a difference between being wise, and being deceitful and dishonourable.’’

‘’Very much so. I do not stand by my sisters’ actions. If I had known, I would’ve stopped it. The Qawanin might not forbid this, but that doesn’t make it any better.’’

‘’That’s why you didn’t know. You were brought along for political reasons, not to play a part in the plot. That’s why I was there. To kill him. I am not Sawarim. I cannot break the Qawanin, even if your people think differently. They are your laws, now mine, I have no part in them except the part that Najla bestowed on me. And she did no such thing. She just told me to slice him.’’

<‘’Ya Ibn el Sharmouta…’’> Basim softly uttered as he slowly raised himself from the cushions, taking a few steps towards the nearby window, leaning out of it as he looked over the palace, and by extent over the city and the ever expanding desert beyond it’s limits. ‘’It was foolish of me to think that I was there to learn something,’’ he then sighed, pulling himself back from the window. ‘’That settles it then. Come with me.’’ The sudden resolution caught Ketill slightly off guard, but he did not question it and followed Basim as he shoved aside the curtain and walked out of the room, leaving the guards behind. They were quick to follow however, unwilling to let a prince wander the palace alone with a slave in tow who wasn’t known for being kindhearted.

They walked through the meandering halls of the palace, ultimately ending up at Najla’s room. This place was one that Ketill did recognize, as he’d spent a lot of time being escorted here. ‘’Najla’s room?’’

‘’Yes. I assume you’ve spent a lot of time here.’’

‘’Quite. Maybe I misjudged you. You are more brave than I had imagined. In fact, perhaps there’s some promise in you yet.’’

The words were rather awkward to hear for Basim, Ketill imagined, as a prince was probably used to receiving nothing but praise, so hearing someone say something that was not wholly positive in nature must’ve been strange to him. ‘’I… guess so.’’ Basim’s reply was meek as Ketill was used to, and though he had noticed a change in attitude from Basim lately, he seemed to revert to the same boy he’d spoken to in the healers room some time earlier. It was shortlived, however, as Basim opened the door and stepped into Najla’s chambers. Ketill followed shortly after, but as the guards would attempt to step in too to ensure that nothing happened, Basim stopped them, gesturing towards the corner just around the door. <‘’He’s chained like a dog, don’t worry too much. My sister’s guards are nearby, go speak to them or entertain yourselves,’’> he told them, rather straight forward, which evidently they weren’t too used to from Basim. Never the less they followed the order, leaving the room and closing the door as they did.

Ketill looked around the rather large room, where he’d been a few times before, though he could only remember one instance right away – the night he’d pummelled Osman in the face and incurred the wrath of his rival.

Basim approached Najla then, his posture being rather imposing in that moment, even f he was not the tallest among men, with Ketill being at the very least a head taller. <‘’There are no marks on his body,’’> he opened, standing before his sister. <‘’So you didn’t punish him. Not physically. I suppose that begins to make up for what you did, because you did not lie this time.’’> He gestured loosely to Ketill as he spoke to his sister, but Ketill was left behind a short distance away, not understanding a word of the conversation in front of him.

<‘’When you took Thamud’s life and his birthright from him, Salim took that birthright. It’s too convenient. What you said in the desert was a lie too. You promised to speak the truth to me before, so tell me, was it you or Zahira that came up with this plan?’’>

<‘’And what about uncle? Did he know? Did he order you to do this? What would uncle say if he knew you effectively took control of the village through Zahira? Do you realize how that looks? It looks like you’re gathering power, not for him, but for yourself. So not only did you act like a… like a coward, you also put us, and our entire family at risk. You are lucky that you did not get caught. And what if Zahira opens her mouth? Surely people have their objections to the sudden death of their leader, and the timely arrival of Zahira to ‘fix things’ with her husband?’’>

Before Najla had a chance to even reply, he gestured back at Ketill, looking him in the eyes with a totally different look from before, as it seemed that he was getting fired up now. Najla had barely gotten a word in so far, or at least not as far as Ketill could’ve heard. <‘’Is it not true?’’> he asked, entirely unaware that he’d been speaking in his mother tongue. ‘’It was cowardly!’’ he said in Broacienien, seemingly realizing, before Ketill could answer. He turned back to Najla, stepping closer to her, his body tensing up more as he approached. If he wasn’t Basim, Ketill would’ve expected him to strike his own sister. Never the less, now that he’d switched to Broacienien, he continued the conversation like that. ‘’You could’ve just made him challenge Ketill to a duel, or asked Ketill to insult Thamud, so that Thamud would end up killing himself. If you’re treating him like a tool, at least think about what the Sawarim would think of that. Yes, you did not break Qawanin, but you will still be judged!’’

For a moment there was a silence as Basim gathered his composure again after raising his voice at his sister, but then he continued. ‘’Besides, he’s not a tool, he’s a person like you and me. He told me he did not care if you prayed when you were his slave. Then why are you against letting him pray? Why do you punish him? Those whippings, were they entirely deserved? Have you seen his back?’’

Without missing a beat Basim turned around and walked to Ketill, grabbing the mans’ arm and turning him around with his back towards Najla, before pulling up the tunic, revealing several rather grotesque scars that looked like someone had raked a rake across his back a few times. ‘’This is not justice. Not when Osman does the same thing, but receives no punishment. And what do the Qawanin say about how you should treat your neighbours? Have you ever shown any of that to him? Or is he truly just ‘’Daab al-Broacien’’ to you, some animal to try and control? That you can whip him so that he dances how you want him to?’’

Ketill laughed then at the notion of control, which seemed to be a recurring theme in the palace. Who was truly in control was a contentious matter and seemed to shift indefinitely, and by this point it had become clear that whoever it was, it wasn’t Najla, despite the appearances. ‘’I do not dance. If I danced, I would not have Yasamin. But I do. She struck a bargain. I’ve told her before, she is not in control. She is too- well…’’ He did not finish his sentence, perhaps because he did not want to insult her in front of her brother, but they probably both knew what he was going to say.

‘’Even so-’’ Basim tried to continue, but voices in the palace hallway disrupted them and a single voice between them seemed extremely familiar. Before too long the door swung open and both Basim and Ketill turned around to face towards it. In the doorway was Osman, followed by Elif shortly after, clinging to him like they were attached to each other with a short rope.

@Odin

ℰxpedition for the ℬanner of St. ℱriedrich

There were many reasons to draw her hand from Ketill’s grasp. The shock of being grabbed, the sudden realization that a male slave had dared to touch a Sultana, but these were not the reasons she flinched. Ketill’s grip did not hurt, after all, it was not intended to, but it pressed her golden bracelets into the yellowed bruises. It was this sudden pain that caused her to flinch, as if attempting to pull her hand out of his. The reaction would only last a brief moment before her thoughts were able to return to her, and Najla would not struggle, unwilling to draw any attention to this matter.

When he released her, Najla was quick to pull her hand back towards her, though her eyes remained on Ketill. Though not much of her face was visible, she was certain Ketill would be able to read to mixture of curiosity and anger through her eyes. She was rather unused to having her conversations with slaves dictated by anything other than her own will, to end once she had obtained her desires. This was easily demonstrated by the way she waved off the guard’s concerns, not even sparing them a glance when she brushed them off.

<“Yes, stay there.”>

Her gaze never left Ketill as he moved to stand, his stature forcing her to look up in order to maintain eye contact. Something had shifted, not in Ketill himself, but she did not need her slave’s words to tell her just what it was. He had a way of shedding the reality of the situation to present himself as her equal, though Najla’s gaze made it clear that she did not buy it. She was not angered by his demands, nor was she angered that he knew she’d spoken to the girl, or at least, she would not show it. Anger was not always a strength, here it would only prove how far out of her grip Ketill truly was. Instead, her gaze reflected something akin to amusement, as if she was simply humoring her slave, and the tone of her words would quickly follow suit.

“You like her that much? I would not have guessed.”

She smiled slightly even as she reached down, grasping the wrist Ketill had touched with her other hand. Najla did not even spare a glance at Thamud, apparently uncaring that Ketill knew of her intentions. It would not matter, so long as he was able to help end Thamud without the use of a fire. If Najla had to promise a harem girl to guarantee that, she would. The girl would not be entirely ungrateful either, Najla imagined. After she’d been given to the Servant before, there was no chance she would become a permanent fixture in the harem, not when the only way to do so was by binding oneself to the Sultan. The Sultan would never be given the leftovers of a Servant, and though Najla might have found another use for her, Ketill was offering her a protection beyond that guesswork, though Najla did not know if he knew this. She could not imagine he had delved too deeply into the politics of the harem, most men did not care to look further than the women inside.

“You are correct however, it would be easy. Whether it is wise, I do not know. If you are so confident in your fate that you would tie hers to it..” Najla trailed off here, allowing a pause while she studied Ketill’s reaction. There was nothing in her tone that would indicate her words had been spoken as a threat, even though there were plenty of reasons for Ketill to assume such. There was a truth in it however, for while Najla was not so cruel as to lash the girl for Ketill’s crimes, she would have no future in the palace without Ketill now. “Then you can have her. I will speak to her upon our return, and no more afterwards.”

Though her words would sound as if she agreed not to speak to the girl any longer, it would be a lie. There was little need to do so, for Najla knew that Ketill was not so ignorant. At least, if she had believed him dense before, his recent behavior had reminded her that perhaps she was dealing with a man and not a bear after all. It would be troubling, but at least a man wanted for something. It clearly surprised Najla that it had been a girl, for she knew personally that women were not a particular vice of Ketill’s, or at least, she had not been. Perhaps he appreciated her Broacienian heritage, though Najla did not care enough to understand this now. She had not even cared enough to learn if the girls name was real, for many harem girls were given names upon their entrance, especially those with names considered harsh to the ears, like those in the Broacienian tongue. It was not information that would allow her to control Ketill, and therefore, it was of little use to her.

“I should punish you for touching me.” She lifted her wrist slightly then, releasing it, though she was careful as always not to let her bracelets or the fabric slide too far towards her elbow. “I should. You are not my blood or my husband, to touch a Sultana otherwise is simply not permissible. I could do far worse than deny you a request for this, most would take your hand. Or finger.” She was not lying, yet it was clear that she was not threatening him. He had offered to give his finger for her once, long before. She had not wanted it then, and she certainly did not want it now. “I suppose having you walk will be enough. If it should happen again, I assure you that will not be the case. But for now, for him-” she finally glanced over at Thamud then, though it was a brief glance before she turned back to look at Ketill. There was no need to play dumb now, they both knew the truth, and none around her would understand.

“I will grant you the girl, and some leniency. Come.”

It was a rather abrupt conclusion to their conversation, but once Najla was satisfied that all of Ketill’s demands had been sated, they would quickly move to join those by the fire and begin the ritual. Najla could see her guard, holding the blade she was to cut herself with, and before she could turn to look upon Ketill as well, she felt Zahira at her shoulder.

<“Najla.”>

<“Ya Sawarim, are you trying to stop my heart?”> The sound of a sudden voice in her ear had apparently startled her, but Zahira would not reply to this, only grinning briefly before she continued to whisper.

<“It’s done. I saw, it’s dried, there will be no trace left.”>

<“And it’s on the right one? I would hate to slice my forehead on that.”>

<“Believe me cousin, I know the difference between a knife and a sword, even if my husband doesn't.”>

Zahira’s comment nearly drew a splutter of laughter from Najla, though she quickly moved to silence herself before any could hear. This was not a somber moment, for there were few present who knew someone would die that night, though many worried about it. Regardless, it would still seem strange to have Najla in such high spirits, and she was grateful that Zahira had already slunk back to her husband’s side. It was lucky that Zahira cared so little for her brother-in-law’s fate however, for none would assume they had spoken of anything but gossip and jokes now.

She quickly moved to the side of Thamud’s first wife, and they both kneeled to perform the ritual. Both of them did so with practiced hands, following a line they’d followed before. Najla would not speak to Ketill. She had no words left to say to him. Instead, she would move to take a seat beside her brother and the envoys from the Banu Dunya, who looked quite excited to see the coming events.

<“You have seen the Servant fight before, Sultana. Will you tell me truthfully, do you believe Thamud can win?”>

The look in Najla’s eyes as they met Ramzi’s would have been answer enough. Despite the horrors she’d witnessed Ketill perform, and despite her worry that she would have to see it happen again, there was a hint of amusement in her gaze. It was nothing like that which she had shown Ketill, a way to conceal her anger before the others, but an amusement that was born out of disbelief, as if Thamud’s success was a laughable option.

<“I will not say he has no chance. To make such an assumption would be foolish, I have never seen Thamud Khan fight. I have also never seen the Servant lose.”>

<“What of your brother? Basim Sultanim, may I ask what you think?”>

<“Hmm?”> Basim turned his head towards Ramzi, only to glance back up at Najla before replying. He seemed rather distracted, though Najla has been quick to assume it was simply a combination of the alcohol and dread for the violence to come. Her eyes were expectant when she returned her brother’s gaze, waiting for an answer. It took a second too long to come, and Najla felt as if she caught something in her brother’s expression that had not been there before, something akin to distaste. It occupied her mind even as Basim finally moved to answer the question.

<“Ketill will win. I have no doubts about that.”>

While Ramzi seemed pleased at the Prince’s certainty, Najla was rather confused by his straightforward answer. She leaned down then, whispering in her brother’s ear.

<“My blood, relax. Ketill has agreed to fight to first blood, and I believe he will do so. Trust me, no one will die tonight. You need not worry.”>

<“May God will it so.”>

It was a strange answer to her question, but Najla was quick to assume that Basim was simply worried about Ketill. Truthfully, she was still somewhat worried as well, despite the fact that Ketill had already made a demand. She would not give him the girl if he killed Thamud here, there was no doubt as to that. However, Najla did not know if he cared about the harem girl enough to forego another taste of blood, and this was where her fears sat as she turned her gaze back to the fighters as they prepared. Basim would do nothing to clarify his worries either, and Najla would forget his strange behavior as the fight began, for greater worries would come quickly to replace it.

---

Almost instantly, Najla saw her hopes realized. While those around her watched with horror, Najla urged Thamud forward in her mind. He came closer to the sword, only to stop just before he could have impaled himself. While the rest of the audience seemed to let out a sigh of relief, Najla found herself tense up as the pair separated and stepped back, circling around each other. Surely, it would not have looked good if it had ended so early, however waiting to see what would happen was far worse.

She watched the swift movements of their blades with fascination, her eyes struggling to keep up with the flashes of metal. Each scrape of the blades felt as if it was scraping against her very skin, a reminder that this fight had to go a very specific way for her. As she watched Ketill’s fist fly towards Thamud’s face, Najla’s heart stopped. It could not end this way, she could not afford for it to end this way. The brief seconds felt like hours, only for Thamud to raise his hands. She did not need to hear his yell, nor the encouraging shouts of the crowd, for all Najla could hear was her own sharp exhale.

<“Are you worried, Sultana?”> The voice in her ear caused Najla to turn her head, and she found herself face-to-face with Ramzi. He was close, too close, but Najla would respond before she pulled away. <“Of course. I’m tired of seeing my Servant win.”>

Even as she straightened up, Najla watched as Ketill brought his blade down once more. Finally. He could not recover from this one, she knew, Ketill had driven the poison in too deep. It would have been enough for a final sigh of relief, but instead, she found that Ketill was not entirely finished with Thamud. As she watched him drop his sword, walking towards Thamud, Najla wanted to stand, to call the guards and pull them apart before he could toss him in. There was no time, no voice that came from her throat, and instead she watched helplessly, only praying that Ketill would not throw him in. A glance at Basim would show such similar worry on his expression, waiting to see what Ketill would do.

Ya Sawarim, Ya Umma, I beg of you, do not let the fire consume him. Force your will on the infidel, make him draw back.

It seemed however, that she had mistaken her slave’s will. The disrespect Ketill showed Thamud was easily apparent, especially when he kneeled down beside him, speaking words Najla was sure she’d never know. However, Najla showed no anger at his actions. Now, she was only pleased that he’d decided to stand up, to leave Thamud alone, what did it matter how he did it? Perhaps she’d find herself angry at such actions later, but now, Najla was hard-pressed to hide the pleasure from her expression.

<“I’ve seen many warriors in my life, but never one like that. I see now why Basim Sultanim was so certain, Thamud could not have stood a chance.”>

<“He’s not a warrior, Ramzi my friend. He’s a beast.”>

---

The Sawarim people certainly held a penchant for rituals, a focus that hinted at a deeply-held care for the image they presented to their peers. Most of the Sultanate’s people would never fully understand how deeply their image and rituals were intertwined, but the royal family did not hold this option of ignorance. It was for this reason that Najla pulled herself out of bed early, despite the toll the past few days had brought upon her, readying herself for the day’s events. The notion of her image was ever-present in her mind, and so despite the heat and her overall exhaustion, she would never show it, not even during the endless stream of farewells.

She had gone to visit Yazan’s family first. Here, she met with them alone, without her cousin or brother present, and any detail regarding his wife’s Mahriyeh was sorted. The girl was grateful, though Najla did not know how much of that was truthful. It wasn’t as if she could have let the Sultana go without thanking her, yet Najla did not know if she’d ever be forgiven for taking her husband away. It brought her no grief to think it, and Najla would go to visit Thamud next, continuing to follow the trail of blood she’d left behind here.

He was surrounded by his family, and first wife sat beside him, and Najla could feel the girls eyes upon her until she would exit Thamud’s tent for the last time. Perhaps they had expected the Sultana to apologize for her slave’s disrespect, or at least mitigate the damage in some way. They’d find that Najla had no such intentions to make an apology. She did not even acknowledge Ketill’s actions, focusing her attention on Thamud’s wound. He insisted it would heal, and Najla agreed, pretending not to notice the first symptoms setting in. The area around the cut was red and swollen, and though it would be little cause to worry now, they would begin to fear an infection when the swelling would not cease. As for now, Najla could read some of the pain on Thamud’s face, though he was trying very hard not to show it. The Djinn’s grasp had settled in, giving the wound a life of its own, tearing the body from the control of its rightful owner day by day. It was not far enough yet however, and Thamud would insist to come continue the farewell ritual, though Najla was quick to refuse this. He needed to rest, she insisted, Salim would take over his duties for the day.

Basim had joined her in Thamud’s tent to say farewell, yet Najla had noticed that his strange attitude lingered from the night before. He spoke to her when necessary, but never beyond that, and his overall demeanor felt rather distant compared to his normal self. She could not address it now however, and they would finally say their farewells to Thamud’s father before they could begin to leave the Al-Uba’yd. It took quite some time, their goodbyes were carefully worded and meticulously followed, though it was Najla’s goodbye to her cousin that would take the longest.

With the party readied behind her, Najla had met Thamud’s brother and his family in front of the grand oasis as their final farewell. It felt like a final cleansing, to wash the memories of bloodshed from her visit, though it was not a somber one. When Najla had said her formal goodbyes to Salim, allowing him to touch her hand to his forehead as a final demonstration of loyalty, she turned to embrace her cousin. Such precise formality was less necessary among equals, and they hugged each other tightly as they whispered their farewells.

<“I wish you’d come back to Al-Tirazi with me. I have grown used to your presence over the past few weeks, the palace will be duller without you.”>

<“I’ll miss you too, my blood, but I will return before you can think to miss me. Your wedding will come soon, and I could not bear to miss it.”>

<“Promise me you’ll come early. You must be at the Ibrat Al-Layl, no one else will be able to force me through such pain.”>

<“I promise. You think I would miss the opportunity to tease you as you did at mine?”>

Najla let out a soft laugh as she recalled the celebrations, and how she’d treated her cousin during them. For most brides, the Ibrat Al-Layl, or ‘night of the needle’, was an enjoyable night, surrounded with female family and friends, drinking and feasting until dawn. For those that married into certain tribes, it was a dreaded night, and they’d be marked as married women forever, suffering the pain of the needle as their family celebrated around them. However, the notion that Zahira would be there eased Najla’s dread some, and they parted with a kiss on the cheek. It was an informal end to a long morning of rituals, and though she dreaded the goodbyes and the journey ahead, Najla was all too eager to leave the Al-Uba’yd for good.

---

The journey was long and tedious, and though Najla was aware of the way Basim’s odd attitude had lingered, she thought little of it when he left her side. He had always been friendlier with those that served him than Najla, for she saw little reason to chase after the stories of guards and servants when it did not benefit her. His return would bring a far greater cause for surprise, and Najla turned her head as the sound of hooves came rapidly behind her, watching as her brother joined her side once more.

<“Where did you go?”>

<“Not far.”> His answer caused Najla to smile, though this was hidden under the cloth she’d exchanged the golden mask for, wrapping her face to protect against sun and dust alike. It would fade quickly however, Basim’s next words were enough to confirm days of what she’d suspected, though she would not have quite guessed the reasons. <“I need to speak with you privately.”>

<“Now?”> Najla’s eyes turned to move across the wide expanse of open desert, as if she could not imagine a private place to speak here, but it would not matter. Basim’s nod answered her, and she lifted a hand, a command for the guards behind them to create some distance between them. She could not command the open air of the desert, merely those within it, after all. Despite the newfound privacy afforded to them, it took a few moments of silence before Basim was ready to ask. Najla did not push, for she held no rush. It didn’t matter which grain of sand they were treading on when he spoke, so long as he did so before they reached the capital. Luckily, it would not take so long, for these mere moments were enough.

<“Do you believe Thamud will live?”>

<“If God wills it. The wound looked painful, but I see no reason it shouldn’t heal.”>

<“I hope so. The Al-Uba’yd have seen enough bloodshed already, they should not have been burdened with more.”>

<“I agree, it will sit heavy in my heart for some time. Thamud should not have sought to fight Ketill, he was lucky his bones were not turned to ash.”>

<“He didn’t seek to fight him.”>

Najla frowned at that, turning her head to look at her brother. Her frown was barely visible under the cloth, though if Basim had met her eyes, he would have seen it in her gaze. He stared forward however, and Najla felt as if they were edging ever closer to the truth, dancing around whatever weighed on Basim’s mind.

<“What do you mea-”>

<“No one wanted to fight him after what he did Yazan. I sat among the warriors, I know this to be the truth. Not even the most reckless among them, and Thamud Khan was not an entirely careless man.”>

<“He was not a cautious one either. I asked him not to, it was his own will that convinced him to fight.”>

<“And it was your will that gave him a Diya and an opponent.”>

Najla let out a soft sigh then, as she was already exhausted from the travel, and her brothers words were edging too close to a subject she wouldn’t wish to discuss. She knew Basim was likely displeased with many aspects of the journey, but she had not expected that the Diya would trouble him so deeply, nor that he would place so much of the blame regarding the violence he’d seen on her. She could not yet fathom that these were part of a greater concern, though his own concern regarding Thamud’s wound was troubling. Above all, she had not missed the word ‘was’. Thamud ‘was’ not a careless man, though he was not a dead man yet. Regardless, she only wanted Basim to be clear, to directly state concern fueled his words, so that she could relinquish her fear. There was no reason for Basim to know the truth, no one who could have known would have told him. Yet it seemed Najla was not entirely certain of this, and she pulled down her scarf, now speaking in the hope that he could clear her worries.

<“It was. I’m sorry I didn’t tell you about the Diya, you had a right to know. As for Ketill, you understand why I could not keep him from fighting. It is unfortunate, but you must trust that I do not intend to keep evil things from you.”> Najla glanced over at Basim again then, wishing only that she could know what he was thinking so that she wouldn’t have to speak the words. <“You have been troubled for some days, I’ve noticed. Is this what it has been about?”> There was a brief moment of silence, though she would not let it extend, quickly speaking up again. <“Be truthful with me, so that I can be truthful with you. I hate to see you troubled, it makes you silent and that makes my life far duller.”>

<“Did you want Thamud to die?”>

The question struck her like a blow. Her eyes widened, and she glanced behind them, making certain that none were close enough to hear his words. It was near impossible, but this was a dangerous conversation to be having now. It was that fear that reigned now, more than the shock or anger, trying to assess how Basim would know.

<“What? Are you fucking mad? Of course not Basim how could-”>

<“I’ve thought it through, if he dies Salim takes his place, no? You or Zahira-”>

<“Don’t bring your cousin into this nonsense, how could you think this of us? Who told you this?”>

<“No one! I told you-”> Basim would try to continue, but Najla was quick to cut him off. Their voices were beginning to raise now, and she would not risk the chance that any word could slip to the guards behind them. Perhaps she could have switched to Broacienian to tell the truth, but two royals screaming in a foreign language was hardly a better option. Rather than risk either, she lowered her voice to something between a hiss and a whisper, quickly silencing her brother.

<“No Basim. No. I did not want Thamud hurt. I played no part in the fight beyond offering my blessing to Ketill, and believe me, I did not wish to do that. Whoever or whatever has caused you to cast such doubt upon me is mistaken, for if I had been cruel enough to commit such an act, I would not have brought my younger brother along to witness it. Now lower your voice, please, so I can ease your worries rather than the entire Sultanate’s.”>

It was not enough to ease her brother, Najla found, but she was simply grateful that he lowered his voice. He’d continue to ask a few questions, and Najla would lie through her teeth in response, though she knew it could not last. News of Thamud’s death would reach the capital soon, and when that happened, Basim would know, Najla was sure of it. Even now, as she pressed him, asking who he had spoken to that offered this notion, she felt as if Basim’s mind had not been cleared of the thought itself. When Basim finally relented, he seemed surprised, for he had clearly expected Najla to be far more upset than she was at the thought.

<“I was translating for Thamud’s brother, when Ketill offered his condolences. I saw the wound after, and I just thought he meant something else by it.”>

<“Ketill’s a madman.”> Najla replied, quickly masking her relief. At the very least, Ketill’s language abilities meant Basim would have been the only man he could have told, even if she was fearful that he was speaking of it at all. <“There’s no need to believe anything he says. He probably intended to disobey me and kill him, then realized I’d never give him Yasamin right before the act itself.”>

<“Yasamin?”>

<“The harem girl he wanted. I considered not giving her to him, in lieu of a punishment for his behavior, but I figure it’s best this way. She’s a pretty thing, maybe you’ll meet her now that you and the Servant have grown so close.”>

<“We’re not close at all, I wasn’t the one who wanted to ask a question, Makeen was. Are you really going to punish Ketill? You know it’s not a good idea, you commanded him to do those things.”>

<“I already promised Thamud I would. Let’s not argue about this now, I cannot have both the words and the heat choking me so. We’ll discuss everything when we return to the palace.”> She lifted up the cloth to cover her mouth again, turning her gaze to the endless stretch of desert ahead. <“The sand conceals scorpions, it’s best not to offer them our tongues.”>

Their conversation would not end quite so easily, but Najla was far more willing to drop the issue of Ketill and Basim speaking than her brother had apparently expected. Still, while they had reached some sort of truce, now only squabbling over smaller details of the matter like siblings did, Najla was only debating when the truth should come out. It was a bare truce after all, a silent understanding that these tensions would only continue until it was proved one way or the other. She could tell Basim when they reached the capital, in the safety of her room where he could yell all he wanted without the risk of anyone hearing. Or she could decide to wait until the news of Thamud’s death reached the capital, at which point Basim would likely be the one to confront her. Regardless, keeping him in the dark forever was not an option anymore, Ketill had certainly seen to that.

---

She waited a day. A day so that they could return home, to be greeted by their family, to bathe and relax, and to soak up the praises of the Sultan for a job well done. The pact had been signed, a minor issue within the Sultanate was avoided, and the lives Ketill had taken in the process were quickly forgotten. Basim was not a fool, he had not abandoned the idea entirely either, though Najla did not quite know why. She suspected he was simply waiting to see how Thamud’s wound would heal, though it worried her to think how little faith her brother held in her. Perhaps this fear would have been eased if she knew the truth, that her brother was not quite so quick to consider Ketill a madman as she was. Perhaps not. Either way, she could not allow the news to reach Basim’s ears through any words but her own.

So she had come to his room after dinner, where she sat in front of her younger brother on some cushions. Basim’s eyes bored into her, hardly blinking, waiting in silence for his sister to explain her presence. He seemed more princely than ever now, especially in contrast to his usually regal sister. Najla could hardly bear to look at Basim for long, and her gaze darted around every corner of the room, nervous for the words she needed to speak. When she finally brought herself to meet her brother’s gaze, there was a long, tense silence, broken first by Najla’s sigh.

<“Don’t look at me like that, it makes me feel smaller than a beetle.”>

<“I’m not looking at you like anything. You’re the one who asked to speak to me but you haven’t said a word for some time now.”>

<“You could have said something.”>

<“I have nothing to say.”>

<“Fuck.”> The word came out as softly as if she had taken a breath, and yet Najla was certain Basim had heard. <“Sometimes I truly wish you were dumber. You’ve got plenty to say, Basim. I’ve seen it behind your eyes for some days now, and it has not faded since our return here. You’re not some honey-tongued diplomat, there’s no need to dance around your anger with me.”>

<“I’m not angry with you.”>

<“No, not yet. I could tell that you didn’t quite believe my words in the desert, you’re waiting to see if Thamud lives, or if you should be angry with me. My word was not enough.”>

There was another pause here, a brief moment of silence that felt like an eternity. Now, it was Basim who pulled his gaze from her. He seemed annoyed that she had confronted him about this, likely believing Najla was about to lecture him about the bonds of family or the trust they needed to hold in one another. His sister however, took the silence as an unneeded confirmation. Basim wasn’t a fool, he could tell that she had wanted him to stop talking about it during the journey so there would be no chance the news could spread.

<“You deserved better from me. You deserved to know, I should have told you long before you ever asked. You must understand why I couldn’t tell you, not even when you asked me-”>

<“Thamud’s going to die, isn’t he?”>

Najla could have flinched when he said those words. It did not sound like her younger brother’s voice, but that of a man she didn’t recognize, and one who didn’t particularly like her. Her own expression was worried, nearly pleading, as if she could not bear the thought of what she had done. She wanted to speak, to defend herself, but suddenly his voice would came raging back.

<“You lied to me.”>

<“I know Basim. I had to-”>

<“You told me Thamud wasn’t going to die, you promised me you had nothing to do with it, you told me I was mad! You lied to me! How?"> His voice was steadily rising now, and Najla could see the anger on his face, though she could not reciprocate it if she wanted to.

<“What?”>

<“How, Najla? How do you know he’s going to die? What did you do to him?”> Before she could even part her lips to answer, his voice would come again, louder than before. <“How?!”>

<“The blade was poisoned.”>

Worse than the ever-steady rising volume of his voice, Najla’s comment was met with a shocked silence. He could not have been entirely surprised, for Basim had clearly thought through the situation. It was the frankness of the sentence itself, the way Najla spoke it without easing the blow of the deed itself. She was not ashamed of her actions, that much was clear, though it worried her to think Basim would despise her for them. He did not speak for a moment, but his wide eyes would quickly return to a frown when she began to speak again.

<“Don’t think I was happy to do it. But a man like Thamud heading a clan as valuable as the Al-Uba’yd is a dangerous thing, you saw that. This was the only way. I would have done better if I could. But we must serve the Sultan and the Sultanate above ourselves, I would have done it for nothing else.”>

<“I can’t believe this, after all your shit about Ketill and Yazan, you do something even worse. Poison is a coward’s weapon.”>

<“I broke no Qawanin.”>

<“So? At least the fire killed him within a night, how long will the poison take?”>

<“A few more days.”> At that, Basim stood, leaving Najla seated alone. He did not turn back to look at her, but she could see how his body tensed up from anger when she began to speak again, though it was not enough to stop her. She’d expected his anger, but he’d have to come to terms with the deed, at least sometime.

<“It had to be like this. If he had died any other way it would have been suspicious. I know you consider it distasteful, but you have to believe me when I say that if there was a better way, I would have taken it.”>

<“Better way to do what? That was Thamud’s claim by birthright. You took it from him like a viper, that’s no way to take a man’s life.”>

<“Understand that I had no other choice. I know how distasteful it is, but it had to be done.”>

<“Understand what? Did you come in here expecting forgiveness?! You used me like a tool, the whole time knowing that you were going to take a man’s life. Fuck, what do you want from me? I can never forgive you for this.”>

<“I’m not asking you to. I would not deprive you of the right to be angry with me.”> Now Basim turned around to look at her, though his body was relaxing slightly, Najla still watched him carefully. He was not the type to strike in anger, not at objects or people, but that was not her worry now. <“I know what I did. I know it is distasteful. But I could not have done so any other way, and I serve the Sultan before my own conscious, always. I only regret not telling you. You are a man, your participation should have been your decision. For that, I am sorry, Basim.”>

<“I don’t believe a word you’re saying Najla, I don’t know what to believe from you anymore. I even felt guilty for feeling suspicious, now I just… I thought you’d be better than that. You're not. You were a coward, and you killed like one.”>

Najla moved to stand then, though some of the hurt was clearly apparent beyond the frown his insult had brought. They had fought often as children, they were siblings, after all, but this hurt far worse than if he had sat around insulting her like a child. Basim had always put his trust in her without question. He truly had believed her to be better than what she was, and Najla could tell that she had fallen in his eyes. Not entirely, but whatever image he’d had of his sister before was warped now.

<"It would have been cowardice to refuse the deed. Just understand-”>

<“Stop asking me to understand!”> Najla stopped in her tracks, halted from her path towards her brother. There was that voice again, that of a man she didn’t recognize, but it was becoming familiar rather rapidly. <“I know why you did it, I’m not stupid! It makes sense, I understand why you’d want to have Salim ruling the tribe. I understand why you wouldn’t tell me in the desert, I understand all of this! What I don’t understand is how you could condemn him to such a fate.”>

<“How?”> Najla paused after this word, and finally, there was a hint of anger gathering up within her. It was rather unfounded in comparison to Basim’s, only born out of exasperation. <“There’s no how. I had to, so I did it. You’re not always going to have a choice.”>

<“You did have a choice, stop pretending you didn’t. You could have done it another way, or you didn’t have to kill him at all. Poison is not the weapon of a warrior.”>

<“You’re not that fucking naïve. What could I have done, challenge him in Ketill’s place? Killed him by my own sword? If I was any sort of warrior, I would have. I did what I had to, with the tools that were available to me.”>

<“Like Ketill.”>

<“Yes. Like Ketill.”>

<“Are you still going to punish him?”>

<“I don’t know.”>

Najla paused here, looking up at her younger brother with a slight frown. He had not dropped the subject, just as she could see it in the desert, she saw it upon his face now. But there was nothing he could do, Thamud would be dead within a few days regardless, and Basim would not implicate his sister in such a crime. Yet she found that Basim’s next words would surprise her, for he’d found something to bargain with regardless.

<“Don’t. It’s not right.”> Najla did not respond, but the look in her eyes made it clear that she wasn’t considering Basim’s opinion on such a matter. Ketill was her slave, not his, and he’d have to answer for his disrespect somehow. <“You can’t punish him for something you told him to do. That’s not fair, it’s just cruelty.”>

<“It’s not that easy. Disregarding his behavior in the fights, he grabbed my wrist Basim. It’s the height of disrespect for anyone who is not Mahram to touch a woman, let alone a Sultana.”>

<“So you’re going to sentence Osman too?”>

It was the first slight break from the overall tense tone of their conversation, and truthfully, the most Basim had sounded like her brother in a few days now. While Najla was annoyed that he was asking her not to punish Ketill, there was a brief moment when she’d nearly forgotten to be angry, reaching out and hitting her brother’s arm gently.

<“Don’t be rude. If Osman had done so without my permission, I would have punished him too. I didn’t ask Ketill to touch me.”>

<“But you asked him to kill two men in your name. You keep saying that you’d do better if you had the choice, prove it.”>

Najla was silent for some time as she met her brother’s gaze, trying to understand what he was feeling. He was still angry with her, he’d be angry with her for some time. Keeping Ketill from punishment was the only way she’d have to redeem herself in Basim’s eyes, and in this silent gaze, it seemed as if Najla was trying to understand if he knew that. While she was not repulsed by the deed itself, it clearly hurt to have her brother think less of her as a result, and Najla found herself wondering if her brother was taking advantage of that. Regardless, a few extra scars on Ketill’s back were not worth it, it seemed.

<“I’ll consider it. Now come sit back down, I know you must have a lot of questions. I want to clear your head of them. I’ll answer truthfully this time, I swear upon the Sawarim. That must mean something, no matter how angry you are with me. ”>

<“I don’t have any questions. Unless you have any other crimes you’d like to confess to, I’d like to be alone.”>

<“Basim-”> She spoke his name gently, as if urging him to reconsider. Apparently despite the fact that some of the tensions had been eased, she had underestimated his anger with her. That, or he’d simply grown tired of her voice, and wished to make up his mind on his own. It wasn’t as if she had a choice but to allow him to do so, his expression had made her certain of that, and so Najla simply nodded before walking towards the door.

<“I am sorry for your role in this. I’d give my life for you Basim, don’t let my actions tear that from your memory.”>

<“But you’re not sorry about Thamud’s death?”>

Najla had been about to speak, to lie, to convince her brother that she was not quite the monster he was seeing now. But she had promised to answer his questions honestly. It was the last decent thing she could do for him, and so Najla merely shook her head.

<“No. Thamud was not of my blood, the Sawarim will forgive spilling his.”>

---

It would be a few days before Najla called for Ketill again. Perhaps it would seem as if it was done to allow him to rest, or more likely, out of indifference or anger. However, the truth was all too apparent to Najla. She was unraveling, and he was the last person she'd want to see now. While she’d allow Ketill to believe whatever he liked, there was only one man Najla held no hesitation for the truth before, and he was the one who’d come to ease her mind before she’d have to speak to her slave. Or more truthfully, Najla had called for him. He came to meet her where she sat alone, basking in the sunlight beneath one of the large arched windows to the courtyard.

<“You’re supposed to call for me while you’re in the baths, not after.”> He ran a hand through her damp hair as he spoke, making it rather clear what he was referring to. Though his comment brought a smile, the words, combined with his rather obvious actions, forced her eyes to snap over the area before her, making certain no one had heard. Only a guard stood within earshot, and so she relaxed even as Osman moved to seat himself among the cushions. <“In all seriousness, I thought it’d be some days before I heard from you again.”>

<“Why? Is Elif getting suspicious?”>

<“She’s been suspicious, but there’s nothing she can say. She doesn’t want to believe it, I suppose, or perhaps she doesn’t want to accuse me.”>

<“You?”> Najla could have laughed at the notion, though a glance over at Osman was enough to prove her amusement without it. She raised an arm to rest on the windowsill, leaving the sunlight to glint off her golden bracelets to prove her words before she’d need to speak them. <“She has to bow and kiss the same fingers that wrap around her husband’s cock every night. If she’s been too scared to say anything to a Sultana before that, I can’t imagine she’ll suddenly become braver. Forget her, I need your advice.”>

<“Is it the Al-Uba’yd?”> Najla turned her head to Osman as he spoke those words, only to see him begin to pull something out of his pockets. The pipe and pot were a familiar sight to her, but now, Najla shook her head. Before she’d even have a chance to refuse with her words, Osman glanced up at her, before returning to pack the pipe. It had not surprised her that he’d been willing to drop the subject of his wife so quickly, as Osman did not even like to speak her name in Najla’s presence. It must have been out of guilt, for Najla could not imagine he cared for his wife so deeply as to keep her honor before his lover. Just as she’d part her lips to refuse, Osman spoke. <“I heard the news finally came today. Thamud Khan is dead, the infection finally took his life. Your friend lasted longer than you thought. Here, to help ease your mourning.”> With that, he lifted the pipe towards her, and though she hesitated to take it, a glance into his eyes was quick to convince her otherwise. There wasn’t much his eyes could convince her of, a fact she loved to whisper in his ear during their few private moments.

<“Basim hasn’t spoken to you, has he? I thought he’d come to me eventually, with some question or other, but I have yet to hear from him regarding this matter.”>

<“No, but it’s not surprising. He’s likely figured out my involvement, I can’t imagine he’d want to come to me after. Besides, he’s probably just waiting for you to sentence the dog.”>

Najla let out the barest of sighs then, finally snatching the pipe from his hands. <“You still believe I’m making a mistake?”>

<“You made a mistake the day you asked the Sultan for his life, in my opinion. He should have been left to die long ago. Now all he does is bring you pain and trouble.”>

<“It was his sword that delivered us the Al-Uba’yd.”>

<“And his tongue that drove your brother from you in the process. You should punish him, but instead, you’re rewarding him with a girl. Not any slave, you’ve convinced a harem girl to give up her luxuries for him.”>

<“She doesn’t have to give up any luxuries.”> Najla passed Osman back the pipe, taking a moment to let out a soft exhale before continuing to speak. <“What could she want for that I couldn’t offer her? I have given her a room, beside the Servant. She is allowed to take all that is hers from the harem, and I have instructed her to come to me, should she want for anything else. Besides-“>

At that, Najla pushed herself off of the cushions, and in a gentle motion, stood only to perch herself in the windowsill itself. She turned so that her back was against the edge of the tile, stretching her legs out along the length of the stone. It was the easy attitude of someone who’d been scrambling up the walls and windows of the palace since their youth, who not only knew every inch of the enormous palace, but felt that it belonged to them. Osman shared no such feelings, for he would remain in his position just below her, looking up as his lover soaked in the piercing desert sun. What was usually a curse to the Sawarim was a pleasure here, where it filtered through the gardens before resting upon her exposed skin. Rather than don a black mourning dress, Najla had opted to wear white. Thamud was neither friend nor kin after all, and those mourning dresses hid far too much of her skin from the pleasures of the sun.

<“She’s under my protection now. What luxury could amount to that?”>

This was met with a scoff, and when Najla looked down at Osman again, she could see that he was smiling slightly. <“You mean the Servant’s protection, right?”>

<“I meant mine. Ketill doesn’t even know what he’d be protecting her from. He’s dealt with warriors, he’d never be able to face the harem. They’re already quite jealous, I can’t imagine what this news will do to them.”>

<“You don’t think he could fight off some harem girls?”>

When Najla reached down to take the pipe from Osman, she could see that he was grinning. It was odd for Osman to argue in favor of the Servant’s prowess in battle, but perhaps the image of Ketill losing to a few women was rather amusing to him. Rather than acknowledge this, Najla motioned for him to move closer to her, at which Osman was quick to oblige. He seated himself against the windowsill, where Najla’s hand rested gently on his shoulder. Despite how badly she’d wanted to move into his lap, to bury her face in his neck and forget about anything else, this was the most they could do. Every so often, he’d turn his face and sneak a kiss on her wrist or hand, but never more. It almost felt as if some normality had been returned to their relationship. For Najla, this brief moment was a refuge, where she clung to the one man she knew would never truly slip away from her. She quickly called for a guard to fetch Ketill, only after making certain that Osman would not say something stupid in his presence, and would continue to tell her story as they awaited his arrival.

<“There was a girl some years ago, I can’t recall her name, but I remember her face too well. She had only been in the harem for a month before Uncle became infatuated with her. It wasn’t hard to see why. She was beautiful. I’d never seen a woman that radiant, they said the sun rested under her very skin.”>

<“I’d remember a woman like that. I'm assuming from your tone that she's long dead, then?”>

<“God, no. They attacked her in the baths one day, and just tore her face to pieces. Some say they used fruit knives, other witnesses claimed it was done with nails and teeth alone, but whatever it was, they didn’t kill her. They made sure to leave her alive, so she would have to see Uncle’s expression when he finally saw her face. I’ve told you these stories before. If it is her voice that has captivated the Sultan, they will feed her a poison to destroy her throat from the inside. If it is her eyes, they gouge them out.”> She waved her hand then, indicating that there were many more ways to obtain her Uncle’s interest, and just as many ways the girls had concocted to take out competition. <“If anything, you have to admire their sense of poetry. It’s not a game worth playing, especially not for someone who has no chance of being made a Sultan’s favorite now. The girl will be better off with him.”>

<“I didn’t think the well-being of harem girls worried you this much.”>

<“It doesn’t. I don’t care if she’s happier with him, to be entirely truthful. But this is the first thing he’s wanted from me, don’t you think I made the right choice in giving her to him?”>

<“I think it’s a waste, but beyond that-”> Osman shrugged. <“It doesn’t matter. He’ll still be a savage dog, no matter what toys you give him to occupy his time. It’s the girl I pity.”>

<“Why? She won’t be abused or mistreated. You forget, I never carried a scar or bruise from Ketill's hands.”>

<“Not as you have from mine, hm?”>

When Najla looked down at Osman, she felt her heart drop. How did Ketill do this? Merely mentioning his name was enough to begin tearing away at the few moments of peace she could find. Basim had already distanced himself from her, never in a manner that was intended to be cruel, but Najla could sense that she’d lost a great deal of his trust. Her hand slowly moved upwards from Osman’s shoulder, her fingers gently grazing his neck, as if she was hoping to hold him to her still. Yet she could feel him slipping through her fingers like sand, even as she spoke.

<“Don’t speak like that. The bruises have healed, and your words have faded from my memory. I only wish to end this.”>

<“Is it not ended? Thamud’s dead.”>

<“That’s not what I mean. I just-”> Now Najla’s eyes searched his, searching for a way to explain herself. She wanted to tell him that he was slipping away, that it devastated her to believe he sought his comfort in another woman’s arms. Before she could however, her lover would continue to speak, shattering the last bit of peace she’d found beside him.

<“It’s you that refuses to end this. If you would punish the dog for his actions, the Al-Uba’yd could be put behind us entirely. Even Elif agrees, your… weakness for the Servant is damning.”>

<“Is it now a weakness to refuse to whip a man bloody? I will not push my brother farther away from me, I’ve made my decision. Elif’s words are as dry as her cunt, they have no use to me.”>

These had been the wrong words. Osman would not stay seated, pushing himself off from the cushions so quickly it nearly startled Najla from her spot. The fall would have brought no pain but embarrassment, but when Osman looked down at her, Najla wondered if this was worse. She’d never seen Osman so defensive about his wife, especially not in front of his lover, and now wondered if she’d been the one to drive him deeper into her arms. It seemed so, for the pair would argue, quietly and in hushed whispers, though only for a brief few moments before Najla looked behind him, only to see the guard escorting Ketill to her.

<“Hold your tongue.”>

Osman turned his head quickly at that, though he did not need to follow his lovers gaze to see who was approaching. Rather than relax himself however, he straightened up.

<“I’ll leave you with your precious dog then.”>

<“Osman, stay. You promised you would.”>

He did not seem to hear, turning and leaving her side before she could say another word. Both knew that Najla would not call after him, and would be forced to speak to the Servant on her own regardless. When the guard finally stood before her, presenting her with the slave she’d called for, Najla let out a soft sigh, simply tilting her head back on the tiles.

“Are you a Djinn?”

It was a strange question, but the entire situation felt strange to her. In fact, she’d make a rather odd picture altogether. As always, Najla was doused in luxury. Her hair was still wet, indicating she’d spent the day in the pools or baths, and carelessly plucked away at sweet fruits while she waited for the sun to dry it. As always, she was dressed in fine clothes and jewels, but now she’d had her lover sitting below her, a garden just behind her, there was nothing left to want for. And yet, there was no masking her unhappiness. Whatever had caused it, it was obvious that she blamed Ketill for it. The drugs Osman brought had not been enough to ease her now, only dulling her emotions for a brief moment until she was forced to face them again.

“A demon, a cruel spirit who travels with wind, who takes a man's shape only to spread evil. You must be, I just don’t see any other explanation.” Her voice was softer now, as if she was speaking to herself, rather than the slave before her. She turned her face towards Ketill then, though her expression would do little to clarify her words. Her eyes were still glassy and red, clearly the effects of whatever drug her husband was so fond of. Yet she spoke these outlandish accusations with little hint as to whether she truly believed them or not. Perhaps the drugs had addled her brain finally, or perhaps being left to handle the Servant and her lover’s anger was too much for her, but there would be no explanation either way.

“Osman’s mother thought you were cursed, because of your eyes. I brushed it off as superstition. After all, I’d seen some like you before, men with those same eyes of ice. Now I wonder if I was wrong.” She finally pushed her head and back off the edge of the windowsill then, reaching a hand out for an object that rested near her feet. Osman had left his pipe there, a gift she’d given him some years ago. She picked this up gently, toying with it as she continued to speak.

“Ever since I have brought you into my home, all you have brought with you is chaos. Every task I ask of you only brings me more problems, I feel as if I have spent every day here conjuring up a new reason why you should keep breathing.” Now her eyes snapped up to him, a sudden flash of anger coming through at her next words. “I am running out of reasons. Every word from your mouth brings grief, and you are not wise enough to stop. You don’t even have to speak, just your fucking name-”

She didn’t finish her sentence, but took the pipe with her left hand, regarding it with the same sort of bored attention children would put upon their lessons. Without bothering to look up at the guard or Ketill, she extended her hand just barely, spreading her fingers. She watched the pipe fall through her hand as if in a daze, only to train her gaze on Ketill as the glass shattered in the garden below.

<“Sultana-”> The guard’s voice was both worried and confused, but Najla would be quick to silence his fears, if not ease his confusion.

<“No need to worry.”> Najla answered quickly. She spun around, her back to the garden behind her, her feet dangling over the edge. Though she spoke to the guard, her eyes rested on Ketill. <“It was an ugly pipe, it looks better like this.”>

“Despite all of this, you’re getting your reward.” She hesitated for a moment, the barest of smiles finding its way onto her face before she continued to speak. It would not last, but this rather strange series of emotions would be more than obvious, even to the guard who could not understand her speech. “Did you think I wouldn’t fulfill my promise? Of course you did. I know what you think of me, it’s not as if I could stop you from telling me. It’s been done, regardless. It’s all done. Thamud is dead.”

Najla studied Ketill’s gaze, though she did not expect a reaction. It seemed as if she was waiting to hear him criticize her as Basim had, to chastise her for the way she’d ended his life. Obviously, she wouldn’t let Ketill talk the way Basim did to her, but there wasn’t much she could’ve done for it if she wanted to.

“I promised him I’d punish you, you know. You broke the Qawanin when you murdered Yazan, it has to be answered for. The disrespect you showed Thamud was only more reason to punish you. I asked you to fight him, not to humiliate him. Tell me, what did you say to him?”

The command came easily, but there was a great omission in Najla’s words. The disrespect Thamud had faced had been largely irrelevant to her when it had occurred, but the disrespect Ketill had shown her by grabbing her wrist had not been. Yet it was Thamud she mentioned now, a loss that was far easier to tolerate. Whatever Ketill’s answer, it would seem that Najla had grown rather tired of speaking to him. In fact, she seemed tired in general, exhausted by her own emotions and whatever Osman had given her.

“Somehow, despite all that you are, I won’t touch you. You’ll go without punishment, only reward. It’s not as if Thamud will know. Don’t believe for one moment that I am doing this out of kindness, or because I will forget your actions in the future. You have my brother to thank for this, so don’t go praising your false god for this, he had nothing to do with it.” With that, she finally moved to stand on the tiles once more, looking up at Ketill.

“And since apparently I cannot stop Basim from coming to you, you must stop speaking to him. I don’t care what he bribes or threatens you with, sit in silence. Rip your tongue out, for all I care. I cannot imagine a punishment you’d fear…but you’ve tied another’s fate to yours. Go, she’ll be brought to you tonight. I will not call for her, as promised, but I’ve instructed her to come to me for all her needs. If you dare allow her to speak to me, have her come to me for all of yours as well. With any luck, I’ll never have to see that cursed grin of yours again.”

@persianversion

ℰxpedition for the ℬanner of St. ℱriedrich

Due to the negotiations, Ketill was left alone for the remainder of his time in the village until the deal had been sealed, and they would celebrate with new festivities. Although the first night had already been hellish, this one would prove to be setting up to be worse. Merely the presence of the envoys from the other group of people would be enough to raise festivities to a new level and Ketill had no doubt in his mind that he’d be a part of that.

It did not come as too much of a surprise then when he was retrieved from the healers’ tent, late in the evening. The guards guided him outside and gave him a moment to stand still, looking at the horizon, where the sun was gently dipping underneath the sandy dunes. It would’ve been a beautiful sight in different circumstances, but all it did now was remind Ketill of how isolated they were. How impossible escape would be to him. Once the guards found they had given him enough time they gently pushed him further and continued towards the center of the festivities, near the fire. It seemed like they had not learned from their mistake the last time, and Ketill wondered if they’d ask him for another show with the fire present like that.

Najla had warned him of that, after all.

He was put more or less in the same location as last time, near the slaves that were not currently busy serving the others, close to the fire. It was perhaps the only enjoyable thing about sitting there, as despite the deserts harsh climate, the scorching sun made way for the cooling moon, and depending on the time of the year, you could very well freeze to death in some of the cooler places at night. Luckily it was not that time of the year yet, but even so with the sun settling slowly, he was happy that there was a fire.

As usual, Ketill was ignored for much of the night until the men, and particularly the peasants, had had enough to drink to lift their bravery to a new level. Though they stood far away at first, they came closer inevitably, looking at Ketill and discussing among themselves. This went on throughout the night with new faces appearing and leaving at a whim, making way for others that wanted to see the Bear of Broacien and talk about him.

<‘’Go and prod him with that stick, Azir,’’> one of them said in a hushed tone, glancing at his friend with a grin.

<‘’Sure, and then he will rip my throat open like he did Yazan,’’> the man replied, not taking his eyes off of Ketill.

<‘’He is the Daab al-Broacien, right? Bears in cages get prodded with sticks all the time so that they will dance, you’ll be fine.’’>

<‘’I don’t see a cage.’’>

<‘’I guess it doesn’t matter, I’ve heard from some others that Thamud will tame the bear for good tonight. The Sultana, may the Sawarim bless her and her family, may have tamed the beast to do her command, but a beast will always be a beast. Thamud will put him down like the mangled dog he is.’’>

<‘’Is that so? That’s good.’’>

Whether the men had wanted to continue the discussion or not was not really of importance, as they quickly scurried away when the Sultana herself made an appearance. She walked up while speaking his name, the accent thicker than before it almost seemed. Her face spelled books to Ketill and he did his best to suppress a grin. Her words, however, told him that there was no need to prepare for another inquisition as to why he did what he did. Thankfully Najla would not lecture him about the other fight, and would not tell him what to do – beyond some very specific instructions. When she spoke of the blade, Ketill was slightly confused. In his mind, this fight was only taking place to show Thamud the power of the Sultan. But this instruction spoke of far more than that. Before Najla could walk away, Ketill reached forwards and grabbed her wrist. ‘’I can fight until first blood, we’ve passed the point at which I will do what you tell me to for no reason other than your command. I don’t need a horse – I’ve walked the way here so I can walk the way back.’’

From the corner of his eyes he could see the guards coming closer as a reaction to him grabbing her wrist, so he promptly let go and began getting up from his sitting position, standing up straight when the guards arrived. <‘’Is everything okay, Sultana?’’> one of them would ask her, but Ketill didn’t worry about it, given that the fight was about to start.

‘’The harem girl that your brother granted me after our first fight – she visited me a few more times, and seems to be around whenever I went to practice with your brother. She will be my new servant. That’s my demand. It’s easy for you, no? A harem girl is a tool, after all. Like me. You can manipulate her to do what you want. After that, you give up on her, and won’t ask her to talk to you anymore. In exchange for…’’

He did not finish his sentence, only looking over to the canopy where Thamud was standing, the last few straps of his armour being tightened by his brothers, who seemed more concerned than excited for this fight. Of course, it was only a fight until first blood, but the savage had ignored holy laws before – why would he follow the rules of a duel? They didn’t even know if Ketill understood anything that he was being told, the only evidence for that being that Najla claimed to have tamed him. Perhaps they had no reason to doubt her – but that did not mean much in the face of the possible death of their brother.

‘’… a life. That seems like a fair deal.’’ Though it was posed like a question of sorts, it took more so the shape of a demand. Even though he’d fight if she denied him, she would likely have to deal with an even more annoying Ketill if she said no. The request for her not to talk to the girl anymore would go ignored – and that much Ketill knew – but Najla was equally stupid if she thought Ketill had no idea that Najla used whatever means she could to gain insight on how to control Ketill. Women were not the answer, however, and Najla would’ve likely learned that by now.

When they were done, Ketill would begin approaching the fire, under the watchful eye of the spectators that were waiting for the same ritual to commence. But before he got to the center of the crowd, he was tapped on the arm. When he looked over to see who it was, he saw Basims face contoured by the light coming from the fire. Next to him stood one of Thamud’s brothers, who seemed concerned, but still maintained a stern and stoic look in his eyes. ‘’Prince,’’ Ketill stated, waiting for an answer of sorts.

‘’This is one of Thamud’s brothers. He wanted to know how long you’ve been a soldier for. I told him that your prowess in combat would give him a hint, but he insisted that he had to know before he let his brother commit to the fight.’’

Ketill glanced at the man again, trying to see just how nervous the man was. ‘’We fight to first blood. There is no risk. Why worry?’’

Basim merely shrugged, either not knowing the answer or not finding the answer important enough to argue about. It was probably easier to just answer at this point. ‘’In the end they still see you as a savage. They probably don’t expect you to uphold the rules.’’

Ketill looked away from the man’s eyes to his hands for a moment, folding his fingers together and stretching his hands then, the knack of his joints relaxing his hands a little, to prepare himself for the upcoming duel. He thought about what he would answer – he had not been a soldier for long, mostly spending his time as a knight or a Servant. He supposed that a Servant was a soldier in the broad sense of that word, but Ketill wondered if the Sawarim understood the definition of a knight at all. The systems were very different after all, even if they showed similarities at times. When he made up his mind, he glanced back at the man first and then at Basim. ‘’I’ve been a soldier for a long time, but I’ve been a warrior my entire life. Tell him I’ve fought for the king for four years to ease his mind. I’ll uphold the rules of the duel. There is a difference between religious laws and honour. Killing someone is easy – giving them an honourable death while maintaining your own honour is harder.’’

‘’Four years is too little. Thamud is not a guard – he’s a tribal leader. I’ll tell him eight, it’s more believable. I hope you’re right, about upholding the rules of the duel.’’ Almost immediately, Basim translated to the man that Ketill had been a warrior for eight years, at which the man nodded, seemingly satisfied with the answer.

‘’I merely serve my purpose as a tool, no? That I fight honourably is not much of a question. Whether your sister does the same is a different question. You should ask her that.’’

‘’What do you mean?’’

To this question Ketill gave no answer, instead directing his attention to the brother. Ketill bowed his head lightly, similar to how he had bowed his head for Basim before. ‘’My condolences.’’

<‘’What did he say?’’> the man asked Basim while Ketill walked away to the centre again, standing near the fire to prepare himself. Basim merely stared at Ketill’s back as he walked away, pondering to the meaning of Ketill’s words, absent mindedly answering the man.

<‘’He.. wished your brother good luck.’’>

---

The ritual began soon enough and Ketill was, once more, left standing alone while everyone else around him kneeled. He looked around, but found no ravens this time – perhaps Audrun had not been interested in him tonight. It would make sense – although there was no teaching of the Allfather or Allmother that spoke out against poison, it was not typically considered a brave weapon. Audrun would have to forgive him this time, however, as it seemed to be out of his hands.

When the ritual had finished, taking the same shape as it had last time, a man approached with a straight edged sword. He handed it off to Ketill, who swung it a few times to get a taste for the weight of the blade. Thamud was handed a curved sword of his own, and seemed to be getting ready for the initial assault. Almost immediately Thamud stepped forwards, seemingly having learned from the previous fight that if Ketill was given any chance to go on the offensive, there would be no chance to counter attack. But it seemed that he underestimated Ketill, as he rushed forwards blindly.

All Ketill had to do with bring up his sword and hold it out towards Thamuds throat to stop the man from charging in. Luckily for Thamud, he stopped before impaling himself on the sword, to which one of his brothers called out from the crowd. <‘’Patience brother, do not wish to kill yourself so soon!’’>

The comment earned little more than a frown from Thamud, who took a step back, more carefully this time as he positioned himself to attack once again. Ketill similarly also stepped back, swinging the sword back to a ready position in front of him, waiting for the right moment to strike.

The two circled around each other, slowly becoming entranced in the state of battle where everything else was filtered out as some sort of deafening sounds that were indistinguishable at this point. It seemed that the prospect of fighting to first blood had made the fight safer, but also meant that both sides were unwilling to strike first at the risk of opening themselves to an attack. It seemed to take several seconds before Ketill stepped forwards and slashed at Thamud with his sword, who deflected the strike with his own sword. The sound of metal against metal sounded and for a moment it seemed like the crowd would cheer them on, but the attacks continued from Ketill’s side, quickly swinging his arm around for a second strike before Thamud could do so himself.

The two exchanged blows a few more times, until Ketill swung his sword at Thamud again, which was blocked rather well. But Thamud failed to account for Ketill’s fist that swung at him from the left, hitting him square in the nose. Thamud reared back, stumbling a little bit, and almost instantly put his hands toward his nose. He raised his hands afterwards, shouting triumphantly, <‘’no blood!’’>

The crowd seemed pleased but did not offer any encouragement as the fight continued quickly. Ketill did not offer Thamud much chance to recover, instead opting to finish the fight rapidly. He stepped forwards twice, making a swinging motion with his sword from left to right at first, then right to left, before using that momentum to swing through, arcing the sword over his head before coming down diagonally towards his shoulder.

Thamud’s sword could not move fast enough to stop the blade and his body, likewise, did not move fast enough under the impression that he could block the strike.

The blade connected with the area between his shoulder and neck, near the collar, where the cut went deep. It cut through what little armour had been protecting him there, and with a slicing motion Ketill pulled the blade through, making the cut even deeper. He was quite sure that he cut some of the muscles there, as Thamud dropped to one knee clutching his shoulder with one hand while the other hand hung awkwardly, the sword dropping from his hand.

Thamud attempted to get up again, but promptly fell to a knee again as the blood flowed more heavily, looking up at Ketill with a mixture of anger and fear. Before anyone could intervene, Ketill approached him, his posture being entirely calm, his sword being dropped into the sand. With a firm grip, Ketill extended his left hand towards Thamuds face, pushing his face sideways so that he’d face the fire, before grabbing the back of his head, his fingers grabbing at the hair. For a moment it would’ve looked like Ketill would push him in just like he had Yazan, but rather Ketill kneeled down next to him and spoke to him.

‘’It’s a beautiful sight. I’ve been asked to spare your life. Don’t think I did that because I want to. Everything inside of me screams ‘’push him in.’’ But I can’t. I have something I need to do, and I can’t put myself in a position that would harm those things. Sadly, for you, as you will die soon. The fire would be far more... merciful, than the fate you are about to meet. May the desert swallow your bones and spit them out.’’

When Ketill was finished he stood up and pushed Thamuds face away, before walking off towards the area where the rest of the slaves would be. His behaviour was quite disrespectful, but who would dare to stand up against him, as he was under the protection of the Sultana herself. Though she herself might have a few words for him still, but that was a matter for another time. With a grunt he let himself fall onto the sand, putting one hand behind him to lean on while he would watch as Thamud was carried away by two of his brothers, that hauled him towards the healers’ tent. Unbeknownst to Ketill was that she was complicit in this plan of Najla’s, so all Ketill could think was that the healer would likely be able to reverse whatever Najla had done to the blade. It bode badly for her if that was the case – but he doubted that anyone would suspect foul play.

It seemed that the festivities died down after that, barely noticeable, but Ketill could see the difference in the air from the distance away from them. The only ones that seemed unbothered by the events that had taken place were the Banu Dunya, who seemed somewhat amused by Thamud’s loss, even if he had just granted them their request. Of course, they would hide their amusement, but they did not seem as annoyed with the outcome as some of the other tribals. But Ketill thought they had no reason to be unhappy with his loss – they were not part of this tribe, they did not hold Thamud in high regards, and despite his cessation, they likely still disliked Thamud. At least… that is what Ketill would do. If he had been the leader of the Banu Dunya he would have gone to war. Sultan be damned, nobody would cross his honour.

---

Ketill was not bothered through the rest of that night, except for some angry men that demanded he apologize for his behaviour in the fight. They were quickly dissuaded from pursuing this demand by one of the guards nearby however, who warned them that Ketill might be under the Sultana’s control, but that she had not given him explicit orders not to harm anyone. Whether the guards knew this, or were just trying to avoid an escalation, Ketill could only guess.

They would leave the next day. Ketill was not asked to help with the packing, and since they travelled lightly and some of the slaves did not even sleep in a tent, it wasn’t a large task altogether. Though he had exchanged the favour of a slave in favour of a servant of his own, he would not complain, merely taking his place at the back of the caravan of people after all the farewells and goodbyes had been said. Ketill would not be present for them either – so, he had no idea if there was a similar ritual for them as the welcome. Probably there was – it seemed like the Sawarim paid great attention to make sure every ritual was carefully executed, which ended up being quite a time consumer.

But when they got moving, they really got moving, and the pace picked up quite rapidly. Ketill occupied his mind mostly by focusing on his walking, which was better an occupation than to wonder how far they still had to go. It was some time into the march before he heard a familiar voice next to him, slightly above him even.

‘’Ketill,’’ the young voice said, and as Ketill looked up he covered his eyes from the sun, only to see Basim riding on a horse next to him. The horses presence had been entirely unnoticed to Ketill, who perhaps had been a little bit too much focus on keeping his pace. ‘’You kept your promise.’’

Ketill lowered his hand and looked down at his feet again, slowly trudging through the sand while the prince sat comfortably on his horse. ‘’You sound surprised that your pet bear managed to listen well enough to not kill him,’’ Ketill answered him, somewhat annoyed by the notion that Ketill would not keep the promise whatsoever. ‘’Of course I did. Whether I killed him there mattered very little in the grand scheme of things.’’ Ketill was still unsure whether or not Basim knew about the poison, but he also felt no need to play stupid around the boy. ‘’Did you come to see me for a reason?’’ Ketill then asked, rather directly to the point. He did not possess the patience today to play games, it seemed.

Basim did not answer immediately, merely looking into the distance across the sandy dunes. ‘’It’s… nothing. Perhaps you could tell me more about your Gods. Evidently they gave you strength.’’ Slowly he turned back to face Ketill, who still kept his eyes averted downwards. By now the sweat was dripping down his face from the pace, and he did not exactly have a cloth to protect his head against the heat.

‘’You’ve got it wrong. They give me no strength. The gods don’t deal in gifts.’’

‘’What do you mean?’’

‘’The gods have no interest in giving us things. We have to work for what we have. I suppose the best way to put it is that we earn their favour by working hard and living how they want us to live. But even that isn’t entirely true.’’

‘’You mean there are no blessings?’’

‘’Not in the same way that you might know them. Audrun will never bless a person himself. He will change the situation at times – give you a son, or take the life of a foeman, but never will he outright bless you. Each must prove his worth. A blessing would only skew the balance.’’

‘’That… makes sense.’’

‘’Then there is his wife, Gidja. She is favoured among the elderly. It seems she takes care of them. If you are weak and cannot prove your worth to Audrun in battle, you have to be sagacious and prove your worth to Gidja – she will reward the wise and sagacious with many sons and daughters, a fertile seed and a long life.’’

Then, Ketill looked up at the sun, covering his eyes with his hands as he gestured towards the sun. He then lowered his hand towards the horizon where the dunes laid, silent as always, his fingers tracing the movement that the sun would make as it set, to make place for the moon.

‘’Once, Audrun sent a man in a chariot across the sky, with a rope tied across the sun. This man we call Sól, and in exchange for his service to Audrun he was given eternal life, so that he can ride across the sky forever to see the world in its splendour. But Gidja found that when the man was across the horizon, the world became dark again and mankind was unable to work well in the darkness, so she did the same as her husband, and selected a woman to ride in her own chariot, with a rope tied around the moon. This woman had no desire to see the world, however, but had fallen in love with Sól when he was just a man, before Audrun chose him.’’

He extended another arm towards the other horizon on his left, and mimicked the movement of the moon, chasing the sun across the sky. ‘’Her name is Máni, and she is stuck in an eternal chase of her lover. She too was given immortality by Gidja, as a reward for her service. But, not to worry, their love is not a sad tale. When the moon and the sun go across each other, and the moon blocks the light of the sun, it is said that they meet and make love, before Sól chases off again on an adventure and Máni is left behind, chasing her lover once more.’’

Ketill had given Basim quite a lot to think on, so it remained quiet for a while. Ketill mostly trudged on through the sand, attempting to ignore his tired feet, while Basim mostly seemed lost in thoughts. After some time he finally spoke up again, seemingly not entirely satisfied with what he had been told so far. ‘’And if you die, when you die, what happens?’’

‘’That depends on how you die.’’

‘’In your sleep?’’

‘’You will be judged by Gydja and Audrun, who will determine your worth at the sum of all your actions. If you are a good man you will go to Gydja’s fields, where you will live and perform tasks for Gydja. Mostly, you will be required to give counsel and share your wisdom. If you are a bad man, you will go to Hel, where you will become slave of the chaos and the Jötunn trolls. This is not bad, it’s just… different. Sorcerers, witches and other people that deal with darker spirits and beings often draw power from Hel to perform their magics. Anyone that is neither good nor bad will simply fade and cease to exist – the only way you will continue to exist is under the memory of your name and your sons and daughters.’’

‘’And in battle? What happens then? It seems like that is the best way to die for someone that follows your gods.’’

‘’Perhaps – if you die in battle and fought bravely, and with honour, you will go to Sjeahalle, to do battle forever against the others, every day. However, it is a great honor, and you will never grow tired or get wounded, and the fights are merely meant to hone your skills to prepare for the oncoming fight against the chaos from Hel.’’

‘’So… how do you view honour?’’

This gave Ketill reason for pause. He had always acted honourably, but never given thought to ‘’what it meant’’ to be honourable. He supposed he had always acted that way out of instinct, but he tried to put it into words regardless. ‘’You must work hard, for everything that you do. Audrun favours the brave and the wise, so you must think well, and be wise about your actions. You must take what you want, because the gods will not give you it. You must not steal without the knowledge of their owner – but when you kill to take an item, that is fair, and you have earned the spoils of combat by working for them. You must be hospitable to one another, and offer a weary traveller shelter if you can, and share with him bread and drink, but always be weary, for not everyone is as noble as they seem. Live your life like Audrun would, and you are certain of a position at his side. But for this… you need the knowledge of Audrun’s life. I suppose that it would make little sense to you without thse tales, and they are too long to tell them now.’’

‘’I… see. Thank you for telling me, Ketill. I would offer to give you a chance to worship your gods but… I don’t know how you even worship.’’

‘’By fighting well.’’

‘’That’s something that I cannot hel-’’

‘’It’s probably best. You shouldn’t speak about this to anyone. The other types of worship we perform are… different from yours. People would be scared. Besides, the worships aren’t mandatory, they’re just to ask for help or an omen. I’ve got no need for them now.’’

‘’I see. I’m sorry, but I must go now. I wish to speak to my sister about-.. about the journey.’’ Basim managed to cut himself off before spilling too much details about the conversation he wanted to have, perhaps being a bit too lost in thought to realize what he was saying.

‘’I’d rather avoid her, but do as you please.’’

With a slight nod, Basim rode off towards the front of the caravan again, where he’d go to find his sister. As for Ketill, he merely kept walking, focusing his energy on walking without having to think about his tired feet. He wondered if exchanging the horse for the servant girl had been worth it, and for a moment he doubted his choice – no, he’d doubt it all the way to the Golden City. Not a single woman was worth a horse to Ketill at that point.

The way ahead was long and seemed to take almost twice as long as it did before - the group didn't even have to take shelter against sandstorms, but never the less lost a great deal of time when one of the slaves had managed to let go of the reins of an extra horse that was being taken with them, and the horse had ran away. One of the guards was sent after it to retrieve it, and they were forced to wait almost an hour before the man returned with the horse.

But after a few days worth of travel, interrupted by merely a few moments to rest, the Golden City was finally within eyesight again. A good thing too, since Ketill's flask of water had began running out of water. But now that they were back, it would be a waiting game to see just what would happen next. While the rest of the slaves were sent to unload the tents and other goods, Ketill was simply sent back to his room until further notice - which was a welcome privilege, since he was tired from the trip, and desired to rest before Najla bestowed a new task onto him.

@Odin

ℰxpedition for the ℬanner of St. ℱriedrich

No one could touch her nerves quite like Ketill could. Others could annoy, frustrate, and anger her, but Ketill seemed to anchor himself in the recesses of her brain. After all, no name besides Saina would have been able to draw that same flash of anger from her eyes, pulling it from behind that ever-present gaze of disinterest. At least, Najla had believed so, until Ketill had continued to speak.

Perhaps it would have been slightly amusing under other circumstances, for Najla realized that there were few others who would see her status as a weakness the way Ketill did. However, Ketill did not leave her any room to find amusement, and Najla did not seem inclined to take it that way. At the word ‘whore’ the carefully constructed expression on her face would fall away for a brief moment. For that moment, her expression held nothing but contempt. There was no attempt at remaining regal, no chance to brush off his words, only a slight snarl and narrowed eyes, nothing but hatred in her expression.

She did not care that she had not been of use to Ketill. Najla did not care that she could not cook or wash, those were tasks for slaves, not a Sultana. Perhaps she could have been useful to Ketill in that way, but Najla no longer served him. She served the Sultan and the Sawarim. But Najla cared for the disrespect he showed her. The contempt could not move off her expression completely, and as Ketill fell back onto the cushions, Najla found that it was even harder to keep it off her face. It felt strange, to have the word ‘pampered’ spat out at her like an insult, but Najla knew he was not wrong. It did not hurt her, for she knew she would never have to operate without the luxuries she was granted again. Even if she wished to argue, his next words would silence her completely. She was right, then. He wanted her to suffer, and she could not allow him to do so.

Najla turned to leave then, clearly irritated at her slave’s disrespect, and frustrated that she could garner nothing new from him besides more insults. His voice stopped her, and when she turned around to look at him once more, Najla held an annoyed frown. He was dictating the conversation, knowing that she would want to hear whatever answers he would offer. His cryptic remarks would only cause that angered frown to fall into one of confusion, and she returned his gaze, only breaking it when he grinned. She hated that smile, it would likely haunt her until her final days.

“You have gone mad.”

She could not fathom what he meant by raven, but it did not seem to matter. She did not have time to decipher the ramblings of a madman, after all. Once again, she would move to leave, only to find that Ketill was not quite done. Turning to look at him once more, Najla crossed her arms as he spoke. For a moment, she parted her lips as if to say something, but quickly decided against it. She found no point in explaining the ways of the Sawarim to a savage who wouldn’t care to hear them, nor did she see a purpose in defending her people’s view of her. Instead of replying, Najla’s expression only hardened as her gaze flicked over Ketill once more.

He was not entirely wrong, Najla found. It was not as if she believed her people would think less of her as a result, or if they did, none would speak as such in front of her. They would not think less of Ketill either, for none believed a Daab could be civilized, only tamed. But it had been under her command that he’d committed this act, and it would be under her command that he’d need to commit others. These were the thoughts that occupied her as she visited Yazan’s family, doing her duty as delicately as she could manage, all the while wondering if she was responsible for causing them such grief. Still, she had warned the Al-Uba’yd as to Ketill’s nature, and Najla would quickly seek to forget Ketill’s words, despite how deeply they’d clawed their way into her.

---

Basim did not seem surprised to hear Ketill’s tone when he answered his questions, after all, he had not expected the Servant’s attitude to improve overnight. Even he had still been surprised to hear him speak to a prince in such a manner, Ketill’s words would clarify the reason rather quickly. Apparently Najla had already spoken to him regarding the matter, a fact that would cause Basim’s expression to finally turn to one of slight surprise. Najla had not sought to tell him of that conversation, likely never considering that her brother would bring the Servant in as well. It hardly mattered, for Basim’s surprise seemed minute in comparison to the subject matter, and he was far more preoccupied with the manner of Yazan’s death.

He would hardly have time to consider Ketill’s words regarding that, however. It seemed a strange notion, that burning a man could be considered a clean death. Basim’s frown betrayed this confusion, even as he wondered if Ketill was correct, in some strange sense. Burning a man was no mercy, it was a violation of their God’s will, but the blow of the axe itself would have been considered clean. Yet before this one issue could be clarified, the Servant would only seek to add on another.

He understood that his sister had ordered the Servant to kill. She’d spoken as if it was a favor to her slave, to be granting him the blood he’d so eagerly sought. From what Basim had seen of Ketill, he’d have little reason to doubt this, until this moment. Now, he ignored the derisive way the Servant spoke his title in favor of satisfying his curiosity, a feat Najla’s pride would not have allowed her to accomplish.

Ketill spoke as if burning that man had been a task, the way house slaves would speak of scrubbing floors, Basim imagined. Would he have declined, if given the opportunity? Najla did not seem to think so, but the way Ketill spoke was enough to raise some doubts. But when he began to speak of Najla’s morals, Basim found that his frown deepened. He would not seem angry, for while there was plenty in Ketill’s words that would offend just about anyone, Basim was not quite as concerned with taking offense. He would not respond, for though Ketill’s questioning of Najla’s morals had led to many questions, none of these were for the Servant to answer. It was not as if Basim had expected Ketill to speak highly of the woman that had enslaved him, and realized that Ketill’s answers would always be biased in that sense. Najla’s would too, but he had little to go off of besides either’s words. Instead, his mind began to consider Ketill’s words as a possibility, as if testing them cautiously within his own mind.

He knew that Najla had brought him along for a reason. There was no doubt as to that, the hours they had spent preparing him with Osman would have been wasted otherwise. Najla had not been shy about discussing the nature of Sawarimic culture with her brother, and he would have understood even if she hadn’t. Perhaps not to ‘seem smart’ as Ketill had so derisively stated, though Basim would not yet rule this option out. If anything, he had been brought along solely as an escort, to have the negotiations conducted under his name without relying on any particular skill. But if that was the truth, she could have brought Harith, who fought far better, or any number of male cousins, many of which would not have required the time they’d spent preparing with Osman. Yet again, this question would have to be shoved aside in order to deal with another.

He’d heard much from Najla regarding her time in Broacien, mostly in the form of long-winded answers to excited questions. She’d told him that they had mistreated her for her religion, she’d even spoken of the men who tried to attack her, though certainly not in full detail. It was not surprising to hear that his sister had not converted, but the thought that Ketill would have let her go if she had certainly was. They did not do that to slaves here, he knew, though they would be treated far better if they did convert. Whether it was Ketill’s own morality or a law of the Servants, Basim did not know. It seemed the former, based on Ketill’s next words, and Basim would have to agree that it was a strange notion. Yet those words made it feel as if it would have been cruel not to give him the cross, to allow him to pray as he would have allowed Najla.

He had believed that he was doing Ketill a favor, even if it was a dangerous one. Clearly, Basim had not expected the Servant’s anger, and he caught the flash of anger in his eyes with a confused frown, as if he did not quite know what to do with it. Najla had warned him of the dangers, just as Ketill was now, but Basim had not listened. Had Najla been there to witness, she might have remarked that his carelessness made him far more similar to Harith than he’d ever wish to be, but it was a lucky thing she was not. While she would have responded to Ketill’s words with venom, Basim held none of that in his voice.

“I am not trying to kill you.” It was a statement, nothing more, and would do little to clarify his true intentions. In fact, he seemed almost confused, as if the Servant had rejected a basic kindness. He would not try to convince Ketill that he was doing him a favor, for his next words were enough to distract Basim from nearly all that they had spoken before. When Ketill continued to explain why the cross was meaningless, the shock would be clear to read on his expression, and in his tone.

“Your Gods?” The emphasis he put on the final letter was enough to determine a large source of his confusion, though Ketill had given him plenty. “I don’t- there cannot be more than one.”

Though Ketill’s anger would soften, at least visibly, Basim’s confusion only increased as he extended his hand towards him. Any other time, the demand would have caused him pause, but it seemed his curiosity overwhelmed any concerns for his own safety. Again, it seemed even Basim could not shed all the attitudes of a prince, believing his safety would be secured by the guard regardless. It seemed almost a thoughtless gesture as he handed over his dagger then, and though he could hear his guards voice behind him, Basim would not think twice regardless.

<“Sultanim, surely this is too dangerous-”>

<“If he wanted to kill me, a dagger wouldn’t make a difference.”>

Though he did not outright demand the guard’s silence, the manner in which he’d interrupted him was out of character for the young prince. It was spoken as sharply as a command, though the reason would not be difficult to see. He only wanted the guard’s silence, and was too distracted by the sight in front of him to care how it happened, only eager to see what Ketill wished to show him. The word Audrun had been enough, it seemed, for Basim could not have forgotten it after the night before. In fact, it caused him to step closer. Though the guard would raise no more concerns, Basim nearly protested as he watched Ketill dig the tip of the dagger into his hand. There were other ways, surely, yet he watched with wide eyes as Ketill continued, choosing to comment on the word itself.

“I remember the name. Najla thought it might have been the name of your lover, I could not have imagined…” His words trailed off as he stepped closer, watching as Ketill finished carving his flesh. His expression was a mix of fascination and disgust, as if he wanted to ask Ketill to stop carving, but his curiosity demanded otherwise from him. He did not even seem to realize that he had betrayed what Najla thought, or had vaguely guessed at, regarding the name, only eager to see the truth. Therefore, as Ketill extended his hand again, Basim took the dagger, attaching it to his belt clumsily, for his eyes did not leave Ketill’s other hand. Instinct almost demanded that he take Ketill’s hand and hold it up for a closer look, but he would not move to touch him.

“So his children are your Gods as well? Even his daughters?” There was no derision in his voice, no scorn for that which were false Gods to his people. Only fascination. He simply wanted to understand, to ask more about these Gods he had never heard of. A part wondered if he should mention it to Najla, but this thought was hardly important now, and Basim only studied the bloody marks as if they would tell him more. “Whose Gods are these? I have heard of no people who worship a God such as Audrun.”

As Ketill continued to speak, Basim listened curiously, though these next words were not quite as surprising as the former. Najla had warned him, after all, and Basim was not entirely a stranger to the ways of the court. Ketill’s demand to keep this quiet would not have been immediately agreed to, especially not after having been spoken to in such a manner, but Basim was not about to tell his sister why he had brought the Servant to his tent. Despite the multitude of thoughts swimming in his mind, trying to process the information that Ketill had converted, and wondering what to do with this, Basim understood the necessity of silence now, for both of their sakes. Perhaps he would not have responded to Ketill’s words, allowing him to leave and dispose of the cross as he wished, but as he watched Ketill bow his head, Basim thought otherwise. He knew it was not for him, he had never seen the Servant bow, and did not believe he’d start so soon after calling a prince stupid.

“Find strength in your Gods then.”

It would have been a strange statement, had Basim not been so willing to help Ketill pray to the Monarch before. Still, it was a dismissive one, for though Basim had many questions left to ask, he was not fool enough to sit and ask now. Ketill’s harsh tone and readiness to leave was enough to convince him otherwise. Besides, the Servant had already given him a great deal to think on. The brief introduction of a new religion would only be enough to push away Ketill’s words regarding Najla briefly. They would return later, perhaps, but they seemed unimportant now, when compared to this flurry of new Gods.

---

When Najla had invited Thamud to her tent, neither party had any doubts as to the purpose, and yet the way they spoke would reveal none of this. They lounged upon cushions across from each other, and Najla had even removed the golden mask that covered her face. To Thamud, this indicated that she was comfortable with his presence, but Najla had done the same before Ketill earlier, company she was far less comfortable with. Still, she allowed Thamud to believe as he liked, and the pair spoke lazily for some time, as if recovering from the heavy heat with easy words. Their pleasantries could not last forever, and inevitably, the conversation returned to that which Najla did not wish to discuss.

<“You were kind to help Aliya, but it was not necessary, Sultana. We take care of our own within the Al-Uba’yd.”>

<“I did not do so out of necessity, Thamud Khan. I know the Al-Uba’yd have both the means and desire to care for all those who share and serve your blood. I wanted to do so, I had no motives beyond that.”>

<“It will be an expensive feat, even for the Great Sultan, to provide for every new widow the Servant leaves behind.”>

Najla hid her emotions behind a soft laughter, though her mind raced. Thamud spoke as if the Servant would continue fighting, yet Najla did not know if he meant among the Al-Uba’yd or elsewhere. She did not doubt that there would be volunteers if Thamud allowed them to come forward, though significantly fewer than before, there were still men foolish enough to do so. Whether Thamud would be one of them would take some more time to know.

<“I agree, yet I am prepared to do so. Every man that perishes at the Servant’s hands is a witness. As the Sawarim provides for his witnesses, so we must provide for their blood.”>

<“It is an honor to be a witness for the Sawarim, truly.”> Najla was silent for a moment, watching Thamud as she waited for him to continue. It was a respectful phrase, usually one given to end a conversation like this, and yet, Najla felt as if there was more he wished to ask. Perhaps he would have, but the few seconds of silence were enough to break Najla’s patience.

<“We are friends now Thamud, speak as freely as you like. I witnessed the same fight as you, I know it is difficult to see such an end as an honor. May the Sawarim rest Yazan’s soul.”>

There was a moment in which Thamud would not reply to the rest of the words, merely repeating the last phrase back softly. His dark eyes moved over her quickly as he did, nothing like the disrespectful gawking she’d seen from Ketill. Najla caught herself remembering Ketill’s words, wondering if perhaps he’d been right in claiming the tribals would blame her. It was not as if she’d had a choice, for he would’ve been unable to fight without her blessing, but she knew people did not always see that. Then again, if Thamud did blame her, he would never tell her. Perhaps no one but Ketill would.

<“I’ve seen witnesses made before, I was nearly one myself, once. But never in such a manner. You are right, Sultana, it was not easy to see it as an honor then, and it is more difficult now that the Qawanin had to be violated for it. Yazan’s death was honorable but the act of it was less than human.”>

He spoke carefully, Najla noticed, never putting blame on any one party. They ‘had’ to be violated, he was speaking as if God’s will had done this, though their God would never urge another to betray his laws in this manner. It was a difficult issue to answer. If Najla admitted she had little control of Ketill, those who were meant to follow her would see her as weak, or at least far weaker than she’d presented herself to be. Letting the rumors fester would not be an option however, and neither would be telling the Al-Uba’yd that this violation had been done with her blessing. So she reverted to that which she knew to be true, and that which the tribesmen now knew to be true as well.

<“The laws did not have to be broken, no civilized man would have done so. But the Servant is neither civil, nor a man. He is the rabid dog of a false god, a beast that has only been given the capability to harm, and too savage to be taught otherwise.”>

<“Yet you have tried Sultana, I saw the lessons upon his back.”>

<“Will you believe he did not feel it?”> Thamud’s surprised expression was met with a slight shake of Najla’s head, as if she herself could not believe the words she was repeating. <“Not one lash was met with a cry.”>

<“Is he capable of feeling pain at all? I saw none upon his expression, not from any blow of the axe or even when he-”> Thamud hesitated then, looking up at Najla as he caught his words. She knew what was coming next, he was speaking of when Ketill had pressed Yazan’s body into the flames, as if he could not feel their caress himself. The unthinking way Thamud had been about to speak those words indicated that he’d likely already said them to another, perhaps a brother or friend, but he could not describe such violence in front of a woman, even if she had been there to see it.

<“I do not know.”> Her voice was soft as she answered, and her gaze rested on a cushion beside Thamud, rather than the man himself. It felt as if she could see Yazan’s face in it, locked in a scream as it blistered into something unrecognizable. A familiar, harrowing scream began to grasp at her conscious, though Najla shoved this away by looking up at Thamud once more, her expression no different than what he’d seen from her before. <“I suppose it would be far easier to punish him if he did.”>

<“You intend to punish him for this then?”>

<“Of course.”> Najla replied quickly, as if she had already thought this through long before. <“He must be punished. Yazan did not deserve to perish in such a manner, and the Servant cannot be allowed to break our laws so easily. Not here, however, I will not burden your people with such violence.”>

<“I do not believe Yazan’s family would mind, Sultana. They should be glad to see the Servant pay for this.”>

<“Perhaps, until the punishment begins and they come to see just how little the Servant feels. It will only bring them more pain. Besides, I believe it would make little difference to his behavior regardless, not so long as he believes his God to be above those who enslave him. I had hoped to find a sword among the Sawarim to humble him. But I cannot imagine a man brave enough to face him now.”>

<“There is no need to imagine, there are many of us who could not resist the call to best a Servant. Even if they are faced with such a violent end, there is far too much to accomplish in such a victory.”>

<“Us?”> Najla raised an eyebrow at that, as if Thamud had aroused a new concern. <“I do not doubt that you could beat him Thamud, but I also do not doubt that he could beat you. I would not ask a friend to gamble his life, you are too dear to the Sultan and I already.”>

<“Those are kind words, but I do not intend to gamble, Sultana. I believe I could beat him, though I cannot test this with my life. Not in front of my people.”>

<“You’re a confident man, Thamud. I could not doubt that this comes from your skill as a warrior, though I have only heard stories.”>

<“Is that why you came here, Sultana? The stories?”>

The shift in tone was rather sudden, but Najla was quick to adjust. Their subject was still somewhat heavy, but Thamud’s tone had turned slightly more teasing. Perhaps he was simply sick of speaking of the Servant, just as Najla was, and hoped to make the most of his time with this princess that seemed so fond of him. Perhaps he was aching to fight him as well, to test his luck, but even that would have to wait. As desperately as Najla wanted to have Thamud killed so she could be free of this chore, she’d have to close the negotiations beforehand.

<“Well, if the Al-Uba’yd cannot beat him, I would be wise to give up on that quest entirely.”> Najla replied with a slight hint of a smile, continuing before Thamud could answer. <“But no, I did not come here to entice such violence. I came to meet you, and to do what I can for your people.”>

With one comment, the conversation reverted back into negotiations. They kept their tones friendly, even teasing at times, and Najla spoke with little of the bite she’d had before. There were few other differences between the previous negotiations and this one however, for Najla found that Thamud was just as entrenched in his goal as before. He would not return the horses to the Banu Dunya, not without some payment for their loss, which would have been a grave insult if the villagers were forced to hand it over. Najla suspected he hoped she’d have the Sultan reach into his vast pockets to clear such a small issue, especially considering that it would have to be solved before the negotiations between both parties could even truly begin. It was not the large concession that her cousins Akbar and Zahira had assumed, though as Najla watched him speak, she knew it would get there quite soon. To her, that felt even more dangerous, a fool would ask for a princess outright, an intelligent man would see just how much the Sultan was willing to give before doing so. Unfortunately for Thamud, he was not intelligent enough to see how quickly it would be taken from him.

<“Thamud Khan, the Banu Dunya bring a great deal of trade to your people. The value of the horses could be reimbursed tenfold in this manner alone.”>

<“I am not so dependent on their trade that I am willing to give up the pride of my people.”>

Najla let out a soft sigh, before leaning back in the cushions slightly. Briefly, she allowed her eyes to close, as if thinking, preparing her words of concession. When she opened her gaze, she rested in on Thamud for a moment, his lips curled in the hint of a smile. <“You care for your people dearly, I see that. I have only been among the Al-Uba’yd briefly, but it has been enough for me to understand why. I would not ask your people to give up their dignity for anything.”> She ignored the growing expression of hope, or perhaps satisfaction, on Thamud’s face, continuing to speak as if she could not see it.

<“All I would ask is that you agree to return their horses when they arrive, and that you abandon your request for a Diya.”> He would not be able to obtain it anyways, Najla knew, for no property had been stolen from him. Perhaps he’d done it to insult the villagers or to extort someone in the Sultanate, likely her, but Najla didn’t care. She only knew that it would never be formally granted to him, and Thamud likely knew that as well, though clearly he did not care too much.

<“Then you are asking my people to abandon their dignity to those who call us thieves, Sultana.”>

They called you thieves because you stole from them.

It took far more willpower than she’d considered to keep from speaking those words, but Najla had made her silence doubly certain by raising her glass to take another sip of wine. Thamud was tiring to her, and this only made it harder to pretend as if she believed his lies. It would have been easier to speak with him if Ketill had not worn her nerves down to nothing earlier. The exhaustion hardly helped, she felt as if she’d barely given herself time to rest since the travel, and the endless amounts of wine and desert drinks were little pleasure under the heat of the sun. If anything, it was motivation to end the job before Thamud asked to strip another Sultana from the luxuries of the palace to rot here.

<“I am asking them to abandon nothing but a few horses. Do not force them to abandon more. You must realize, your request for a Diya will never be granted if you do not abandon it formally. It will only insult the Banu Dunya, who could halt their trade here.”>

<“I would not make a request if I thought it would not be granted. We cannot allow their insults to go unanswered.”>

<“Unfortunately, that is not what a Diya is for. It is meant to compensate stolen property, not pride. There is no judge of the Sawarimic law that could grant this request, even if they believed it to be justified.”>

Much of the subtlety in her voice had been lost, swept away by the dust and heat, stripped by Thamud’s endless arguing. It wasn’t as if it mattered, he was getting what he wanted anyways, and Najla doubted he would tell anyone. He’d be stupid to, a Diya would have to be shared otherwise.

<“But I am not a judge. Your request can still be granted, but I cannot do so unless it is formally renounced.”>

<“Sultana, this is assuming greed of us, this request is not of greed.”>

<“This is not an assumption Thamud, it is an option. You could still pursue this request, but negotiations will only be stalled to find you returning to the table empty-handed, and with two insulted parties facing you. You know what is best for your people, I only seek to accomplish that for you.”>

Though Thamud seemed taken aback by the sudden directness in her words, he would adjust quickly. Perhaps it was the victory that had done it, or the promise that he’d be granted the worth of two dozen horses for himself. Regardless, he would continue to press for some time, gently insisting that this request was only to heal a wounded pride, without ever outright refusing her offer. Najla had expected this, as exhausting as it was, for she knew he would not be able to accept so quickly without being turned into a liar in the Sultana’s eyes. She already believed him to be one, but now he knew her to be just as underhanded, so perhaps they had been made into equals. Finally, it seemed her directness has served her, and he agreed, to which Najla had to suppress a sigh of relief. It was a major task completed, and she would never have to continue the process of granting the Diya, at least, not unless her cousin picked up the request.

They would not seek to continue negotiations afterwards, nor would they resume talks of the Servant. Najla saw no reason to, Thamud had already made it apparent that he was somewhat eager to fight him, or at least curious enough to test his strength. Najla had encouraged this as subtly as she could, even going so far as to confide the secret of her betrothed’s bruises in him. It was hardly a secret, everyone in the palace knew of the incident, and Najla had little doubt that it had spread beyond. Osman would have been upset if he knew the words she was speaking, and furious if he knew the suggestions that had come along with it, the hints that she would be able to resist no man who could best the Servant. It was a lucky thing that he was in the capital then, for though she knew a flirtatious suggestion would not be enough for a man to risk his life in such a manner, she would not ask Thamud to risk his life. Instead, she’d watch as his words grew perpetually more brazen, pushing them as best as she could, until they would halt their conversation to prepare for the arrival of the Banu Dunya. It would only be tedious and tense, and Najla was just as grateful for the solitude Thamud’s deparature gave her as she was for the life he’d give her soon.

---

Despite the progress they made, the following day of negotiations felt just as tedious as the first. The Banu Dunya had brought a small delegation, their leader Ramzi, a man slightly younger than Najla’s father, though he was not quite a warrior yet. Only the Banu Dunya were surprised when Thamud told him he would return the horses without a Diya, as Najla knew he had conferred with his brothers before doing so. Zahira had told her, stating that Thamud knew it would never be granted, and they had decided to move past it in the spirit of forgiveness. It felt strange, for a thief to forgive their victim, but it suggested the beginning of the end here, and Najla was grateful for it. Yet while she believed the Banu Dunya to be the only ones surprised, a break in the negotiations would soon prove otherwise. As they tried to return to the tents, Zahira gripped Najla’s arm, whispering in her ear. It felt like a snake had coiled around her arm to hiss in her ear, though it looked like nothing but an affectionate grasp between cousins.

<“Salim says Thamud may fight.”>

<“Are you sure? He still had many reservations…”>

<“Yes, but only if it is till first blood. Salim was worried, he is trying to tell Thamud otherwise.”>

<“Are you going to let him?”>

<“Yes. My husband is a fool, he keeps telling Thamud that he does not have the Servant’s skill. How long do you think he’ll let that stand?”

Nothing in Najla’s conversation with Thamud could have brought about as much hope as Zahira’s final sentence. She would begin to respond, parting her lips to whisper in her cousin’s ear again, only for her words to halt in her throat. Basim stood some ways before them, speaking to another of Thamud’s brothers, but would quickly turn to walk towards the pair of women. Unwilling to risk her brother hearing, or even raise his curiosity about the nature of their gossip, Najla fell silent and nodded at her cousin. Thus, when Basim met them, there was nothing for him to interrupt, and his polite request to speak with Najla privately was granted easily, and she obliged, allowing her brother to escort her to her tent.

<“So what convinced Thamud to give up the Diya?”> Najla looked up at Basim in surprise, though a glance around their walking path proved there were none within earshot. Though it would seem as if she had little faith in her brother, it was an action born mostly of surprise, brought on by the sudden question.

<“Common sense, I’d say. He knew he’d never get it.”>

<“He didn’t know that yesterday.”> Something in Basim’s tone was off, and when Najla glanced up at him again, there was a slight frown on her face. Basim knew that she had met with Thamud privately, their talk had lasted quite a long time, after all. She had not tried to hide it from anyone, though she had not expected to be questioned as to the nature of their conversation in this way.

<“It took some convincing to make him see it, but at least now we can move forward with negotiations.”>

<“What convinced him?”>

<“I did.”>

Najla did not look up at her brother then, though she could feel his eyes on her. She did not know what answer he was seeking, or why he even cared as to this matter, but it was a line of questioning she wanted to end soon. While Najla usually held a near endless patience for his curiosity, this conversation was not a curious one.

<“Don’t worry, I didn’t offer him any of your cousins.”> Even this was not a full truth, she knew. They had not spoken on the subject directly, but they had hinted at cementing this friendship between the Al-Uba’yd and the Sultan even deeper. There were many ways to do so, but Najla’s playful tone had only left a few possible options. Thamud would not accept a Diya on its own, but it was not difficult to dangle a Sultana before these tribesmen. It was a sign of favor for the Sultan to grant his daughters and nieces to these tribal lords, and in terms of an indication of status, there were few to match it. <“He only wanted the Diya for now, thank God. That’s all he’s going to get.”>

<“I thought you said he wasn’t going to get anything. We had only negotiated for a day, don’t you think he would have given up eventually?”>

<“Perhaps, but I didn’t want to take that risk, not while the Banu Dunya are here. It’s tense as it is, imagine if they had come to hear that. Trust me Basim, this was the easiest route for everyone, and it’s not as if Uncle cannot afford it.”>

They fell silent as they neared the entrance to Najla’s tent, quieting themselves before the guards. While Najla had done so on purpose, Basim’s silence lingered a few moments longer even as he entered her tent behind her. Najla moved to remove her golden mask slowly, still staying silent, waiting for her brother to speak first.

<“Why did you bother to bring me then?”>

<“What?”> Whatever Najla had expected was weighing down on Basim’s mind, this had not been it. She had half-expected him to repeat the concerns about Ketill’s prayers, or even tell her that she’d gone back on her word, both issues she could have dealt with. This was unexpected, as was the slightly annoyed tone Basim found when he repeated himself.

<“Why bother to bring me? If you’re going to do all the work hidden away in your tent, I don’t see why you need me.”>

<“I thought you wanted to come.”>

<“Sure, but I don’t see why you wanted me to. You said you wanted to teach me, but you didn’t bother to tell me about this.”>

<“It’s not that I intended to give it to him, but as we began to speak, I realized it would be the most peaceful way. I am sorry, my blood, I did not hold this as a secret. But you have learned, and quickly. You’re doing quite well, they all respect you a great deal, and it will help us get to the end of the negotiations far faster. The next round of celebrations will be well-earned.”>

Again, there was another moment of silence, heavier than the one before. Their conversation had been tense, for though Najla was used to answering her brothers questions, she was not used to the tone he had asked them in. Something felt rather off about Basim, and Najla studied his expression for a brief moment before walking towards him.

<“Are you feeling well? It is rare to see you so quiet, I hope I have not upset you. I would make this right if I could.”>

<“No, I’m fine.”> Basim waved her off then, though when she looked up at him, she could see his lips curling up into a slight smile. It felt forced, but she would not have much longer to question it. <“I just need to rest, that’s all.”>

<“Go then. You will be speaking a great deal at the negotiations tonight, it will be vital.”> Clearly, Najla believed she knew why he was so upset. She hoped that by giving him a greater role in these negotiations, stepping back to allow more room for her brother, he would be sated in his role. It would not work, for Basim knew that these negotiations were far less vital than those she’d had with Thamud. Besides, it had been the mention of a celebration that had dulled his spirits even more, though Najla had not noticed this, still preoccupied with the issue of the Diya. Hopefully, Basim would understand, and she let out a soft sigh as he left her tent, as she was unable to do much else.

---

The next few days of negotiations had passed in a rather tedious manner, and had been spent carefully balancing egos between the two parties, though it was finally coming to a close. They had agreed upon the terms, Thamud would send the horses back with them, and upon her return to the capital, Najla would send him a Diya even greater than the one he’d asked for. At least, that’s what she had told him, though she did not know if it would ever reach him. It seemed Thamud had not told any of his family this, for Zahira had come to Najla, telling her of Salim’s complaints that Thamud had given in so easily. He had much to complain on, it seemed, and his wife relayed these to Najla in a cheerful tone, before asking for that which Najla had promised her.

<“I don’t know how you find this. I live in the desert it comes from, and yet I have had less luck.”>

<“You need to offer a higher price, cousin.”> Najla replied with a smile, handing her cousin the delicate bottle. It was too small to be a normal perfume bottle, dwarfed by their jeweled hands, though it held no markings that would clarify what it could be. Had they been accompanied by guards, they would have seen nothing but two women passing a strange perfume from one gilded hand to another. The pair were alone, however, and their words betrayed what their relaxed demeanor couldn’t.

<“So you won’t tell me?”>

<“And make my own blood pay for it? Whenever you need some, just ask, I will always be happy to gift it to you.”>

The knowing look on Zahira’s face proved that she had seen past her cousin’s words, but Najla would ignore this. She had not expected differently, after all. Zahira had always been older than her, already well-versed in the ways of the court just as Najla was finding her way, and so there were few tricks Najla could use that her cousin would be unaware of. Thus, despite the fact that she manipulated her words easily, far too quickly and without a change in tone, Zahira knew the truth. Najla would not reveal her source, even if she had no issue delivering the product itself.

<“Sa’am-e Soosk.”> Zahira spoke the Sawarim word for ‘Beetle’s poison’ as delicately as she held the vial, turning it over in between jeweled fingers. <“It takes a week, no?”>

<“It depends on the man. The larger he is, the longer it takes.”>

<“So your bear-”>

Najla smiled slightly, as if she already knew the joke, but quickly cut her cousin off. She was sick of speaking of Ketill, exhausted by his name and presence already, and it was only made worse with the knowledge that she had brought him here.

<“A year, perhaps.”> Her cousin’s grin quickly grew to match hers at that, but Najla continued to speak before Zahira could mention the Servant once more. <“But yes, for Thamud, I assume a week.”>

Zahira did not respond to that, and Najla watched as her cousin opened the vial. Her motions were careful, and almost excruciatingly slow, but finally, she lifted the vial to her nose and inhaled softly.

<“The smell is barely there, but it’s not a good one.”>

<”That’s good, it means it’s real beetle shit.”>

It was far rarer for Najla to speak crassly than it was for her cousin, so this comment was quick to elicit another grin from Zahira. It was clear that Zahira was somewhat familiar with the poison, even if she did not have access to it, but Najla had made certain she understood all that she could about it. They were made by crushing young beetles that feasted on the roots of plants used for perfumes, and so it was immensely difficult to obtain. First, a Sawarim had to be convinced to uproot a plant that would bring them continual profit, then they would have to hope to find a beetle at all, let alone some young enough to be suited for this purpose, and only then would the careful procedure of obtaining the poison from these beetles could begin. Rather than rely on such an unpredictable supply, Najla had found predictable people and rewarded them well, so long as these wares were never far from her reach. These people were precious to her, as dear as a friend would be, and it was partially by hiding their names that she sought to repay their services.

<“Will it be a painful death, do you think?”>

<“Yes.”>

Najla answered quickly, and though her tone made it so that she was stating a fact, it also betrayed that it was an unfortunate one. She knew Zahira would continue to ask, but rather than explain herself, Najla watched as her cousin wrapped a fabric around her hand to close the bottle delicately. The silence made the brief moment feel far tenser than necessary, so that Najla exhaled in relief when Zahira managed to close the bottle without issue.

<“Well, how much more painful than an infection will it be? I do not want it to be suspicious.”>

<“Do not worry cousin. If it did not mimic an infection so well, I would have brought another weapon. He will feel the Djinn’s grasp at his wound, as if he is becoming trapped within his own flesh, but to your healer and his family, it will look like the wound or fever has taken him. So long as your healer does her job, and keeps quiet.”>

She spoke of the poison as a weapon the same way her father would speak of a sword or axe. Her actions were far less honorable. Najla seemed to feel some the weight of this knowledge, though perhaps not heavily enough to halt herself. It was necessary. Other poisons could kill him painlessly and with little delay, but this was the best way to avoid suspicion. Her tone was matter-of-fact, with little care as to the harshness of her words. Regardless of the cruelty of the act itself, Najla was breaking no Qawanin, and so her God could not be displeased with her.

<“She is mine to deal with, have faith in me. Between the Mother, your….supplier, and the two of us, there is no one who would know.”>

<“Osman knows.”> Najla replied quickly. It should not have been a necessary name to mention, for there should have been no fear that her lover would speak. But what ‘should’ have been was not always the truth. Zahira already knew that Osman was displeased with Najla’s actions, and though she had not dared tell her cousin the extent of it, she had told her more than most. The reason would be clear when Zahira replied, she held none of the surprise or anger Najla’s siblings would have held, though perhaps she would have if Najla had removed her bracelets. She treated the matter as she had all their previous intimate gossip throughout the years, and it seemed Najla would have it no other way.

<“He seemed in better spirits when he came to say farewell, I assumed he had come to terms with the situation.”>

<“He’s still not pleased, but he’s accepted it. Otherwise, I suppose I wouldn’t be here.”>

<“Liar.”> Zahira replied. Najla returned her cousin’s grin with a softer smile, suddenly very aware of how the necklaces pressed into the bruising on her neck. <“Osman has grown too used to women like Elif, but he will remember that you are not her. Either that or you will remind him. Then all will be as it was.”>

That comment was enough to reel Najla’s thoughts back in, and she let out an amused exhale, not quite a giggle or laugh. She had very little knowledge of how Osman treated Elif, whether he would ever speak to her or bruise her in the manner he had done to Najla. His wife had likely never given him a reason to. Regardless, she knew that Osman could not have grown too used to Elif, or else he would not have returned to Najla’s chambers as often as he did.

<“If you are right, then I hope he remembers soon. I can think of no other way to remind him, and I will only grow weary if my husband always intends to be so difficult. Is it easier to keep them ignorant? So far as I know you have never sought to inform Salim as to your ways.”>
<“I've never had to. There's nothing out here but sand, there's hardly even a secret to keep. He did question me once, some rumor that came from the palace about something I did before our marriage. I don’t remember about what, I suppose it didn’t matter. I told him what I knew would ease him, and he has not spoken of it since that night.”>

<“What words eased him so easily?”>

<“Any would have quieted him. I could have spoken nonsense, men will believe anything if they’re distracted the right way. You know this, and from the way Elif looks at you, she knows as well.”>

<“What does she know? That she’s about to compete with a Sultana, or that she already is?”>

<“The latter, if Osman remains by your side as often as you say. She cannot be as daft as Ammar’s wife is.”>

It was lucky that Zahira should have made such a comment, for rather than focus on her troubles with Osman, or try and seek more advice from her cousin, they could turn to gossip quickly. Their sentences were now punctuated with laughter as they discussed their cousin’s new wife, making light of the poor girl’s excuses for the nights Ammar spent within the clutches of the harem. The stresses of the task ahead were forgotten within this gossip, and they would only be reminded of it briefly when the pair was finally interrupted. As the entrance of the tent began to move, Najla quickly glanced over to watch Zahira hide the vial they’d so easily forgotten about in the folds of her dress. When her eyes reverted to the door, it was Basim’s image that entered, approaching the pair as if he was interrupting their gossip in the gardens at home. He had shown little desire to speak to Najla after their last tense conversation, though he was smart enough not to try and show this in public. Not even Zahira had noticed, for Basim spoke pleasantly before them. Najla had noticed however, enough that she was rather surprised at his presence.

<“I didn’t mean to interrupt, it sounded important.”>

<“It was. We’re betting on which of the harem girls Kalila’s going to find first.”>

Basim let out a soft chuckle at his cousin’s response, taking a few steps towards the pair. <“You’re just wasting a chance to rest then.”>

<“Aren’t you supposed to be resting too? They’re going to be signing the pact tomorrow, do you have any idea how much of that snake venom you’re going to have to drink again?”>

<“I’ve got some idea.”> Basim replied, still smiling. He seemed much more like his usual self, though Najla wondered if the distance had been bridged because of Zahira’s presence. It would be answered shortly however, for Basim was quick to clarify his presence. <“I’m about to go rest, I just wanted to talk to my sister for a few moments before. I didn’t mean to interrupt.”>

<“You aren’t. We’re-”> She glanced over at Najla for confirmation, at which she nodded. <“We’re done here. I suppose I should find Salim.”> Zahira began to push herself off the cushions, and Basim rushed forward, quickly offering his hand to help her stand. It was a movement the princes of the Sultanate learned under the sharp tongues of their mothers and sisters who expected such treatment. Yet the awkward way Basim held out his hand would make anyone believe he did so out of free will rather than any sort of conditioning. Najla watched as Zahira took his hand softly, the other clutching a fistful of her skirts, hiding a vial in her hand and the fabrics. Salim was not going to see his wife for some time, they had other tasks to accomplish. The celebrations were beginning tomorrow, and many were itching for it, tired of the tense few days the negotiations had brought on. Though they had not forgotten the horror of the last celebration, there were still many who itched to test their strength against Ketill, Thamud included.

<“I can’t tell you how well you did, Basim.”> Najla began to speak immediately after Zahira left, smiling kindly at her brother. She had not asked why he had been so distant the past few days, assuming that the tense negotiations had only put an even greater strain on him. <“You were clever, confident, much better than I was the first time. I knew I was right to bring you.”>

<“Thanks.”> Basim’s voice was somewhat softer, and he plopped himself across from Najla, almost precisely where Zahira was sitting before. <“It wasn’t that hard to pick up, honestly.”>

<“Don’t start bragging now.”> Najla teased, her smile widening at her own remarks. <“Just because you’re a natural doesn’t mean it was so easy for all of us.”>

Basim chuckled softly as that, though he did not seem too moved by her praise. She had not expected him to be now, for she knew there was a reason he had come to speak to her. Najla would quickly seek to know the reason why, eager to be able to rest before the next day.

<“So what was it you wished to speak with me about?”>

<“I heard Thamud’s going to fight.”> The answer came suddenly, and Najla raised an eyebrow at that, surprised at the fact that Basim knew, and curious as to how he had found out. It seemed he had misinterpreted her expression as surprise, a lucky thing, she supposed. <“I don’t know for sure,”> He added hastily, <“His brothers were just talking about it to me, they were asking about what he was like during training.”>

<“What did you tell them?”>

Basim just shrugged at that. <“The truth, I guess. Are you going to let him?”>

<“I have no control over Thamud. If he wishes to fight Ketill, he will.”>

<“You control Ketill, he doesn’t have to fight him.”>

Najla hesitated for a moment then, but she knew her brother well, and as such, believed she knew what was troubling him. She was not entirely wrong, it seemed, though she was not quite as close as she believed.

<“You’re worried about the violence? Don’t worry, Thamud will not fight him until his death. Ketill can kill any man who tries to kill him. Thamud is not going to try to kill him, they will only fight until first blood.”>

<“But you’re still going to make Ketill kill the others?”>

<“If they try to kill him, he can kill them. Is that not fair?”>

There was little for Basim to disagree with there, it seemed, but their conversation would not cease. It seemed Basim was still uncomfortable with the violence they’d have to show, but there was little he could do beyond it. He would not ask Thamud not to fight, and Najla would not be convinced to ask Ketill not to fight. They would face each other the next day, it seemed, regardless of how many of the Al-Uba’yd fretted at the thought. Though Basim did not leave entirely satisfied, Najla was simply satisfied that he had left. Zahira would douse Ketill’s weapon in the poison, Thamud would seek to test his strength, and in a week, the Al-Uba’yd would have a new leader.

---

Their final full day with the Al-Uba’yd felt much like the first night, though it was a far longer process. With both their prides satisfied, the Banu Dunya and Al-Uba’yd had finalized their pact, and would finally be able to break bread together once more, a celebration their people had prepared for some time. As before, they settled under the canopy at night, Najla and Basim between the leaders of the Al-Uba’yd and the Banu Dunya, indulging far more than they had the first night. If there were men brave enough, they’d be allowed to challenge the Servant, but Najla could not have cared less about any of them. They were peasants, either too drunk or too proud, none of their deaths would help her. Instead, she continued to distract herself by drinking, indulging in a luxury she hated, chatting with men she did not particularly like, up until the main event. Finally, she approached Ketill.

Thamud was preparing under the canopy still, talking excitedly to his brothers, as if he was not about to face death. He was not drunk, only eager, and Najla would have lamented this fact if she cared to. Thamud would die regardless, it did not matter what he drank before.

“Ketill.” She spoke his name with that thick accent as ever, though there was little softness in it now. Najla had not come to see him since their last conversation, and her tone would leave little question as to why. She was still rather angry with him, and her eyes narrowed over that golden mask as she spoke to him, though the guards that flanked her would not see this. “No need to spit insults, I just wished to tell you that this would be your last task here. We will leave tomorrow.”

She glanced over to see Thamud walking towards the fire, knowing that the Sawarim were likely going to begin the ritual again soon. Once more, she’d have to give Ketill her blessing to fight, though this time, it would not be to kill. It was clear however, that there was more she wished to say to him. Najla had never been concerned with telling Ketill his duties, nor warning him about travel, only with having him accomplish whatever task she asked of him. Surely, this time would be no different.

“He will not try to kill you, this fight will be to first blood only. If you can manage not to kill him, I promise you a horse for the journey back to the capital. If not, there will be no punishment.” She glanced at Thamud again, and it seemed Najla knew she had run out of time as she looked up at Ketill once more. She did not care to control her voice before, knowing that none of the tribesmen could speak Ketill’s tongue, but now, she spoke somewhat more softly. It indicated far more about the nature of her words than who she was worried would hear, though she would not explain herself much further.

“By no means should you touch your own blade. Understood? Now come, they’re ready to start.”

@persianversion

ℰxpedition for the ℬanner of St. ℱriedrich

After the fight, Ketill had been brought to the healer’s tent. Although he did not quite need the medical attention, it was a welcome luxury. The woman, old and stern, had asked him to lay down, but Ketill had refused, instead sitting on a cushion and crossing his legs, sitting directly in front of the tent. The festivities continued outside, but something seemed to have dimmed the voices of the men and women now – something that Ketill was quite sure he had caused. And though stern the woman may have been, she did not dare ask him to lay down again, and instead sat down behind him, beginning to clean the wound of the raking axe that the man had left behind before his death. It was one of the few wounds, and wasn’t dangerous whatsoever, but making the trek back to the capital with an opened wound was probably on the bottom of Ketill’s wishlist.

The process did not take long this time, when compared to the lashings he had received before. Her hands moved over the scars that had been left there, but she made no remarks, seemingly understanding that this was common place for slaves, especially those with Ketill’s nature. A regular house slave was often free of scars, or they were placed in places harder to see. After all, nothing was less prestigious than having a beaten and trampled slave. But Ketill was not a houseslave, nor a working slave. He was… somewhat special in that regard. She mumbled something under her breath about this ‘’Daab’’ in her tent, but Ketill did not speak up, merely looking at the tent flap that offered entry to the tent, looking at the flickering of shadows coming from the people around the fire.

This continued while the woman patched Ketill up, becoming more bold in her mumbling when she found out that Ketill wasn’t particularly dangerous on his own as long as she didn’t purposefully taunt him. Never the less, she seemed wary of him, and with good reason.

---

The next day, Ketill found himself waking up in the tent again. He got up, and looked around, finding himself alone, the woman having gone somewhere else for the time being. Cautiously he stepped towards the tent flap, and opened it with his hand, holding it up and peeking outside, finding two guards standing there. Brazenly he opened the tent further and stepped out, and only when he stood nearly next to the guards did they stop him. <‘’Go back!’’> one yelled, pushing his hand onto Ketill’s chest.

‘’There is no escape from here,’’ Ketill said, looking at the man. ‘’No horse, no water, only desert. I can’t escape. Let me go,’’

<‘’Back!’’> the man yelled again, pushing Ketill harder. His companion even went as far as to put his hand on his sword, perhaps as a threat or a preparation for when Ketill struck out.

<‘’Not so loud,’’> the same man hissed at his friend, who was yelling quite loudly. <‘’We were told to keep him here, not to yell loudly and show everyone that we can’t control him with our swords. Not after our Sultana has shown them his power. May the Sawarim rest that man’s soul.’’>

<‘’How else will we keep him here? This dog can’t even speak our language.’’>

‘’I’ll go back. Bring me water,’’ Ketill then demanded, before repeating the word in their tongue. <‘’Water.’’> This surprised the two guards, but the surprise quickly left their eyes. After all, you did not live in the desert for years on end without learning the Sawarimic word for water. That would be as much a death sentence as traveling alone without a horse. The guards nodded, and Ketill was satisfied. He then stepped back into the tent and sat down on the cushion again, crossing his legs while staring at the tent flap, waiting for his ‘order’ to arrive.

But, his order never arrived. Instead, the healer arrived back into the tent and started working on some things, ignoring Ketill for the most part. Not much later a new face arrived in the tent, one that Ketill had assumed wanted to stay as far away from a place like this as possible. It was coincidentally also the one face he did not want to see today, but much to his demise, it seemed that one of the gods enjoyed tormenting him with her presence. It was well known that some of the Gods had a cruel sense of humour, after all. She talked to the healer for some time, and after that discussion had ceased, the healer left. Najla then turned to him, and spoke his name. Ever the Sultana, Ketill thought, the way she spoke his name being nothing like how it was meant to sound. To her credit, most of the Broacieniens could not mimick the Northerners proper pronunciation, but to hear a Sawarim speak it had always been something of an annoyance to him. No attempt was made to even convey an attempt to do it properly, instead it was just assumed that they were speaking it the correct way, and if it was not the correct way before, then it would be so now.

He did not have the strength to argue with it, however.

Though perhaps she had expected him to stand up for her presence, he would make no such attempts, and nor did he look up to see her face, instead opting to simply look at the area between her crotch and her stomach. Although he knew that Najla never visibly reacted to him looking at her regardless, he did not want to appear like a lesser at this time. He would’ve not had any problems looking at her from the ground beforehand, but after last night’s performance, he felt like that score had been settled. She would have to acknowledge him as more than merely a slave at this point if she wanted his continued cooperation. Temporary continued cooperation. Until whatever event the ravens had signalled occurred and he could take her life.

As always, she started a discussion that had no real relation to what she wanted from him. He had grown accustomed to it by now, and had even been able to learn that this was likely something she had done in her time as Saina, too. To talk about things that did not matter in order to obtain things that did matter. Hollow her words may have been, Ketill decided to engage with them, as silence would no longer win him the battles like they could have done before.

‘’Your blood had no influence on the fight,’’ he said, subconsciously touching a slice on his left arm with his hand. ‘’These are tribal men, I have fought against them before, under different circumstances. They were scary then, always appearing and disappearing, throwing spears and jarids at us, shooting their arrows, before disappearing in the dunes.’’ Momentarily he recalled the vision he had during the early hours of the festivities the previous night, but he decided not to think about them, because they’d probably give him a headache. ‘’But one on one, they are pitiful excuses for soldiers. Your brother fights better. I don’t know why you made me train for this.’’

During his answer, she had sat down under the guidance of a guard, who took up a position next to her while the other guard stood between them. She was wise to be careful, but not wise enough to see that Ketill had no intention of harming her here. After all, he wanted her to suffer like she’d made him suffer. Killing her in front of some guards and peasants was hardly suffering. She’d see her family burn before that. That was suffering.

But he was now forced to look at her, as it would seem dishonest and unlike him to look away now. So he engaged in that confrontation too, staring at her eyes, ignoring her disinterested look. Although she asked suddenly, Ketill had predicted the topic already – there was no real other reason to speak to him so soon after the fight. ‘’Yes,’’ he answered to her question. There was no other suitable answer. ‘The fire was there, and the man had to die. It was the easy option. Or would you rather that I had chased him around the camp a few more times? You wanted a show, right, to show your tamed brute? You got your show. Leave me alon-’’

She would not heed his demand, instead coming forth with another argument as to the burning of his target. She appealed to her God, but did not seem to think that Ketill had nothing to do with that God. As if all those inside the desert would follow Sawarimic law. Perhaps he would be subject to their punishments, but he did not feel like he was obligated to follow the laws. ‘’The title of Sultana is ordained by the Sawarim, no? And you blessed me in order to fight that man, no? Then is my act of burning him not an act of God, or otherwise an act of someone supposedly in Gods’ favour?’’

Her continuation of this argument earned a pained sigh from Ketill, who did not follow her train of thoughts as well as he could have before. She assumed there was purpose in his actions and although admittedly he burned the man in order to give the ‘show’ that she had sought, he did not do it because he thought himself a God. He did not answer her anymore, instead picking at a scab on his leg with his fingers, occupying himself while he stared at Najla with his hollow eyes, expecting her to give meaning to the words, but finding none.

She did not take long to continue, seemingly understanding she would receive nothing from Ketill when it came to this subject any longer. Ketill found her too entrenched in her beliefs that he did this on purpose, and even Ketill himself wasn’t quite sure if he did it out of spite towards the Sawarim, or for pragmatism. Instead, she brought up his personality and the events that formed him. Something he didn’t want to talk about. Instead he listened to her, once more attempting to find meaning in her words, attempting to see why she was talking to him about this. It was not as if this mattered.

The answer to her question was simple, but he did not answer it yet, instead letting her ramble about her own life. Her comment about slitting her throat when she was given to him earned a grin. ‘’If only the Gods had been so kind to me, Saina,’’ he answered to that comment, unsure if she heard or not, uncaring about that fact too. It wasn’t a loose remark either, wishing death upon her. More so it was based upon the knowledge that he’d be dead or in Broacien if she had never shown up.

When she was about to leave, she spoke about his reasons for sustaining himself again, claiming to know why he did what he did. Regardless of what she thought, he would answer her before she could leave. Although the reality was that he purely sustained himself as an innate survival instinct, he would answer differently. ‘’I sustain myself because I can,’’ he said, putting his elbow on his knee and resting his head on his head now, seemingly tired of the discussion. ‘’You sustained yourself because I made you do so. I protected you at every turn, believing in your capability to become useful. To pull your weight. Had I known you were a Sultana earlier, then I wouldn’t have accepted you as my slave. You are too weak. You can never become useful. Perhaps here you fulfil some use as the whore of the court, sent here to solve the issues with tribals, like there is no better way to spend your time. But I thought you were a merchants’ daughter, so you could cook, wash, perhaps maths. Things I cannot do.’’

He stared at Najla more intently now, looking her up and down, not seeing her as a superior at that moment, gawking at her like some man in a tavern. ‘’But no, even that, you cannot do. Too weak to survive and thrive on your own. Pampered.’’ When he was done staring at her, he leaned back and let himself fall onto a cushion behind him, in an attempt to annoy her with his lack of respect for her authority as a Sultana.

‘’But even that is a half answer, and we both know that,’’ he spoke, putting his hands behind his head, further increasing his lack of respect for her. ‘’We both know what I want. It’s something you cannot give me and never will give me. But…’’

He stayed silent for a few seconds, enough to make her begin to leave if she wished, but not enough for her to leave the tent in full. He then veered up again and sat up straight, locking eyes with her immediately. ‘’In truth, I sustain myself for the Raven.’’ He looked at her in silence for a few more seconds before he grinned at her, and then let himself fall backwards. It seemed like last night had not done well for his attitude towards his master, but what had she expected? His hatred had been given space and release to fester and grow stronger, and it would almost seem that there was nothing she could do right when it came to Ketill – if she killed him she’d lose a valuable tool. If she let him live, she would live her days looking over her shoulder whenever she was around. There was no winning.

Only loss.

When she was about to step out, he’d speak up once more, and after that he’d finally give her time to leave in full. ‘’As for the man that was killed – perhaps you believe it to be my fault, but I did it in your name. If these tribals think ill of anyone now, it will be you, whether you see that or not. You let me do it, after all. You gave me the blessing that I needed to fight.’’

She disappeared afterwards, and Ketill was left to rest, lazing about on the cushions, until new guards came to fetch him. That was a real surprise, as he had expected Najla to be quite angry with him for the rest of the day – or even week.

---

When he was escorted into the tent, he was surprised to find the younger prince, Basim. Once again it seemed like Basim was going to pester him with questions, which Ketill would answer only because he felt like it. Basim gestured him to the water, waving him away like some nobleman rather than a slave, which was a welcome change in attitude. Ketill was surprised, but quickly adjusted, nodding quickly and stepping towards the water, taking a cup of wood and filling it with a ladle, before drinking the entire cup empty in a matter of seconds.

He placed the cup on the table again and then stepped back to the tent flap, waiting for an order or command. But, rather, he was faced with another question, which was not unexpected either. The subject was not, either, but was much more annoying to Ketill than Basim might have assumed. Then again, Basim likely didn’t know that Najla had interrogated him not long ago either.

‘’It was a clean kill,’’ the stern voice of Ketill answered, the annoyance audible within. ‘’That you do not understand that is not my fault. I am not Sawarim. I have nothing to do with your laws. Punish me if you wish, prince, but you will not have my apologies, just like your sister didn’t get them. Or would you rather that I had let him crawl around while he was on fire for a while longer? I ended his suffering. He fought well, but not good enough.’’ When he spoke the word ‘prince’ it almost sounded mocking, as if Ketill didn’t really believe such a meagre man to be fit for the title of prince. This was mostly because Ketill was annoyed with discussing this subject multiple times, especially since Basim didn’t seem to understand, just like his sister hadn’t.

‘’And speaking about your sister, I find it remarkable that both you and her wish to discuss this with me. She ordained me to fight. She didn’t tell me how to fight.’’

Basim’s next remarks didn’t make it any better. ‘’Be that as it may, I killed under her orders. And unlike you, I did not have a chance to decline coming here. I did what I was told to do. I am a tool to be used at her discretion. You seem to not understand something, prince.’’ Although he did not use the word prince mockingly now, he was still somewhat talking down to the boy, as if he was lecturing him. But how couldn’t he – Basim asked him to explain, and so he did.

‘’You seem to view your sister as a woman with remarkable morals. I advise you to get rid of that vision soon. I am here to do her bidding – everything I do, I do in her name. So when I burned that man, I did it as her tool. Now, do her morals still seem to be as good, then? To think that I am here to scare some tribal nobodies into submission?’’ He asked the question not really expecting an answer, and even if he did receive one, it would be a lie, because Ketill realized full well that Najla was well-liked within her family.

‘’It would not surprise me, prince, if you are here purely because she saw a use for you, either. You may be her family, and she may see you as more than a tool, but that is what you are to her ultimately,’’ he continued, looking Basim in the eyes. He was dead serious now, and seemed to have gotten over his annoyance with the topic, instead getting to talk about the reality of the situation as he saw it. ‘’Though I doubt she brought you here to fight tribals like I did. Maybe just to seem smart. That’s what you are good at. Whatever it is – you’re here for a reason more than being her brother.’’

Basim then continued to inform him about having to fight again – which was not at all surprising. Why else would she bring him here. To kill a peasant? Some nobody? Impressive as the fight may have been, Najla was smart enough to realize this would hardly be enough to get what she wanted. Because there was an ulterior motive here. Ketill did not react, but even if he had, he wouldn’t have had the time to utter a word, as Basim was quick to continue with something that pressed his mind more heavily. It showed that despite his calm demeanour now, he was eager to ask and tell more. A bit predictable, perhaps. A welcome change from Najla, who did and did not as she pleased.

‘’I did not know she prayed, or wanted to do so. She never told me. I also never forbade her from doing so. Perhaps she did not understand. I never knew she was a Sultana, as she told me she was a merchants’ daughter. I knew she was Sawarim – she did not convert. If she had converted, I would have released her. I would have refused to have a Monarchist as a slave. The only reason I kept her then, even as a Sawarim, was because she was given to me as a gift.’’

His expression was not very expressive at that point, and it would be hard to pinpoint how he felt about this – if anything, he was telling cold hard truths, facts that could not be contested. Or at least, that’s how it’d sound. For Najla, there would’ve been enough reason to doubt what he would have done. Ketill watched as Basim moved around, stepping to the water now after exchanging words with his guard, who seemed upset that Basim was so carelessly approaching the Daab al-Broacien.

‘’Regardless, I would have let her pray,’’ he answered his question. ‘’Does that strike you as strange, prince? That I am not so savage as to denounce her God as invalid? It should strike you strange. In this desert, the only God that exists is Sawarim, and anything else is uncivilized, is it not?’’

After his answer, Basim revealed his secret, showing the Monarchist cross. Ketill’s eyes flashed at the sight of it, but not because of gratitude. His hand curled into a fist as he struggled to stop himself for walking over there and grabbing Basim by the neck to chastise him for being so foolish.

‘’You’re a fool to bring that here,’’ Ketill answered, not yet walking to the cross in favour of waiting for the guard to relax. ‘’Are you trying to get me killed, prince? Because I can assure you there are more efficient ways of doing that, like stabbing me between the ribs.’’ He sissed the words between his teeth. He wasn’t sure if he was angry, annoyed, or both at the prince. He understood what the prince had done – to do him a favour – but he did not expect the prince to be so ruthless as his sister. He had expected the young boy to be kind hearted and thoughtful, careful and thorough in his deeds. Not so brash as a young horse that did not understood the dangers of crossing a deep river yet. ‘’Not only are you endangering us both, it is without reason too, prince. You are two years too late. The Monarch is not real, and if he is, he is dead at the hands of my Gods. This cross is little more than wood for the fire to me.’’

He glanced at the guard, who seemed to still be inspecting Ketill, and relaxed slightly, realizing that being uptight only made things worse. ‘’You are young, prince, and you are eager to learn. So allow me to show you why you are a fool.’’ Without even thinking about it, he stepped closer, and extended his hand towards the prince with an open palm, as if expecting an item. ‘’Give me your dagger.’’

Though the guard might have raised some qualms about this, Basim would undoubtedly hand over the dagger, which Ketill would take and then step back, offering some space to calm the guard. He unsheathed the dagger and raised it, putting up his other hand for the prince to see. ‘’This is Audrun,’’ he explained, before putting the tip of the dagger on the back of his hand, before carefully carving a figure in it, deep enough to draw blood but not deep enough to cause lasting damage. The rune was not sharp, and was made with an unsteady hand, and represented little more than the idea of Audrun in Ketill’s head. But it would have to be enough for Basim – he did not understand anyway, and could not see the glaring imperfections in the rune.

Once Ketill was done, he wiped the dagger on his pants, and sheathed it again, before wiping the back of his hand on his pants as well. He inched closer to Basim, and extended both hands, one holding the dagger, the other showing the back of his hand, the rune now somewhat more clear without the blood covering it. ‘’He is the All-father and rules over man. He has a wife, and many sons and daughters, who are infinite and continue to be birthed. He is wise and knows all wisdoms of men, because the ravens fly for him and spy for him. He did not create us, but he is certainly involved in the shaping of man. See it as… a herbalist mixing ingredients.’’

The explanation was somewhat vague, especially as it had been a while since Ketill had spoken to a seer or seiðsmann to teach him the stories of old. But again, Basim would not know this, and had little reason to doubt him.

‘’He is the one that guides me, and his wife and children,’’ he then said, looking at the cross before pulling back his hands after Basim had grabbed his dagger again. ‘’So you understand why this cross is meaningless, and is not worth anything except a threat to my life,’’ he said slowly then, to make sure that Basim understood, before adding, ‘’.. and yours, of course. They may not kill you for having this, but they will remove you from the eye of the public. You will be an outcast, a sympathizer of the Monarchists. For no reason other than your stupidity.’’

Slowly Ketill stood back, and walked towards the water, taking the ladle and splashing some water over his hand. He put the ladle back and quickly grabbed the cross, hiding it inside his pants, after which he pretended to wipe his hand on them again to avoid drawing the eye of the guard. ‘’So I will take care of this, because I do not trust you enough to get rid of it completely. And you will not speak a word of anything I told you in this tent to anyone. Especially Saina – or Najla, as you know her. You are lucky that the Sawarim guards are dumb as oafs, and do not speak my language. I will leave now, and you’ll forget I ever visited. For your own sake and mine.’’

He looked at Basim with a serious expression then, before he bowed his head lightly to please the guard. Basim would have to be really stupid to believe that he did so to honor him, since he knew Ketill and his personality by now. But the guards were easily fooled. They still believed that a sword could control the Daab one day, if they tried hard enough.

Ketill was returned to the healers’ tent, where he sat down again, this time with his a hand inside the pocket of his pants, holding on to the cross. He figured there were numerous ways to get rid of it – he could just dump it somewhere and hope nobody found it. Burying it underneath the healer’s tent was likely the most suitable option, but he could also plant it in someone’s belongings. If he didn’t know better, he would have planted it in Najla’s items, but there was little to gain from that. She could have explained the cross as being something she received from a tribal here as an offering for her to burn, or something. The lie she would tell wouldn’t even need to make sense – none would question her as a sultana. With Basim it was little different, though Ketill thought he lacked the subtle nature Najla held, and he would be unable to lie effectively.

But, in the end, Ketill decided to just dig a hole. He began digging with his hands, pushing aside the loose sand at first before he reached the more coarse, thicker sand that was underneath, damp from the water of the nearby oasis. It wasn’t much more wet, but it made the digging a little bit easier. He pushed the cross into a hole and pushed the same back to where it came from, making sure to make it look smooth as he could so that nobody would suspect a thing. Now, the only thing that could betray him was Basim.

---

@Odin

ℰxpedition for the ℬanner of St. ℱriedrich

Najla’s exhaustion might have kept her eyes closed until the heat of the desert was at its worst, but she would find no such luck. She would not awaken as she normally did, at her own leisure and in her own bed, but at the soft touch of a slave. The feeling of a hesitant hand on her shoulder roused Najla, and she awoke to find herself without any of the comforts of home, on a bed that offered her little of the relief her own did. When her eyes snapped open, she felt the hand draw back quickly, as if her awakening had burned her.

<“Forgive me Sultana. I tried to rouse you, but you would not wake. You asked me to-”>

<“It’s alright.”> Najla’s mumbled words cut through the girl’s worried words, and when she looked up at her, she could see that her head was bowed, her eyes not on Najla, but on the ground beneath them. She would not have much time to recover from the haze of sleep, Najla found, for her tired eyes suddenly widened, and a hand snapped up to her neck, only to find it covered by a tangled mess of hair. Her haste had left her bruised wrist exposed, but the girl’s eyes were firmly on the ground, and Najla let out a silent exhale in relief before hiding her wrist again.

<“Is my brother awake?”>

<“I don’t know, Sultana.”>

<“Make sure he is. Get a guard to wake him, if he is not already. Go now, I’ll ready myself.”>

The slave girl bowed her head, and Najla would not move to rise until the girl had ducked under the flap of the tent, the movement exposing a small beam of light before it was hidden once more. Najla gave herself little time to adjust to the morning, forcing herself to stand up and walk towards a bowl of water that had been laid out for her. She washed her face quickly, ridding it of sleep and sand alike, before moving to dress herself. Najla had allowed no slave to help her since the incident with Osman, for though there were those few she had entrusted to witness their relationship, she did not trust any enough for this. Once again, the marks were covered with gold, and her circlet was settled atop a sheer white cloth that covered the short scar the night before had left. Once more, she donned the golden mask her cousin had gifted her, and once she was satisfied that she was only showing what she wanted to, Najla went to wake her brother.

It seemed the slave girl had done her job, though the poor girl had only done it as best as she could. When Najla entered the tent, she saw her brother still seated on the cushions, a cup of water settled in his hand. Basim looked quite disheveled, especially in comparison to the sister who stood before him, perfectly put together and smiling in amusement.

<“You overestimated yourself.”>

<“Shut up.”>

Najla’s amusement only grew with that, and she was still smiling as she continued to speak. <“Drink your water. Throw up now if you need to, I won’t have you running off in the middle of breakfast to do it.”>

<“I’ll be fine, I’ve drank before. Can you leave?”>

<“If you’re annoyed with my talking now, you’re going to hate the negotiations.”>

She’d leave him to his headache then, though she would not move to join Thamud quite yet. Instead, she found Zahira in her tent, alone, where she had stayed behind as her husband went to breakfast. They would join, yet not before a final bit of business was accomplished.

<“These negotiations are going to be pointless, you know that. We’re going to argue with Thamud all day, until the Banu Dunya come, then we’re going to listen to them argue with him. Can’t you just ask Thamud for the Servant’s head and be done with it? Tell him you’ll trade your cunt for it.”>

Najla grinned at Zahira’s crass words, more amused by how rapidly her cousin had accustomed herself to the tribesmen than she was by the words themselves. They both knew the complaining was useless, they had come here to do the negotiations after all, even if Thamud would only be a barrier until his death. Beyond that, neither of them were quite so certain that any would dare to face the Servant after they watched one of their warriors burn the night before. She could promise whatever parts of her she wanted, it would hardly be worth a man’s life.

Nothing was worth that. Najla would never forget that night. Even now, she recalled the horror vividly, remembering the way she’d watched with wide eyes as Ketill strode under the canopy, blood dripping from his body and axe. She’d never seen a man nor beast so dedicated to bloodshed, so hungry for a kill, and then, she felt as if she’d remember little else from that night. Ketill had sought to prove her wrong, as he so liked to do, and had succeeded.

She’d watched with revulsion as he pressed the man’s face to the fire, and if she had been able to look away, Najla would have seen the same on the faces of the audience. The screams of the man had reverberated through the empty desert, echoed by the wails of his widow, and yet, Najla felt as if she could hear nothing but the lick of the flames. She forced herself to choke down a wave of nausea, though it rose dangerously in her throat, listening as the screams were replaced with a roar, and a name she’d heard once before. When it was all over, she’d speak briefly to the guards, ordering them to escort Ketill to the healer immediately, but those words were all she’d be able to say for some time. It was only as the noise of the camp had risen that Najla was able to join her voice to it once more, without the burden of a man’s burnt corpse on her expression. Even now, her words were still light, her smile remained, and yet the memory lingered.

<“I do not know why you are so eager to see me become a whore. Even if I were to do such a thing, Thamud is no longer fool enough to fall for it. At least not so deeply that he will risk burning to obtain it.”>

<“I don’t believe that. You know what they say, a honeyed tongue and a gentle hand could lead a wild horse by a hair.”>

The old saying made Najla’s grin widen, for it was a saying past their time. She recalled her mother repeating it to her, when she had tried to teach her the courtesies of a lady. It would be repeated to her more as she grew older, though when her cousins spoke those words, it typically had a meaning quite unrelated to courtesy. Regardless, Najla was not too worried about whether Thamud would fight Ketill. It would be the easiest way to dispose of him, but it was not the only way.

<“If it is necessary to kill him, I will, without fail. Do not worry cousin, and do not go offering me to tribesmen so soon. I promised you I could begin this process, so long as you are able to finish it.”>

It had been simple enough, though carefully coordinated so that no suspicions had been aroused. Najla had obtained the tools to end Thamud’s life, having brought the Servant if she found Thamud to be bold, and another weapon if Thamud was even bolder. Zahira only had to ensure that whatever injuries the man sustained would kill him, and they had done so by ensuring the loyalty of the Al-Uba’yd’s chief healer. This had not been difficult, for most of the women of these tribes only ever wanted better for their children, and it was well within Najla’s power to grant them such. The healer’s daughter had been granted an advantageous marriage to a wealthy trader, taken away from the hardships of the desert to live in the ‘luxuries’ nearby cities could provide. All the old woman had to do was see that Thamud succumbed to whatever illness he saw, and she would join her daughter to live out the rest of her days in peace and comfort. Whether the promise would be fulfilled remained to be seen, and was entirely dependent on whether Zahira was confident in her silence or not. Either way, Najla’s part in sending the girl off had been accomplished successfully, the healer himself would be left to her cousin.

<“What will you tell Basim?”>

<“The same I will tell the Al-Uba’yd.”>

<“You do not trust him?”>

<“It is not that, I know him too well. He has Jalil’s distaste for what he called ‘the weapons of women and cowards’. Basim will not understand, only because Jalil and Harith always refused to.”>

<“Uncle taught them well. What happened to you?”>

The teasing remark brought a smile to Najla’s face, and she stood, taking it as a sign that they were done here. Zahira followed, and the two began to walk out of the tent together as Najla replied. <“You and that relentless horde of cousins, who loved to treat me like a bird for your gossip. Don’t tell me you’ve forgotten.”>

---

Breakfast was an easy affair, taken at the same time as most of the camp, though not within their presence. While the people of the Al-Uba’yd arose to eat in and around their tents, the leaders of the clan had invited their guests to eat with them in the shade of the oasis. The gentle water and tall trees were welcome, though little compared to the thick gardens of flowers she was used to. Basim would join them, looking nothing like the mess she had seen minutes before, and far more like a prince. There, they took breakfast as a family, for truthfully they were all related through Zahira’s marriage, and would speak to each other as such until breakfast was cleared away, and they could finally speak of the reasons they were here.

<“The people of the Banu Dunya are going to arrive today, no?”>

<“If God wills it, Sultana.”>

It was a formal response that would not have brought her pause in the Sultan’s court, but here, Najla knew better. She knew her people too well, after all, and had heard such ambiguous answers often from those that did not like to answer questions. A glance up at Zahira was all it took to confirm her suspicions, and while her cousin remained silent beside her husband, Najla spoke up again.

<“The Sultan has willed it, and God has given them nothing to hinder their travels.”>

There was a moment’s pause then, but it was Thamud’s voice that answered her question. Though his voice was far deeper and rougher than Najla’s softer tones, yet somehow, there was no question that he was answering to her now.

<“Sultana, we sent word of your arrival as soon as you reached. We hope that they will be here by nightfall, but do not know if they are ready to treat with us yet.”>

<“Why is that?”>

<“They said they're only going to ride to us on the horses we stole. Sultana.”> The voice that answered her now was not Thamud’s, but one of his brothers, who was clearly frustrated at the conversation. Najla had not missed that he nearly forgot her title, but after her eyes raked over his figure once, she understood. Basim would have had the same pained expression on his face if he had not been trained better than that, and she almost felt pity for the man who would have to remain speaking in this heat for hours to come.

<“They’ll ride here on their own horses, or I’ll have the Servant drag them here.”>

Najla left her threat hang in the air, despite the fact that it was not for them, she knew the weight such a sentence would carry. She ignored Zahira’s pleased smile, turning instead to motion a slave over to her. While she gave the girl a few commands in a whispered voice, ordering her to prepare a guard to ride to the village, she could hear Zahira and Basim resume the conversation behind her. Basim still seemed somewhat silent in these discussions, either due to timidity or his headache, yet Najla was pleased to hear his voice as she returned to the discussion.

<“You have already dealt with the men who defied you?”>

<“Yes, we do not deal with such matters lightly I assure you, Sultanim. Those who have committed the crime have been punished.”>

Thamud’s answer caused Najla to frown, though this would be hidden behind the golden mask she had donned once again. She did not believe him, and though her words could not betray this fact yet, she did not want Basim to accept this answer so easily.

<“Not too harshly, I hope?”>

Her words were spoken softly, as if she was genuinely concerned for the severity of the punishment. They had only taken horses after all, had the raiders taken women, they would have been able to demand a greater punishment.

<“I did not think violence worried you so, Sultana.”>

<“When necessary, it does not, but I believe in following the teachings of a merciful God. Yet I have seen no man amputated here.”>

Her words were spoken harmlessly, but the pause that they brought on was not quite so harmless. The implication was left hanging over the small group, though Najla pretended to be ignorant to this as she reached out to pluck another grape. There were only two punishments for theft, a piece of the man’s hand, or his life. It was a barbaric practice when she had seen Ketill pay a debt with his finger, but it was a common punishment for thieves. Had they taken women, she would have been able to comment on the unmarked skin of his warrior’s backs. Seeing as how such a mutilation was considered the most merciful punishment, Najla spoke as if she believed Thamud had executed every man that ‘defied’ his orders and violated the treaty. Yet he knew better, as did all those sitting on the cushions around them, for Najla had spent a night among the woman, and would have known if there were several new widows among them. The one Ketill had created last night was already too easy to spot.

<“The Banu Dunya have demanded no flesh, Sultana.”>

<“I am pleased to hear that. Thank God they only want their horses.”>

Though her words were not entirely subtle, Najla knew there was nothing in them that could bring them to feel as if they had been insulted. Besides, she doubted there was anything in her tone that they had not heard before from Zahira. All Sultanas had perfected such an art, after all, to speak a man’s words in a woman’s voice, to confess their knowledge under the guise of ignorance. The question of whether she believed Thamud’s words regarding the punishment was left ambiguously answered, and Najla fell silent again as Basim spoke. She knew her brother, and thus could see in his face that he understood the message she had been trying to impart with her gentle questioning. Thamud was lying about punishing his men, and thus, had to be lying about the nature of the attack.

<“Which they will have, Sultana. We have only asked that they correct the number and approach the Ta’arof with honor.”>

The negotiations would continue for some time in this manner, though as they went on, Najla found that she needed to prod at Thamud less for Basim to catch on. After all, his nature was revealed rather early, and it had become clear that Zahira was not lying. Thamud was not holding on to two dozen horses for honor, though it was a cause his people would fall behind without question. As the Al-Uba’yd continued to make claims regarding their possession of the horses, pushing trivial claims here and there, Najla could only find it tiresome. It was not as if they cared about the horses, after all. Najla knew Thamud was pushing for more. Regardless of what it was, she would not concede so easily.

Thus, they moved off the subject of the horses, and into the heart of the pact they had broken. This proved to be far worse for Basim, who had managed to push through the arguments easily. His headache would only worsen as they were forced to move through every inch of the pact to determine what the Al-Uba’yd wanted renegotiated regarding their trade with the Banu Dunya. It was Najla that suffered most of the renegotiations here, and as the sun reached its peak, even she was beginning to feel her mind give in to the growing exhaustion. They broke to eat and rest, and though Basim would head to his tent instantly, eager to find shade and rest against the scorching sun, Najla’s business was not quite finished. Instead, she kissed her brother’s cheek goodbye, offering him a short praise on his abilities before leaving him to find the healer’s tent.

---

For once, Najla would come to Ketill. Rather than have him flanked by guards and forced to speak to her in whatever splendor she sat in, she ducked under the flap of the healer’s tent, where she would have instructed them to keep Ketill the night before. Two guards followed, positioning themselves behind her as Najla glanced around the tent. Though her eyes sought out Ketill first, she did not say a word until an older voice spoke up.

<“Sultana.”> Najla turned her head to see an old woman bowing her head, to which she smiled gently. For a moment, Najla felt as if the woman was going to try and bow lower, and she reacted as she had with Thamud’s father, stopping the woman by taking her hand.

<“Mother, I did not mean to disturb your work.”>

<“Not at all Sultana, I am grateful for your presence.”>

Najla released the woman’s hand then, stepping back. She would not spare Ketill another glance as she continued to speak to the woman, as if it had been her true intention to do so. She would continue to call the old woman ‘mother’ throughout the brief conversation, a respect granted by the Sawarim to older midwives. It held a particular respect in these tribes, for there were not many that lived long enough to earn it.

<“My cousin tells me your daughter has been recently been married.”>

<“Yes Sultana, just a few weeks ago.”>

<“May your eyes be lightened by their happiness, Mother, and may the Sawarim grant them many children.”>

Najla spoke to the woman kindly, as if genuinely pleased to hear of this stranger’s marriage. Her ignorance was a lie, of course, for she had been the one to arrange this match. However, she had happily granted all the credit to her cousin Zahira, who was just as glad to take it. It was a great kindness done for a respected woman, and it could only help elevate the Al-Uba’yd’s respect for the Sultana that lived amongst them. Najla was just pleased to keep her name off the endeavor as far as she could. They spoke briefly, before Najla politely requested a few moments to speak to her slave. The woman bowed and moved to shuffle out of the tent, but Najla’s voice would cause her to pause.

<“Mother, no, I would not kick you out of your tent, especially not in such heat. Please, you are more than welcome to stay.”>

<“No need, Sultana, please, the tent is yours. I am expected to help prepare Yazan anyways.”>

Najla nodded at that, for it seemed the name of Ketill’s victim had been enough to silence any further protest. It had not been as difficult as she’d thought to hide her horror at the night before, but something about the man’s name seemed to give her pause. Najla waited until the old woman had left the tent, before turning to face her slave, no trace of that gentle smile lingering on her lips now.

“Ketill.”

She spoke Ketill’s name softly as always, though it was difficult to do so. The thick accent upon her tongue made her force an awkward gentleness upon his name, one that did not fit the name nor the man that bore it. Najla turned towards him as if she had just noticed him, closing some of the distance between them in a few slow steps. As always however, there was a distance between them, one that felt even more pronounced when Najla stood before him, forcing him to look up at her if he wanted to meet her gaze. Perhaps it was a conscious gesture, to try and keep Ketill’s eyes from boring into her, and yet Najla knew from experience that she had little control over what her slave chose to see, say, or do.

“She says you will heal, easily. I hope your wounds do not trouble you too terribly until then. I would hate for my blood to have gone to waste.”

At that remark, Najla reached up, her bracelets clinking as she softly touched the small scar on her forehead, just below the hairline. The scar was not long at all, easily hidden if necessary, and yet, she would never be rid of it. It had been opened before, for purposes far greater than the protection of a Servant who did not know its meaning. She would not be the one to explain to him further, allowing him to assume what he liked. At this moment, she would move towards a cushion placed some ways in front of Ketill, guided by a guard’s hand. It was here that she sat, so that she was somewhat closer to being eye level with him. When she finally lifted her gaze to meet his, Ketill would notice that she hesitated to do so, as if unwilling to meet his eyes. Whatever exhaustion she was feeling would not be hidden from her expression now, though it only served to make her look uninterested in her slave, as if he were a task to be dealt with, not a man. The guard stood before her, between his Sultana and Ketill, while another stood beside Ketill himself, as it seemed that Najla wanted to make doubly sure that he would not hurt her now. She would not mention this added protection as she reached up, removing the golden mask from her face slowly, her tired gaze never leaving Ketill’s.

“Did you burn him on purpose?” The mention of the fight before was rather sudden, yet Najla showed little disgust or horror at the thought. After all, it was not the first time she had seen him commit such an act. Then it had been brief and necessary, and Najla had been allowed to show her horror without fear of appearances. Then, the act had not been committed under her command to kill. “You must have. Servants cannot be ignorant to the Qawanin Al-Harb.”

Though spoken in an unfamiliar tongue, there was a reason Najla believed the words themselves would be familiar. She was speaking of their laws of war, a list of rules scattered throughout their holy books that dictated exactly how their warfare must operate. Some were easy to understand, for they rested in practicality, such as the law against burning the few fields the Sawarim had. Others, like the one Ketill had broken, were rooted far deeper, in meanings the Servants would not always care to understand, but one that Najla would continue to explain.

“Man or Daab, you are most certainly not a God. It is not for a man to decide who burns and who does not, that is a power to be dealt at God’s discretion.”

Her words betrayed her assumptions easily, as Najla had no intention of hiding them now. It was obvious that she believed she understood why Ketill had committed such an act. It was unspoken arrogance for a Sawarim to burn another man, an expression that they believed they were level with their God. Najla assumed that had been Ketill’s purpose, to insinuate he was above their God, and it was clear that she was not pleased at such an act. It seemed Najla would require far more than the life of a single tribesman for that. Yet she was not entirely displeased with him either, for she would not seek to punish him for what he had done. He had served his purpose, and as always, Ketill was little to her beyond that.

“I am not here to punish you for doing as I asked, despite how…distastefully it was accomplished. You may call yourself God, beast, or man, it does not matter. You can only climb so high with another on your shoulders.”

It was a strange statement, translated somewhat awkwardly from her native tongue, though it held a hint of truth. It was not as if the Sawarim could be angry with a Monarchist for violating their laws of war, it was simply another reason they could consider them savages and infidels. His brutishness had only fueled a new admiration for the Sultana that had survived it, and a respect for the Sultan that had managed to enslave him.

“You were not like this before.” She spoke these words softly, as if she were a concerned friend, not a horrified mistress. “You were a savage, always, but I fear you’ve gone mad. I suppose that would be my fault, but I am not so arrogant as to believe I could do this to you. Perhaps Tahir-” She paused for a moment, only to shake her head slightly. “No, but it doesn’t matter. Tell me, what are you sustaining yourself for?”

The question was spoken as confidently as it was sudden, and Najla would quickly reveal the reason why. It might have seemed odd, for it was a subject she spoke on little, but she had few other experiences to draw on in order to understand Ketill’s position.

“Life by itself is not enough. I did not endure my time as Saina because I valued my life so dearly. Death would have been easy, quick, and I would be free from any further humiliation at their hands.” She stopped talking for a brief moment, allowing herself to breathe deeply, as if she was gathering her strength. When her eyes opened to meet Ketill’s again, there was no pain in them, nor sympathy. She was speaking only of distant memories now.

“They took much from me, but I had many reasons to withstand it all. You have endured worse, even caused yourself worse, and for what? So far as I know, you have no family to return to, no lover waiting for you, no wealth or power, only an order that has forgotten your name. I had all of those, and some days, even that was not enough. If it had not been for my brother, I might have slit my throat the day I was given to a Servant.”

If the mention of her time as Saina was strange, the mention of her brother was even stranger. Ketill knew he was dead, though she did not know if he had ever cared to find out more regarding Jalil. Her words could either mean she had failed to keep him alive, or he had needed her after his death, though Najla would not tell Ketill that she had failed in that endeavor too.

“I believe I know why sustain yourself. If I am right, I am afraid you will find your life wasted in a fruitless pursuit. If I am wrong, if you have something, someone to return to…” Her words trailed off now, and her gaze turned into something a little more mischievous, almost as if she was playing a game with Ketill. It seemed Najla would never grow tired of seeking to understand her slave, even if she understood there was no chance of securing his loyalty now. She did not ask the question itself, only pushing herself off the cushions delicately, then taking the guards hand to raise herself the rest of the way. She had gotten nothing from Ketill, and she doubted that he enjoyed his time in her presence.

“I hope I am wrong, Ketill. Until then, I offer you what I can.” It was a sentence that was spoken effortlessly, betraying how easily Najla was able to manipulate her tongue. Ketill was her slave, fulfilling her demands to kill, and yet, Najla spoke as if she was doing him a favor in offering him blood. “I will ask you to fight again, not just here, but elsewhere. You will not be allowed to kill all of them, and I cannot allow you to kill in this manner again. If you cannot control your bloodlust, I ask you to tell me now, so that I may find you more disposable opponents.” With that, Najla moved the golden mask back onto her face, struggling somewhat, as it was an unfamiliar accessory to her. “Rest, and heal. If you are not well enough to fight, I will not ask you to do so, though that will be have to be decided at my discretion, not yours. May you rest easily, knowing that you have robbed me of the same.”

Najla would leave Ketill to rest after that, for though it seemed she was eager to relax as well, that was not an option quite yet. Instead, she’d have to drag those two guards to the village, to meet with the family of the bereaved until negotiations had to begin again.

---

The heat was settling unpleasantly in the desert afternoon when Basim would call Ketill into his tent, forcing him to walk through the piercing heat of the day briefly before he found respite in the prince’s tent again. The negotiations had started up once more, yet regardless of what they had accomplished, it all seemed meaningless unless they were ready to hand back the spoils, which the Al-Uba’yd seemed reluctant to do. The discussions seemed to be all for show now, and the true negotiations would begin again when they broke once more. Though everyone else had dispersed, Najla had asked Thamud to take a drink with her, and they had returned to speak privately in her tent. Basim was not asked to join, though he did not seem to mind, nor care what they were speaking of in there, so long as this problem would be resolved.

Basim was laying on his back, staring up at the cloth of the tent while he spoke to one of his guards. It was a conversation born out of boredom, not necessity, and thus easily interrupted when Ketill was escorted in. Basim would dismiss the slave that escorted him, but not his own guard. He had not forgotten the night before.

For a moment, there was only silence. Basim looked upon Ketill with a look quite unlike what he’d studied the Servant with before. He was still curious, clearly, though he no longer looked at Ketill with the same sense of wonder one did a curiosity from a foreign land. There was something new in the way he considered Ketill, an emotion nestled somewhat between horror, confusion, and respect. If he had considered Ketill a violent savage before, the way his sister did, there was no telling what he thought of him now.

“There’s water if you want it.”

It was a strange way for a prince to greet a slave, but as Basim gestured to the pitcher on the small table, it seemed absent-minded. It was as if he had done so out of habit, for no reason beyond the fact that it was hot outside. He pushed himself off his back then, moving so that he was seated on the cushions lazily, looking up at Ketill with that same look in his eyes, the one that betrayed a new confusion regarding his sister’s slave.

“You did not need to do that, last night. You could have given him a clean death.” Though answering Basim’s questions was not an unfamiliar process to Ketill, this held none of the boyish curiosity he’d exhibited before. This question was spoken soberly, without excitement, as if he was dreading the answer. “Why didn’t you?”

Whatever Ketill’s answer, Basim listened intently. He was not quite so ready as Najla to determine a purpose for his actions, and perhaps he would get a better answer out of Ketill as a result. The incident had clearly had a greater impact on Basim than on Najla, and he would not move on quite as easily. Though he did not sound like he was chastising Ketill, there would be no doubt that Basim was unhappy when he spoke up again.

“His wife is a widow now. Najla said she tripled the Mahriyeh, but she still had to watch her husband burn to death.”

Basim spoke as if Ketill would know what the Mahriyeh was, though perhaps he had been too deep in his thoughts to translate the word. It referred to the gift a husband promised his wife upon his death, enough to help her live comfortably until her death if she was old, or remarry if she was young enough. Though the man’s widow had been young, Najla had made certain the girl could live as a widow forever if she chose. She had spoken to Basim as if that had been enough. It was not enough for Basim, but when he looked upon Ketill, it seemed as if the distaste had been far more about his actions than the man himself. He was smart enough to understand that the man had volunteered, and that Ketill’s actions had been done under his sister’s orders. Whatever kindness she had done the girl afterwards, she had asked Ketill to kill him.

“They will ask you to fight again. I don’t know when the negotiations will be over, but it has to be then, we are not allowed to break bread with them again until they are.” He paused for a moment then, but would resume speaking almost immediately. “You know, Najla told me a lot about her time in Broacien. She told me about how scared she was to pray after the first time she was caught, especially after she was given to you. She never told me what they did, or what you would have done, but I know what they would do to you. Still, it’s not fair.”

He spoke as if it was common knowledge to Ketill, clearly assuming that Najla had revealed more about herself than she truly had. It would likely hardly be a surprise however, and there was little for Ketill to draw sympathy from, for she had not suffered for her religion as drastically as he had. Yet at these words, Basim pushed himself off the cushions swiftly, moving to stand. It became obvious that he was moving to walk towards Ketill, at which the guard behind him would begin to say something, only to have Basim’s words cut him off. The guard would not be pleased by them, but could not fight his prince.

<“It will be fine. Stay right there.”>

He did not walk towards Ketill, but to the table upon which the offered water sat. As he did so, Ketill would notice Basim begin to pull something out of his pocket, though it was small enough to be hidden by his fist. He would not reveal it to Ketill just yet, but laid his hand on the table, keeping his back to his guard. His voice was softer now, and he would reveal his purpose in calling for Ketill almost as slowly as he had to Najla the night before, uncovering his secret in hesitant pieces.

“Would you have let her pray? She told me she has not forbidden you to pray, but I’ve never seen you do it. If you are risking your life here, I think you should be able to pray, no?” With that, he slowly lifted his hand off of the small cross, revealing it to Ketill even as he hid it from his guard. Slowly, he pushed it under the edge of the tray, before pouring himself a glass of water, as if that had been his intention all along. “Quick, take it. Don’t let anyone see, not the guards, especially not Najla. She’ll have both of our heads if she finds out.” With that, Basim took the cup and walked back to his seat, though his eyes studied Ketill curiously, waiting for him to take the cross when the guard was no longer paying attention. Despite his nerves, he seemed hopeful that Ketill would find some relief in this kindness.

“Why won’t you take it? Are you worried? I can hide it for you, if you are. They won't kill me for it.”

@persianversion

ℰxpedition for the ℬanner of St. ℱriedrich

After the night, the harem girl had disappeared, taking her leave long before Ketill had even woken up himself. It was a lucky thing he supposed – he had not longed for a woman’s company, nor had he hoped for more vulgar things – she was merely a distraction. It was meant well, Ketill presumed, but Sawarim did not understand that the slaves did not think like them and did not value the same things as they did. For Ketill, what he really wanted was something he would not get until much later. But it could not be given to him too soon – he desired it with all his body, every fibre inside of him demanded blood and retribution. But what he got instead was perhaps equally as good – though the feeling of enjoyment lasted much shorter than Ketill expected he’d receive from his true purpose.

Over the course of the next weeks, he was allowed to continue training. Although he was rusty, as time went on he began feeling better. To the Sawarim, it didn’t make a difference – even when he was rusty he could beat them, though when he got back into the swing of things, they noticed that whatever they did, it seemed like they couldn’t even touch him. Bar perhaps Harith, who could offer a decent fight, though his presence was whimsical at best as his other duties commanded his time, few as these duties were. But he seemed to have learned his lesson, and did not engage Ketill further beyond a simple spar from time to time. No blood would be shed, and the hits would be light.

One uneventful day, Ketill was brought out to spar again. The guards had knocked on his door and, contrary to how he was treated before, he was not removed by force. Rather, he was allowed to open the door. His dress had changed too – though it wasn’t a large change. He still went bare chested, though that was more out of concern for the heat than for fashion. It was liberating, at least, to realize that a slave could afford to be unfashionable. Some days, Ketill felt the annoyance Harith had with his more extravagant garb. The heat was a cruel mistress – the ladies enjoyed it, whenever they came out to watch, but for those crawling through the sand, swinging swords and axes, or being tossed around by Harith and Ketill alike, for them it was not a pleasure, but a cruel time to be sparring.

As he walked towards the fighting grounds in the courtyard, escorted by two guards, Ketill noticed a few familiar faces on the benches – Basim, Najla, but further away standing closeby but not close to the royalties, there were several harem girls. One face in particular was memorisable, and instantly recalled by Ketill. It was the girl Harith had sent to his chambers after their first meeting, the one with the freckled face. If it hadn’t been for those features, he would not have even realized it was her, given she was wearing a dark blue cloth wrapped around her head, revealing only her eyes and the bridge of her nose. The reason for the harem girls’ presence was not explained – though Ketill knew too well that he had earned their favour, even if he was disliked by most of the Sultan’s court. He was a tool – and a tool was only useful as long as it did its’ job.

When Ketill stepped into the ring, he shot a brief glance at Basim, however. The harem girls weren’t so interesting, and his air of disinterest was visible to all the harem girls – though it only made him more desired. Instead, he looked at Basim curiously, wondering why the boy had shown up, though Najla’s presence made the reason slightly more obvious. Whatever it was that she desired of Basim, it was not of interest to Ketill.

The first opponent stepped forwards, and the interaction between the guards and Ketill was still somewhat awkward. There was no mutual respect. Ketill had destroyed every single opponent so far, after all, and the guards were still trying to see how they could show this Monarchist that he was not invincible. The Bear of Broacien remained unharmed so far, though, apart from some minor scratches and cuts. A few times Harith and some other daring guards and captains had attempted to pry from him the secrets of the Servants and their warfare. Although Ketill was a convert now, he did not wish to betray his former order so quickly. After all, the Monarchists were not his friends any longer, but neither were the Sawarim. Ketill was handed a weapon at random, and the two men approached each other, both immediately attacking. The Sawarim had learned early on that Ketill was a master at destroying shields, as he had gone through the training supply of shields rather quickly. They had brought in new wooden shields at first – but these too deteriorated over time. After some argument, Harith instead decided to just call on a small supply of metal shields. At least these would not break so easily.

But the truth behind why Ketill was being trained remained hidden. He assumed he was going to be a fighter against these ‘tribals’ as Najla had called them – a slave warrior to be killed by a Sawarim, to show how mighty the Sawarim god was. It was better than being a house slave, and Ketill knew he could survive. It would be easy if the fighters were anything like the guards and soldiers he was fighting now. But, why did she need a slave, a Servant no less, to fight tribals? It seemed redundant, and it was, so he only guessed at the political motives for bringing him.

---

Of course, as things went with Najla, there was never a gift without a demand in exchange. It was not like Ketill had much chance – but he would have liked to have been informed about the travelling. He’d been given a day notice, and was told to pack up whatever he wanted to bring. That wasn’t a useful order, as Ketill had nothing of value to bring. The very next day they left already, to an unknown destination, except for the name of the tribe they were visiting. As a slave, Ketill walked near the back. The pace was harrowing – and he would be given no respite. Although Najla had to keep up appearances by not resting, Ketill had wished for a horse, or at the very least a small break. Instead, he was made to keep walking. Despite the protection his favoured position gave him, the guards that were overlooking the slaves were less than courteous. The sand and dust had weathered them down too, and the pace was not giving them any quarter.

When Ketill stopped for a moment to drink from his leather waterbag, the coarse and rough hands of a guard pushed in his back. The push made him spill some of the valuable water, but there was no time to argue, and certainly no energy for it either. He kept going, continuing to gulp down on the water, before putting the cork back in place and continuing the walk. The road was long and arduous, and there would be no rest for a while, Ketill could feel that much in his bones.

And most certainly the walk was long. They arrived at a village, though with the amount of tents set up, it seemed more like a camp. Ketill didn’t know what to do specifically, or why he’d been brought here, so he just followed suit, doing as the other slaves did. As the caravan of people continued moving, the slaves and servants made a left, and proceeded to the place where they’d make camp. Ketill tried to turn left as well, to follow them and set up a tent and help with preparations. But once again, a coarse hand stopped him, and another hand pointed him forwards. Following the hand, Ketill saw Najla atop a horse, with Basim and a woman he did not know. They exchanged greetings with someone, which Ketill could only presume to be a villager. At the very least he would’ve been important, given the strange woman’s greeting towards him. Ketill looked at the guard again, who nodded, and pushed him forwards. Ketill’s lack of understanding of Sawarimic meant that this kind of non-verbal communication had become the norm.

Ketill followed the directions and continued on the way, shooting a longing glance at a few of the tents that were being put up as he walked past. As they walked through the village, however, his attention was grabbed by the passer-by’s that were all very interested in Najla and Basim, and when Ketill himself passed, him too. It almost felt like the first time he entered the Golden City, though these people seemed less civilized, and definitely more like the raiders that they had encountered that faithful night when they were captured. Ketill still remembered their faces – specifically the dark skinned man. A snake, he was. It made sense Najla had took to him – people that are alike tend to band together.

He was brought to stand still outside of a house, which Najla and Basim had entered. He wondered what was inside that was so secretive that he was not allowed to see it – but given the intrigues of the Sultanate, that could be a great many things, ranging from holy relics, to the banner of St. Friedrich itself, to merely a piece of furniture that their contact in the village had wanted to show them. There would be no answer, so Ketill opted to not pre-occupy himself with the question to begin with. Instead, he focused on the eyes that were boring into the back of his head. He could feel their presence almost, the burning sensation on his back, it was the feeling of a man that felt hatred. For once, that man was not Ketill. When Ketill turned around, he found that the man staring at him was a villager – at least, so Ketill thought.
He was dressed in leather, wearing some type of armour. On his belt rested an axe – unlike the somewhat graceful weaponry in the capital of the sultanate, this axe spoke more to actual efficiency and capability in battle. There were some notches on the wooden hilt – which Ketill could only assume to be a kill count. When Ketill looked at the man, the man did not look away, and continued to stare at him, his eyes fixated on the three dots on Ketill’s face, slowly dropping to his eyes.

“What is it?” Ketill asked boldly, the royal guards that Najla had brought looking at Ketill and then to the man. Their eyes spoke of their feelings about the situation, and they weren’t happy, but they did not interfere. The man didn’t answer, regardless, merely looking at Ketill. A man would have been unnerved, perhaps, by the bulging eyes trying to stare him into submission. For Ketill, it reminded him of the recruits and guards at the castle that had tried to do the same before a spar. This lasted a few more moments before a guard stepped in between the man and Ketill, grabbing Ketill’s arm and guiding him onwards. Only then did Ketill realize that Najla and Basim had left the house – the visit was brief, but seemingly required.

From the house he was guided – almost paraded – through the rest of the village, towards a canopy that had been raised within a fraction of the time it’d take a slave to do it. What these men lacked in extravagance and showboating, they made up for by working spirit. Of course, this was merely to the untrained eye of Ketill. Najla might have, and likely would have, seen something entirely different. Ketill was naturally not allowed under the canopy, and was guided to an empty spot, closer to the fire. He sat there among the other slaves that were part of the entourage of Najla. Though under the canopy there were merry times, the slaves were soberer, talking among themselves. Ketill was excluded from that – the slaves had no interest in him, some despised him for his supposed religion, some despised him for his position as favoured slave, and some despised him simply because they didn’t like him.

In truth, Ketill did not feel favoured. In fact, his position was considerably worse than those of the other slaves. They might not have the same level of protection, but most of them failed to realize that unlike them, Ketill was not complacent with his position – he desired something else entirely, something that laid within grasp at any moment but could never quite be taken.

So, he just sat, his legs folded, looking at the people under the canopy, studying them carefully. His eyes went along, studying the warriors at first – they were strong, stronger than the guards, but obviously less disciplined. They were skirmishers and a flanking force. He remembered their kind from his time at Coedwin – these men were thrown into battle first, sent out ahead of the main lines to harass the enemy with their ranged weapons. Bows, javelins, jarids. Once the Servants advanced, they retreated, running like cowards – but it was a ploy. They would repeat this over and over, taking a few lives each and every time. And then the main battle commenced, when the Servants’ lines had been shattered and were in disarray. It was like a ritual.

A ritual of battle.

Ketills eyes rolled up slightly, as he began remembering one of the first times he went into a large battle outside of Coedwin. The skirmishers just went and came, shooting down his companions from the dunes, or from the small amount of shrubbery that was ahead of them. The commanders would order to attack, but the skirmishers would be long gone. The thuds of his footsteps echoed in his mind, molding themselves from a repetitive stomping noise to a mind dulling, deafening sound much alike the beating of drums.

The thuds of his own footsteps slowly made way for louder thuds. Ahead of them, as they moved forwards, a trail of dust arose, not of one man, thin and slick, but of a hundred, a thousand, if not more – it stretched from left to right, and came over the hill like a wall of dust, coming to swallow the Servants whole.

He looked down again, and found himself suddenly on a horse, galloping towards the wall of dust that came to destroy them. In his left hand he held the reins, his shield firmly attached to his forearm. In his right, his sword, prepared to take Sawarim blood. But they were not fighting Sawarim, they were fighting the Pretender himself. Ketill looked right, to seek out his companion, but only found a steed – skeletal, his skin and flesh gone, only the bones remaining, galloping besides him. Atop the steed sat a warrior clad in the armour of the Servants, though he had no hands – only bones – and he had no face – only a skull. Ketill’s eyes widened then, and he looked left, only to find more skeleton warriors on skeleton horses, galloping towards their death. These men had perished.

Ketill would follow.

As they approached the wall of dust, it swallowed them, like a mouth ajar eating whatever found its’ way inside. When the air cleared ever so slightly, Ketill found himself on the ground, as sudden as he had found himself on a horse earlier. His horse was dead, laying atop of him, a spear stuck in its chest. The beast writhed under its’ own weight, trying desperately to avoid what was inevitable. Humans and animals were alike, in that aspect, struggling against the unknown, even if it was certain. Ketill himself was far from dead, and felt no fear of the unknown now, and struggled against the animal, slowly crawling out from underneath it, finding that with luck his legs had not been crushed. He coughed, the dust almost suffocating him, as he looked around. Bespectacled and confused, his mind pounding like the war drums when they marched. This was war. This was real.

With his left hand he covered his mouth now, trying to ensure that he would not die of suffocation before he even cut down a Sawarim. As he swivelled around, trying to find out where he was, or where his opponent was, he saw a man approaching. Slowly, walking with a hand at his side, holding on to a wound of some sorts. In his other hand his sword dragged, in the sand, leaving behind a trail that was swiftly bloodied by a mixture of the blood dripping off the sword, and his own blood. He wore neither armour of the Sawarim, nor armour of the Servants. Instead, he was dressed a thick cloak of fur, which resembled clothing of the North. As the man approached, he slowly walked up to Ketill, his eyes flashing left and right, before he collapsed in front of Ketill.

Ketill barely managed to catch the man, holding him upright. “I don’t understand,” he uttered, his voice cracked with confusion. This was not how that battle went – not at all, not even close. “Who… are you…?” Ketill finally asked, though he would not receive a response.

Instead, the figure merely answered in a cryptic manner. “The Gods want blood,” he said, slowly slipping from Ketill’s grasp, “The fire. There will be fire. The ravens – you will know.” As the figure spoke, his face began fading too, the skin slowly disintegrating into the same dust that surrounded them, until Ketill was no longer holding anything resembling a man, merely a skeleton representing a husk. Ketill let go of the man in shock, the body falling onto the ground then – instead of laying there, it sank into the desert ground, and slowly the sand turned black from where it had sunk, spreading all around, even corrupting the dust that was in the air, casting a darkness on the entire area, even more than there had been before.

A soft thud was heard, Ketill’s sword falling to the ground as he grabbed his head with two hands, spinning around where he stood, trying to seek for answers or a way out. This was madness – he was going insane. It had to be. He fell to his knees then, facing down at the black ground, simply opting to wait out this spiral of madness. If he did not act, he would contain it, he would stay sane. Slowly, ever so slowly, the approach of footsteps could be heard, faintly, through the sand. Ketill did not look, his eyes squinted shut, his hands on his ears, trying to ignore it. The steps got louder, and louder, sounding like this damned drums again, drumming inside his head, trying to drive him insane.

Then the drums stopped, the footsteps stopped, and Ketill slowly opened his eyes. He looked up, finding shoes in front of him, then legs, then a figure, clad in extravagant black clothes. He did not dare look further, but something inside of him demanded it, forced it. With twitches in his movements he looked further, finding a face covered in black cloth, the eyes visible. Ketill would recognize those eyes everywhere. Slowly the figure kneeled down, remaining in a calm composure. Ketill’s confused look faded – he understood now. Instead, he began grinning like a maniac, moving spontaneously, though lacking the control to move away. That soft voice spoke to him now, again, like it had before. “You’ve been granted your life, Servant. Make me regret this and I’ll make you regret it more.” The words were remarkably close to him, despite the woman seemingly not even moving her lips to speak them. The eyes peered into his eyes, but reached deeper, finding his very soul, trying to reach out, touch it, pretend to care for it with kind hearted but empty empathy. The tongue of a snake had more soul than these words that the voice dared utter to him. “I’ve never met a man like you.” At these words the figures hands reached out for his face, grasping his cheeks, holding them to ensure that he looked at her. With fake touch and fake words, they had hoped to greet Ketill and ensure his cooperation and lasting loyalty. Ketill tried to pull back from her touch, but could not move, for her eyes had made him into stone, his muscles refusing to move. “You never wanted anything from me. You still don’t, not even now. I could offer you the world, but all you want is blood. Perhaps they were right to call you Daab.”

“AGK!”

The figure retracted their hand, which held a silver dagger, curved like a Sawarim’s blade. It had been planted in his heart, with deadly accuracy. When she pulled back the blade, the crimson of his blood stained the sterile silver, marking it eternally. As the figure pulled back, it retreated in whole, stepping back into the black dust, fading away. Ketill tried to speak to the figure, to speak its’ name but couldn’t, grasping at his heart, slowly slumping forwards until he collapsed into the black sand.

---

With a loud gasp, Ketill returned to the world, finding himself in the same position, watching the people under the canopy. He found that none had taken notice of him fading away, and why should they? They were preoccupied with drinking and talking. He caught his breath, his eyes moving side to side, twitchy from the strange flashback he had, which had begun resembling something more akin to a vision rather quickly. The words that the figure had spoken to him, those were easy to tell apart. He had heard them before, and they had solicited the same feelings then as they had now. The fire burning inside of him was fanned, expanding and heating his body more than the nearby fire could. But the words of the stranger that had spoken to him, these were much more unknown. But somehow he felt at ease with them – he was not scared of the unknown. Whether this vision would prove truthful or not, the ravens had been seen before, and they had marked a bad omen for someone then. But they would appear again, it seemed.

Though his thoughts were deep, the touch of a slave would bring him back to the world. His body shook when she touched him, but he quickly relaxed when he noticed it was merely some slave girl. These visions had put him on edge, something that was new to him, and that made him feel energized. The long trek to this village had been brutal, but somehow, he no longer felt tired. He only felt… a calming sense of anger in his head. Before this feeling had only ever been in his heart. It was a strange feeling, this, and Ketill tried to ignore it as he slowly got up from his seated position and walked towards the canopy. It was nearly emptied now, with the men mostly dancing around the fire. When he stepped into the sight of all those that held eyes for him only in this moment, someone stepped forwards. Seeing her eyes as she stepped forwards and tried to reach for him, his instincts kicked in. His muscles tensed up, preparing to strike. But something inside of Najla stopped her reaching for him. For a moment, Ketill considered grabbing Najla’s throat, and tearing it up, choking her in seconds, breaking her neck like a twig. As he fingers began to twitch at these thoughts, someone spoke up.

The voice from the vision? It couldn’t be. She was standing here, in front of him, so why did the voice come from amidst the group of women? As Ketill looked into the group now, he saw the same woman that was standing in front of him – lacking a tattoo. None had ever explained to Ketill what they meant, but he knew that Najla did not bear one. His eyes flashed back to the woman in front of him, and he realized that this wasn’t Najla. With that realization his muscles relaxed again, when this new woman clutched her hands around his biceps. Although it annoyed Ketill, being a parading horse of the royal family, he knew that it was to be endured. A tool was only a tool, after all. When she grasped at his arm, Ketill’s eyes remained upon Najla, who spoke to him like he was dense.

“Yes, it would be strange for these women to suddenly start beating me. Strange as that would be, I do not hold you above letting them do it.”

While the women looked on, a familiar presence entered the area under the canopy again – though Ketill knew not his name. And though Ketill did not understand his words, he could hear the intonation with which the man spoke. Najla’s reply betrayed that the man had made a joke – though Najla’s laughter was not always a sign of something being funny. She was a snake, after all. Suddenly, a cheer erupted behind the man, and some raised their hands and fists into the air, as did some with cups of alcohol.

Ketill merely stood there as the woman that had grabbed his arm earlier slowly backed off. Perhaps this was Najla’s great plan, as the mood suddenly seemed to have shifted. Despite the cheerful nature of the inebriated men, Ketill could sense that there was more going on. The women did not seem as happy as the men did, after all.

Then Najla spoke, first to the Sawarim, then to Ketill. Her words, no doubt well meant, were little more than a confirmation at that point. A grin once more toiled around Ketill’s lips, before he spoke. “If this is where Osman comes from, I think I’ll be okay.” He looked at the men once more, these raiders and skirmishers, but found no reason to be concerned.

Najla moved to her brother then, and Ketill was lead to the centre where all could see him, close to the fire. As he waited for the man that he presumed to be the village leader, he pulled off his tunic – as luxurious as it might’ve been for a slave. He let it fall onto the ground, showing off his bare chest now, littered with scars. It was how he had trained with Harith and the other guards, so it would be how he fought now. Not too soon after that, the man that was to fight him stepped forward. The face was one he had seen before – that man that had watched him so intently when he waited outside the house that Najla and Basim had entered. The same hatred he had felt then he could feel now, but this time it was met by a similar anger. Whatever fire that his vision had started in his head, it remained there, and slowly he could feel his vision going red. It didn’t feel pleasant – but at the same time, so comfortable, like the warmth of a skin at night. Ketill had to actually try and not fall too deep into this red mist inside of his head. It felt dangerous, somehow.

The tribals then started a confusing ritual, which Ketill had no meaning for. The drums began, once again reminding Ketill of the drums of war, but this time, there was no flashback, nor a vision – it was reality now. Every single person sat on their knees now – all but Ketill. He did not bow for a god, not even his own. The flatter of wings called Ketill to attention, looking to his left, atop a rooftop of one of the houses. A bird with black wings, obviously a raven, sat there, and was then promptly joined by another. They were silent, did not caw, did not flatter their wings unnecessarily. They just watched Ketill, their heads twisting sideways, curiously, as if they were waiting for him to act.

An omen, surely, but for who? He glanced back at Najla. Everyone had their heads bowed. If he moved quickly, he could be upon her in seconds, and take her world. Though the luxury of the palace would be hard to tear down – it would be easy to tear down one woman, no matter how high the throne she sat upon was. He could feel his hands twitch now, a quick glance back at the ravens, and then at Najla. Slowly he put his foot forwards to walk, but then stopped. Instead, he put his foot back. It was something he could not explain, something he had no thoughts for. It would’ve been easy. But it wasn’t what he wanted. He had only asked for a sword – not her world – that, he would take.

Before the Sawarim finished their prayers, Ketill glanced at the ravens, but they were nowhere to be found, not even in the sky. Though it was dark, and they blended with the night sky well, Ketill was sure he would’ve been able to see them. But he couldn’t. Had he… imagined it?

Then his eyes found Najla again, and watched carefully as she sliced her forehead. The offering of blood was familiar to him. The meaning the Sawarim gave it was not – but that mattered little. When it was all said and done, she lifted her face to him, and spoke to him – sternly, as were her eyes.

“I don’t need your blood,” Ketill spoke back as the guard walked towards him with the axe. “They watch over me. If I die, I will fight forever.” With that cryptic message said, he grabbed the axe from the guard, and turned to face his opponent. The man did not seem nervous, seemed to have made his peace with whatever was going to happen now. Ketill was at peace too, though not because he was at ease with whatever happened, but because the red fog in his head slowly crept over him further. His breaths began getting deeper, his entire body moving with them, up and down, as he stared down his opponent. Although the man was not meagre or frail at all, there was a clear size difference – though, that usually went for Sawarim and Broacieniens. At that point, Najla’s request to make it a good show did not even reach him anymore.

The two men were now no longer Sawarim and Broacienien, no longer Sawarimic and Servant, but purely man and beast. A pact had been made in Ketill’s mind, to fight to the death, not as enemies, but as warriors. To earn the forgiveness of the Allfather. It was not the end – it was merely a beginning.

There were a good few meters between the men, clearly meant for them to size each other up. But rather than wait for the man to reveal his movements, Ketill stepped forwards. He moved slowly, walking at a leisurely pace, then faster, jogging, then running at the man. The sand kicked up beneath his feet as he ran towards him, and to Najla and Zahira, who had seen him fight before, this would be neither familiar nor unfamiliar. He had moved quickly before, with a threateningly aggressive nature, but this was more. It was different, somehow, though it would be hard to see how or why.

Once Ketill got in swinging reach, he began swinging his axe at the man wildly, releasing a breath of air with each swing, softly at first, as the man merely sidestepped his attacks, or deflected them best he could. With each swing, Ketill’s breaths got louder, indicating he was putting more and more force behind the attacks, and at some point, it would’ve become audible for the audience.

Even then, what was more concerning, was that the volunteer did not get a single chance to attack, and was pushed onto the defensive. He was sidestepping left and right, and forced to step back and around Ketill to avoid his many strikes. If he had hoped to wait until Ketill was tired out, he would’ve fought all night, as Ketill showed no signs of slowing down, only growing more aggressive in his many swings. While he could deflect the attacks earlier, doing so now only resulted in an uncomfortable loss of grip on the weapon as Ketill pushed through.

Ketill had not hit him – yet – but continued his assault until the red fog in his head had taken over more or less entirely. His axe moved with impunity, and Ketill’s movements no longer felt like his own, even if they were. He had control, but at the same time did not. He never felt this way before, and it was uncomfortable like before, but at the same time perhaps the most comfortable he had ever been. His axe swung overhead, but before connecting with the man’s axe, which he had shifted to block the strike, he suddenly changed the direction of the axe. Instead, Ketill moved it left and downwards, catching the man in the side. The axe cleaved into the man’s armor and cut underneath, not reaching deep enough to disable him entirely, but deep enough for blood to flow.

Ketill’s axe got pulled back and before the man could even cry in pain, the axe was sent down once again, this time cleaving into his hip. Once again he cut through the armour, and when the axe was pulled back, he bled even more. His otherwise white tunic under the armour was now staining red from the blood. Momentarily, Ketill ceased his assault, and he found himself watching the man stumble backwards as he tried to prepare for the next attack despite being wounded. His eyes then glanced over the crowd, to measure their reactions, before he stepped forwards again.

As he approached, the man tried to swing at him now, desperate to at least hit the accursed infidel that Ketill presented himself as before he would die. Instead, Ketill moved his free hand up and caught the man’s hand mid-swing. Using his grip on the man’s wrist as leverage, he forced the man downwards to the ground, before turning to the right and swinging the man in that direction, sending him tumbling down. He landed right before the crowd, who moved back to offer the fighters space. They were getting dangerously close to the canopy now, however, and even as the fighter scrambled to his feet, one hand on his wounds, the other preparing to strike against Ketill, he made no effort to move away from the canopy.

When Ketill drew closer once more, chasing the man for his blood, to show the Sawarim how this Daab offered blood, the tribal warrior instead moved forwards, engaging with Ketill much how Ketill engaged him earlier. He lacked the speed or tenacity, but Ketill made no real effort to block the strike. It was aimed at his shoulder, and would likely have cleaved into him. But a small movement meant that he only got nicked by the edge of the axe, cutting him slightly, too shallow to do real damage, but deep enough to bleed. It seeped from there quickly, streaming down his torso, but Ketill did not feel it – or at least, it seemed that way to the audience.

While the man tried to get his axe in position again, Ketill grabbed him by the neck with his free hand and lifted him up – a feat of strength that not many could have mimicked – and threw him, through the canopy, landing on the back half under the canopy, and rolling through the sand until he was slightly behind it. Again he stumbled to his feet, and imagined that Ketill would have to move around the canopy to reach him, buying him valuable time to prepare.

Instead, he and the others would find that Ketill had no such manners. He walked through the area covered by the canopy, stepping over the pillows carelessly as his eyes remained fixated on the man in front of him, even as he passed Najla and Thamud. His axe dripped of blood, as it did on his shoulder, but this seemed of no concern to him.

Once more Ketill approached, seemingly hounding the man like a bear, which he had been described to be after all. Now the real duel would begin. They had both had a taste of the others’ fighting style and had a taste of blood. When the Sawarim swung his axe at him, Ketill blocked it with his, and would retort with a strike of his own, which the man would block. The battle continued for a minute or so, each giving out a blow and then blocking one, sometimes daringly trying to strike twice before having to block. In their exchange of blows, they slowly moved around in a half circle around the canopy, back towards the fire. The two were both evidently experienced warriors, but only a fool would’ve bet on the Sawarim at that point. The clanking of metal against metal, the wood of the shafts clattering against each other, it would last for some time, until Ketill finally had a chance to disarm him.

When the shafts collided, Ketill swiftly moved his axe downwards, the metal axe-head hooking around that of his opponent, who was caught by surprised and lost his grip. With a swift movement the axe was pulled out of his hand and flung back towards the canopy, landing in the sand somewhere. Rather than use this chance to kill the man immediately, Ketill stepped back, and with a single motion threw his axe to the side, letting it land in the sand. They would continue unarmed, he tried to say with that gesture, though he knew better than to trust a Sawarim.

The raiders’ eyes were dim, even as he approached to fight Ketill again. Once they got close enough, they began exchanging blows – this time, neither of them blocked or moved out of the way, but just took the hits of the others’ fist. The raider struck first, striking Ketill in the face, who retorted by punching the man on the eye, before he received one in the jaw again. This, too, went on for a minute or so, until Ketill grabbed the man’s clothes and lifted him in the sky, and then throwing him into the sad not much further. It was clear that, despite the reputation of being a bear, even Ketill could run out of energy. It seemed the fighter himself was also out of energy however, as both of them were breathing heavily.

Ketill jumped onto him immediately, and began punching him with his right fist, while holding him down with the left. It was a brutal display of combat. Whereas most fights would be settled in a few minutes, with a single lucky strike of the axe or sword, this one seemed to have lasted quite some time yet. The punches continued, and the man did not have the energy to fight back. His hands desperately reached through the sand, looking for anything – a dry stick, a stone, anything – he could use to kill Ketill. In sight of the audience, his fingers reached for the axe that Ketill had discarded earlier, and cheers would erupt from the warriors as they cheered the man on.

But despite his luck, the pain he was feeling as well as the continuing blows in his face would not help him. He tried to strike at Ketill’s neck to end the fight, but missed entirely, instead having the axe rake across his back, slicing it open somewhat. Ketill’s eyes widened then, as he felt the pain of the man’s axe opening him up. The man capitalized on this then and pushed his free arm underneath Ketill’s chin. With his other arm, he promptly swung at Ketill, hitting him in the jaw with his elbow.

The blow pushed Ketill off of the man, giving him some hard earned time to breathe and recover from the many blows to the face he got – at this point, his face was already starting to swell from the punches. His wounds were bleeding still, as were Ketill’s, who seemed to be covered in blood more than the fighter was, though it was uncertain if it was his own or the mans’ blood.

The man crawled away – or at least tried to – but found himself quickly struggling against Ketill, who had gotten up and grabbed the man’s leg, pulling him back, and then shifted his hands to the man’s back. With a single pull, he pulled the man upright again, and grabbed him by the hair. Rather than head-butt him like some would have expected, he turned to the fire, and pushed the man’s face closer to the fire. He struggled heavily, as many would when faced with the heat, and the audience was sure to see the trembling of Ketill’s arms as he pushed him closer, closer… ever so closer.

Ketill finally managed to push the man’s face into the fire itself, as he felt the lick of the flames burning the top of his fingers inside the man’s hair, as the man’s face was scorched rapidly, blisters appearing within a few seconds. Once the man’s body went more limb from pain and he started losing the energy to fight back, Ketill pushed even harder, throwing the man into the fire entirely now. The agonizing screams were blood curdling, forcing even Ketill to think about what he had done. But even then, the screams didn’t stop. The pile of logs that were burning slowly crumbled, having been destabilized by the man’s forced entry into the fire, crashing on top of him.

Ketill turned around to face the crowd, but looked back at the fire once more once he heard the pained movements of the man he had thrown in there. Although he was still half ablaze, the man tried to crawl out of the fire, somewhat successfully, although his lack of grip in the sand made him slow. Rather than force him to burn to death, Ketill walked towards the nearby axe that the man had dropped, and took it up again. Then he stepped closer to the man, and raised the axe high – even in the dark of night, the moonlight shimmered off of the axe when he raised it.

Then the axe met with flesh. Ketill began chopping at the man, even when he stopped crawling, even when the screams stopped, even when the wheezing breaths stopped, even then did he continue to chop at him. The body shook with every thud of the axe, hitting his body in random places, blood seeping from every place on his body where he could’ve been hit. During this, he yelled loudly, “RAAAAAGHK!” as the axe kept hitting the man’s lifeless body as it continued to burn.

Once he was done, he stood up straight and walked closer to the audience, standing there, his body heaving under his laboured heavy breaths. Again he threw the axe down in front of him, before lifting his hands to the sky. “AUDRUN! AUDRUUUUN!” As he stood there, his hands raised to the sky, shouting the name of the all-father, it must have been a strange sight to the Sawarim. He was breezing, and if he had truly been a bear, he might have actually breezed with visible mist coming from his nose.

@Odin