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Dion male Member

THE ONE WHO IS CHEAP HACK ®
THE SHIT, A FART.

STATUS: using the new DLC to be a mongolian adventurer with a 10k stack of MAA with insane bonuses so I can stackwipe armies 10x my army size and never settling down because camps have elect. primogeniture 1 hr ago
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Status

Recent Statuses

1 hr ago
Current using the new DLC to be a mongolian adventurer with a 10k stack of MAA with insane bonuses so I can stackwipe armies 10x my army size and never settling down because camps have elect. primogeniture
1 hr ago
a multiplayer AAR would go hard: every post is just about players seducing eachothers wives though
16 hrs ago
death is certain if you encroach near, ancient folklore, a battle hardened tribe
1 like
22 hrs ago
shits antisocial as hell, your cat is eating all the birds outside or god forbid it gets hit by a car. nothing says i love my cat like allowing it to become roadkill
1 like
22 hrs ago
its important to understand i am not american, we do not have stray cats here and all outside cats are a) owned by someone and b) that cat is shitting all over other peoples front yard
1 like

Bio

Just an Aragorn looking for his Arwen


Most Recent Posts

In Frokane's Mildly Politcal Hangout Thread → 7 yrs ago Forum: Off-Topic Discussion
@Smash idk how that infers im an enemy of the lgbt community though lol. did you actually talk to the people there?
In Frokane's Mildly Politcal Hangout Thread → 7 yrs ago Forum: Off-Topic Discussion
@Smash it was before, but thanks for proving my point that you're pot kettle black etc.
In Naruto: Revival → 7 yrs ago Forum: Casual Roleplay
Seems fine. Vacuum thingie is scary, actually.
In Frokane's Mildly Politcal Hangout Thread → 7 yrs ago Forum: Off-Topic Discussion
<Snipped quote by Smash>
That is a strange way of saying 42% of Americans on this very day and that's from a Left leaning site during an unpopular month. Granted others have pointed out just how bunk many of these polls are, skewed at their best as we have seen wherever the President of the United States is involved, but that's certainly another topic for another time.

Also, because it is topical and spicy, let us defer back to actual racism in the face of tragedy for a moment because we were all so worked up over "racist statues" just a few weeks ago which started this very recent expedition with our newer company. Will the Alt-Left disavow all of these people, or do they just not represent everyone involved in the Left?


This is honestly the same as those white racists saying 'we need to cleanse our country of the negroes' or something except it's targeted at the majority and/or the scapegoat of racism and therefore it's OK. It'll be likened to the jews wanting the nazi's to die or something despite this being an entirely different context, and then they'll say it's completely understandable that a underprivileged repressed group wants to direct their anger towards the oppressors and that this sometimes happens in a violent way, physical or non physical (threats).

I can somewhat stand by that as a social phenomenon and just something that we do - we like to complain and we use hyperbole a lot so naturally 'fucking white people I want them to die xd' is something you're gonna see a lot in the same way that the KKK probably talks about 'fucking black people I want them to die xd' a lot.

And in all fairness neither of them is wrong:

When it comes to ideas it's all about what side you're on, and what your values are and what you believe is the truth and what is not the truth.

What does each side think? What have they rationalized? What is their 'truth' and what is their way of defending their 'truth'?

For example:

You are part of the KKK -> therefore you believe that black people are inferior -> you believe that they are destroying the white race -> therefore killing black people seems a 'logical' step for you to take in order to protect the white race.

You are part of the 'left wing extremists' -> therefore you believe that whites are at fault for the oppression of blacks in every single situation -> therefore killing white people and/or finding it a good thing that white people die is a logical step/thing to find for you in order to protect and help the oppressed people.

You are a 1939 member of the nazi party in Germany -> therefore you believe that the jews are to blame for the shitty situation Germany is in -> you believe that the German people are superior biologically -> therefore killing jews to restore Germany and prove the superiority of the Aryan people is a logical step to take in order to prove your worth and restore Germany.

It comes down to what you believe is true, really believe as in you find these things to be INNATELY, MORAL TRUTHS that are not subject to subjectivity, they are simply factually the truth and anyone that says otherwise is evil. I find that for people who are in these groups it is incredibly hard to see the other side because they believe they are wrong and their side has filled their head with so much 'facts' at that point that it becomes impossible for them to see the other side; how can I be wrong after all? Ergo, it is impossible for a KKK Klansman to understand a radical antifascist, and it is impossible for a radical antifascist to understand a KKK Klansman. Something to do with cognitive bias I think. It's like those college kids that go 'can't the people in the rust belt just go to college?' with their utter refusal to understand that no they can't go to college. In this type of group there is often a total disconnect between reality and their worldview. Permanent 'rose colored glasses' except they're not rose colored, it's like they have glasses on that allows them to see the things they're told are truths and only those thing, never the reality, never the grey area that many of us do see or at least attempt to see.

I think we're speaking of indoctrination at this point, but that goes for both sides - the alt right, right wing extremists and hate groups are just as indoctrinated as the left wing extremists, radical green party members and this 'alt left' tumblrina fest.

Now here's the hard part; it is really easy to fight people. We can all join antifa or some alt-right shitposting group, meet up in Berkeley and fight it out, start beating each other with sticks like our friend @Smash was so proud of that he had to brag about how many nazi's he beats with sticks while wearing a mask to hide his identity.

But fighting ideas is extremely hard and even more so when they're literally ingrained into a subculture and seen as the ultimate truth, some sort of truth you need to obtain to become enlightened/educated. You can kill a person but you can't kill an idea. Sometimes I wonder if we've even gone too far into this pit for us to be able to 'fix' it with education or compromises or discussion.
In Frokane's Mildly Politcal Hangout Thread → 7 yrs ago Forum: Off-Topic Discussion
@Andreyich it's the queer straight alliance discord chat, a more tame and less charged version of the GSA if you will
In Frokane's Mildly Politcal Hangout Thread → 7 yrs ago Forum: Off-Topic Discussion
actually super easy to get even one or two sentences confused!


aren't you the guy that didn't know what the QSA was, then went 'what's the qsa' and when I informed you of what it was you said 'i should've known you're an enemy of the lgbt community'

thought so too

pot kettle black etc etc

In Naruto: Revival → 7 yrs ago Forum: Casual Roleplay
In Naruto: Revival → 7 yrs ago Forum: Casual Roleplay
Wanna drop my interest here as a precaution.
In ℰxpedition for the ℬanner of St. ℱriedrich → 7 yrs ago Forum: The Gallery
Najla’s eyes followed Yasamin’s movements carefully, watching as the girl nervously toyed with the hands she’d settled in her lap. Najla had invited her to sit at her desk in order to explain her presence, and now the girl was trying to find a delicate balance between being deferential enough to look away and respectful enough to meet her gaze. It was a thin line to walk, and Najla knew she was not making it any easier. With eyes narrowed over the thin black veil that covered her lower face, fingers drumming on the table before her, Najla presented an imposing confidant to the women before her.

<“You’re certain he heard my name? He understood nothing else?”>

<“Yes, Sultana.”>

Again, silence. Najla’s fingers continued to drum on the table as she took in this new information, trying to understand just what it meant for her. She’d learned that Ketill had been taken to her uncle after the first meeting, though not by the Sultan himself, who had seen no reason to inform his niece of this. There simply wasn’t a need to disturb her mourning, at least, that had been her father’s response when she sought to ask of his brother’s motives. For Najla, who had been fielding off attempts from both Osman and Harith to snatch her prized slave from her, the action felt far more loaded. This notion had only been confirmed when she realized she would not be brought face to face with the foreigners in her time here. Instead, she’d been kept hidden from the public eye as tradition demanded, unable to face any but her family in the forty days after Sa’aqr’s funeral. Yasamin’s appearance was a substantial exception to that rule, though the information she’d brought with her made Najla question whether tradition was the sole reason for this.

<“What of the others in the room, the guards and harem girls. What did he say of them?”>

<“Nothing, Sultana. I only asked about the foreigners.”>

Finally, Najla’s gaze released Yasamin, and she leaned back in her seat, glancing around the room as she tried to piece this new information together. She did not have much reason to believe what the girl was telling her, that Ketill had heard her name spoken, likely as a possible candidate for marriage. After all, Ketill’s knowledge of Sawarimic was extremely limited, whatever his account of the conversation would be, Najla trusted his eyes far more than his ears in such a regard. Beyond that, she had no reason to trust anything that came from Ketill, even if it came through Yasamin, who had more reason to provide Najla with accurate information. She could not even be certain if her name had come up as a candidate for marriage, perhaps it had been another context that called for it.

And yet, though she tried, Najla could think of no other context that would allow for her name to be called forward in such a manner. He had not noted the name of any other woman being spoken, a fact that settled uneasily in Najla’s stomach. Because, if this was true, it could not bode well for Osman. She knew that the duel had left the Sultan with a tainted view of her husband-to-be, but Najla could not imagine that the image of him had been warped so. Perhaps it had pushed him to realize something else, that she was being wasted on Osman. It wasn’t as if her uncle lacked enough daughters and nieces to make up for this position, but few of them carried the particular sort of prestige that had come with surviving Broacien and taming a beast. It was foolishness to give her to Osman, rather than offer her, story and all, to a prince, and Najla wondered if her uncle had realized this.

Regardless of her uncle’s intentions, Najla would only be able to react to this news with anger, feeling it bubble within her as she drummed her fingers onto her desk. If this was true, if her uncle had even considered sending her to be the wife of some foreign king, either before or after her engagement, then he had no concern for the years of service she had given him, no use for the information she took such care in obtaining, and above all, no interest in keeping Najla beside her family. Even with all that had happened, Najla took comfort in the knowledge that a marriage to Osman would keep her within the palace, where she could be among her blood. After all that she had suffered in Broacien, all Najla had wished for was to return to them, and now she was learning that her uncle was willing to send her to unknown lands, alongside an unknown prince. She had already been sent away once under his name, and though she tried to tell herself that this was an honor, being sent away as a brood mare to a foreign prince hardly felt like a reward. It was a position of great power, especially if Ketill’s description of the man as a king was truthful, though Najla could not afford to pay the price it’d require.

<“Sultana-“>

Najla’s thoughts snapped back to the girl in front of her, realizing she had been silent for quite some time. Yasamin seemed uncomfortable with calling her attention, but Najla’s expression did not change, nor did she speak, so Yasamin simply went ahead.

<“Did you wish for me to ask him about the guards?“>

<“Do you believe he’d be willing to tell you anything?”>

It was the only hope she’d have to limit these possibilities, to understand exactly what her uncle wanted from her, and yet Najla knew the answer before Yasamin spoke it.

<“He is never willing, Sultana, but I can ask.”>

Najla replied to that with a nonchalant click of her tongue, shaking her head just barely before she spoke again. <“Don’t push him. Anything he’d have to say won’t be worth you coercing it from him. Does he know you still speak to me?”>

The question came suddenly enough to visibly surprise Yasamin, though she recovered in mere seconds, seemingly thinking through her answer before she spoke it.

<“I don’t know, Sultana. I couldn’t say for sure, he’s never mentioned anything to me, but-“>

<“Instinct won’t allow you to say no. I understand. Does he still treat you well?”>

Najla asked the question every time she spoke to Yasamin, and the girl nodded in response, clearly used to these words. Najla spoke them almost as if she was genuinely concerned for her well-being, a fact they both knew to be untrue.

<“Yes, Sultana. I have no cause for concern or complaint.”>

<“I’m glad. You know what to do if that ever changes.”> Again, Yasamin nodded, and Najla leaned back, clearly satisfied with that. For a moment, it felt as if she were about to excuse her, but it seemed Najla was not quite done with her yet. <“You said the foreigners were dark men, darker even than the Rabiyah. Was their king as dark as the others? Did he say?”>

It was an odd question, although it would give Najla an insight to the conversation she would not otherwise have. More than anything, she wanted to come straight out and ask Yasamin if the king was handsome, if his movements were gentle, if he was a man she should fear or crave. He was too old for her taste as it were, but perhaps there was something redeeming in there after all. Unfortunately, it was not Yasamin who had seen his face, but Ketill, who had only said he looked like he could fight. Of course he wouldn’t notice anything else.

<“He would not answer my questions about his people. He only told me that the man’s skin was as dark as coal, and that his teeth were as white as…”> Her words faltered for a moment, and she glanced up to see Najla’s unblinking eyes trained upon her once more, expecting nothing less than the truth. <“I did not understand the word. But then he said they were as white as the whitest horse of the Sultan’s horse.”>

<“What was the word?”>

<“…Snow? I didn’t know what it was, Sultana, and he never explained.”> It was said after a long pause, with a great degree of hesitation, as if Yasamin could not quite believe she was speaking the right words. Had she been able to see Najla’s face, her fears would have been eased, for the Sultana broke into a small smile at the word. She had not heard it from another’s lips for some time. It was only when Najla began to speak again that Yasamin eased a little, confident now that she had not fed her the wrong information.

<“No need, I know what he intended.”> She had never seen it within the Sultanate’s borders, she’d only ever see it here when the sun rose backwards and the sky met the sand, Najla imagined. Yasamin’s curious gaze was ignored, and Najla did not seek to explain it to the girl. She’d tried to explain it to Sawarim before, but it was difficult to explain the concept itself. She’d spent a great deal of time trying to help Basim understand what she’d described as ‘cold, useless sand’, but she would not waste her breath explaining it to a harem girl.

<“If he mentions anything else, come speak to me once more.”> Najla moved to stand abruptly as she spoke, making it clear to Yasamin that the conversation was over. It was a particular sort of luxury to be able to dictate the conversation as she pleased, and one that Ketill had never been willing to allow her. Yet Yasamin stood as the Sultana did, bowing her head to her as she waited for Najla to offer her parting words, or rather, a final command. <“But if you come to find me during mourning again, do so more discreetly. Your fate is not tied to the Servant’s anymore, but you are still his, there are few who do not know your face.”>

<“I-“> Najla had nearly turned around, expecting that Yasamin would just leave, but it seemed Najla’s words had startled her. While she had few qualms about pressing Ketill for information, Yasamin faltered slightly when Najla turned her gaze back to her. Still, Najla seemed impatient, urging the girl to speak.

<“What is it? If you have a question, ask.”>

<“Forgive me Sultana, I just didn’t know- are you giving me to another?”>

<“No.”> Najla’s eyes traced over the girl, reading the curiosity in her eyes. She would not make Yasamin ask another question, having guessed at what had given her cause for confusion. <“You are still his servant, but his fate does not determine yours. You have proven yourself to be of great value to me, whatever Ketill might bring upon himself, he cannot bring it to you. Go now, and rest easy. You will understand soon.”>

Yasamin nodded and turned, endless questions still brimming in her eyes. Still, she would not ask them, and Najla seemed certain that she would not go to Ketill with this new information. Hopefully, she would not be foolish enough to do so, for it would immediately reveal just who Yasamin came to visit, or more likely, confirm Ketill’s suspicions. Even if she did, it would not matter. Najla had made her mind up as to what Ketill’s fate would be, and now could only wait until another decided her own. She listened to the girl close the door behind her before Najla finally ripped off that cumbersome veil, moving to lay down on her bed as new thoughts swam through her mind. Her wedding to Osman would still take place after the mourning period was over, all that was left to do was wait and see if her husband lived until then.



Najla had expected the month-long mourning period to feel like years, but the weeks passed by all too quickly. Her conversation with Yasamin had been enough to occupy her mind quite well initially, though Najla took little action beyond thought. After all, it would be useless to fight her uncle’s will on this matter, whatever it may be. She was still angry that he would think to send her away so carelessly, to toy with her life in such a manner, but Najla was not stupid to believe she would have been an exception. If anything, she was angrier with herself, furious at the small tinge of relief she felt regarding the notion. It would restore a great deal of honor to her family, to have their daughter as a queen of sorts for a foreign king, what did it matter that she’d be sold like cattle to do it. Najla would find herself in a position of great power, and perhaps more importantly, out of Osman’s reach. In many ways, her uncle might have been doing her a kindness, but Najla would never know, would never even seek to know. It felt like a mirage, a promise of a new reality when her fate had been sealed within this one. The price to shift her path was far too high now, but perhaps she would be forced to pay it regardless.

Though Najla did not seek to act upon the information Yasamin had given her, she continued to gather all the information she could regarding the foreigners. Their arrival had been secretive, but Najla had easy access to the few that knew of their presence, and it was no difficult feat to gather such information from them. It satisfied nothing more than curiosity however, for Najla would not even be brought before the foreigners, despite how often she had worried about such an encounter. She was mourning her brother-in-law after all, Najla was hardly surprised that the Sultan had not called for her. Grieving was a near holy process among the Sawarim, and though Najla shed no tears for Sa’aqr, it would have been an insult to the Al-Suwaidi if she were to disturb her grieving with foreign guests. Rather, her forty days were spent shielded from any besides her family, disturbed only by the occasional presence of her husband to be.

It had been a shock the first time she’d seen him, when he’d made his way into her room in the afternoon, his face still scarred with grief, the black of his clothes seeming to swallow him up. She’d reached up to her lips, still healing, but found it unnecessary. He did not strike her that day, and though his anger slipped in a few of the visits that followed, Najla had noticed a new sense of restraint about him. She’d wanted to believe that his grief was fading, but that was not the truth, she could see it every time she looked into his eyes. They were still ghosts to one another, any conversation they held was brief and forced at first, marred by grief and resentment. They’d discuss little details of the wedding, without any of the excitement they used to hold in such conversations, instead hurriedly agreeing on unimportant details so that Osman could return to his grieving and Najla to her solitude. It was better that way.

But as their visits increased, the forced nature seemed to fade, especially as Osman’s grief was healing. At least, Najla might have imagined that his grief was fading, considering that his restraint was bleeding into all his actions. He was not speaking to her so harshly, his touch was gentler the few times she felt it, but the grief was there, still waiting. Whatever the reason for his change, she would never seek to know, only hoping that perhaps it’d be permanent. They would continue as if it was. Najla continued to plan the details of her wedding from behind the curtain of mourning that hid her from the world, as if she was certain she would be allowed to marry him. Thus, as the mourning period finally ended and the foreigners left the palace, Najla was left with a wedding that was all but set in motion, still half-hoping it would have been snatched from her.

<“That dress is wasted on Osman. It’s a pity, honestly. You would’ve been a queen.”> Zahira’s voice was as playful as usual, though Najla knew she was not just teasing now. Tearing her gaze off of her own reflection in the mirror, Najla glanced back at where Zahira was reclining on the cushions, watching her with a grin on her face.

<“Zahira, sss.”> Beside Zahira, Najla’s sister Nura sat as well, occupied with the Arghyle, or waterpipe, that had been brought in to occupy the Sultanas as they watched their blood. They had both come in just after the mourning period was over, dragging their husbands to the capital to help Najla prepare for her wedding. It had been a remarkable relief to have them back by her side once more, but it was nowhere near the relief that had come with the end of the mourning period itself. Her bruises had healed, she had shed the dreary black, and most importantly, both she and Osman were still breathing. The foreigners had left the palace and Najla had been left behind to follow the path she’d set for herself. Whether for better or for worse, she did not know, but Zahira had made up her own opinion regarding the matter. Still, Nura seemed quite uncomfortable with letting her speak it, glancing over at the tailor before continuing. <“You can’t speak so freely, we’re surrounded by more than scorpions now.”>

Hearing Nura’s words, Najla glanced down at the girl that was stitching her dress, only to frown slightly. She hadn’t said a word since entering the room, only obeying their orders quietly, though her work was clearly expert. She had not thought it strange, used to silent slaves, but Zahira’s words would explain the notion all too easily.

<“She’s a mute, no need to worry.”>

Najla looked down at the girl with a fixed stare now, who was working as if to ignore the fact that these Sultanas seemed so comfortable talking so crudely about her within her presence. Likely, she was used to it. Najla however, kept her eyes on the girl as she spoke, curious as to her situation.

<“By birth?”>

The girl glanced up at Najla, surprised that she was addressing the issue so casually. In reply, she merely shook her head, at which Najla felt a sudden surge of pity for the woman. Though she was noticeably older than the Sultana’s around her, the light of youth had not yet faded from her face. She had wide, doe-like eyes, clear olive skin, all the potential to be a true Sawarim beauty. It left little question as to what had caused her to fall into such a position, but Zahira would volunteer the information anyways, eager to sate Nura’s curiosity.

<“Ahumia had found reason to bring her to her husband’s estate, some years ago. She had taken a liking to her work, and Ahumia’s husband had taken a liking to her. After she caught them together, she made certain no one else would ever know of the shame and sent her to me, which I then gave to you.”>

Najla clicked her tongue in sympathy, only to look down at the slave. She had threatened to use this same punishment upon Ketill, but was not certain she’d ever have the stomach to go through with it. Looking down at the woman, Najla was now certain of it.

<“Poor thing.”> The woman looked up in surprise, only to startle once she saw Najla’s gaze upon her. It seemed she was used to be talked about like an absent presence, especially judging by the way Zahira spoke of her, but to be pitied was new. After all, she was alive, most in her position could not ask for such luck. <“It’s not easy to say no to a Prince, is it?”>

The girl shook her head, but before Najla or her could do anything more, Zahira picked up the conversation, tired of talking about her new gift. If only she had felt Najla’s annoyance when she’d brought Ketill.

<“Same goes for you Najla, though you would have been quite well off. Don’t you agree, Nura? The symbol of a new peace between two kingdoms, from a princess to a queen, Najla would have been much better off there. A position of greater power, a marriage to a king-“>

<“A king I do not know, a people I do not know, and a husband I do not know.”>

<“I don’t know, sister.”> Nura finally spoke up, taking a moment to let out a soft exhale of smoke before speaking again, the careless attitude of someone who knew others would wait for their words. <“From what I heard of the foreigners, you’d spend your life drowning in gold.”>

<“Yes, and from what I heard, they meant to take me as their foreign brood mare.”>

Najla spoke harshly, no longer entertaining their teasing gestures. It had been a nerve-wracking experience to wait until the foreigners left, always waiting for the day she’d wake up and find her husband dead. It had been a blessing and a curse to see them leave before the mourning period was over, allowing her to continue with her wedding as planned. Her eyes traced over her image in the mirror again, ignoring the frail slave that crouched at her feet now, pinning the dress to the Sultana’s liking. Najla smoothed her hands over the fine fabric, before reaching a hand up to tuck her hair behind her ear, speaking without tearing her eyes from her own reflection.

<“Perhaps I should place my trust in my own eyes, and nothing more.”>

<“It’d make your job quite difficult, Aynaya.”> Zahira responded, to which Najla found herself grinning in return as well, though it faded quickly as Zahira continued to speak. <“What will you do with the girl who fed you this falsehood?”>

<“She fed me the Servant’s understanding, it wasn’t met to be a falsehood.”> Najla replied, though the kinder reasoning would soon give way to another, one that was far more truthful. <“Besides, her position is one of use to me. I am not a fool to risk it.”>

<“Does that mean you are keeping the Servant then?”>

<“In a way.”>

Najla would not elaborate on this, instead, swiveling around on her position to give the two women a view of her dress. She had made up her mind regarding what to do with Ketill some time ago, a precarious compromise between her family, her husband, and her own safety. It would not last, Najla was certain of that, but it was the only option she held. It would be a bitter medicine for all of them to swallow, but she would try to ignore that now, focusing on far more pleasant subjects.

<“Forget all that. What do you think?”>

The dress itself was magnificent, as if designed solely to showcase the wealth of the Sultan and his kin. In Sawarimic tradition, the dress was dyed a rich, deep green, meant to mimic the color of paradise. Adorning it were gold and jewels of various sizes and shapes, meticulously patterned along the dress so that it glistened with every movement. It was a difficult feat for the tailor to follow this delicate pattern of jewels all while maintaining the perfect fit as well, but the Sawarim would allow no compromise on either. The dress was meant to fit along her figure so perfectly she would likely have to be sewed into the dress itself on the day of her wedding, with long sleeves, a skirt that grazed the floor under her, and a neckline that revealed only her collarbone, leaving just enough room for a thick cluster of necklaces. Even with the sheer amount of gold that had been stitched into the dress itself, Najla would don the gifts she was given that night. Though she was expected only to wear a few pieces from her own family and her new one, it would still be enough to weigh her down upon her wedding itself, she was certain of it.

<“It’s blinding. You look like the sun itself.”> Despite her teasing words, Nura had finally abandoned the arghyle to stand and approach her younger sister. They looked even less similar than Zahira and Najla, for Nura had taken after her father and Harith, with those flashing eyes Najla still envied. Yet as Nura smiled, Najla’s own mimicked hers so perfectly, there could be no mistaking their linkage. Nura took Najla’s hand in hers, holding it gently as she looked her up and down, taking in the dress.

<“You look beautiful, sister. Osman has been blessed by God.”> Before Najla or Zahira could respond, Nura kissed her sisters cheek affectionately, before turning to look down at the slave that was still crouched somewhat, trying to work around the Sultana’s as she fit the skirt even tighter. <“Go bring her veil, I should like to see it all together.”>

The slave stuck a final pin in before standing and nodding, quickly running off to fulfill the Sultana’s request. As she did so, Zahira’s voice came again, calling attention to that which Nura had hoped to ease over.

<“Will he be coming today?”>

Najla did not say anything for a moment. Proceeding with her wedding celebrations had been a strange transition to make from mourning. Though Osman had come to visit her on occasion, and had been ready to proceed with their wedding as planned, few could pretend it was a normal situation. Few even tried, besides Osman himself, it often seemed. Though the family of the groom was meant to be present at much of these preparations, especially to come by and see their daughter in laws dress, Najla knew better than to expect their presence here today. They would be coming to the henna night, nothing more, she assumed, so this forced air of normality felt strange to her, and unnecessary. They would follow only the traditions they had to, ignoring the ones they didn’t, and for what? She would be part of their family at the end of it all anyways, why take a Sultana in if only to distance her from their own family? It made little sense, but to those outside either family, it seemed as if they were doing only what the Sawarim demanded of them. To those within the families, the tension was still palpable, but they could do little more other than assume the same.

<“Najla, don’t worry. It doesn’t matter if he does.“>

<“He’ll come.”> The certainty in Najla’s voice cut off Zahira’s attempt to comfort her. Najla’s eyes flashed as she glanced between her sister and cousin, suddenly more certain in her words than ever before. <“He said he would.”>

<“Aynaya-“>

<“Oh, the veil! It’s lovely!”>

Nura’s excited voice cut between the two women. Najla’s eyes were determined as she set them upon Zahira, certain beyond all reasonable hope that Osman would come to see her, even without his mother present. Zahira and Nura knew of his visits, but did not share Najla’s certainty, believing that he’d only grow more difficult once they were officially married. This was seen in Zahira’s gaze, near worried as she looked onto her cousins determined expression, but their eye contact was broken as Nura reached for the veil, placing it upon her sister’s head and over her face. It was sheer and jeweled delicately, so that Najla’s face could still be seen from underneath it, waiting to remain half-hidden until her husband lifted it. Nura secured it with the thin golden circlet, forcing a smile onto her face as she stepped back.

<“Doesn’t she look beautiful, Zahira?”>

<“Truly. May the Sawarim bless your union.”>

As sudden as Nura’s actions had been, they served their purpose, allowing the women to return to far easier topics. They prodded at Najla, indicating how they wanted the tailor to fix her dress, discussing what jewels she’d wear with it, all the details that would distract them from the truth of this wedding. They would not be able to continue this conversation for long, as a sudden knock on the door sounded, and they sent off the slave girl to answer it. It was unnecessary however, for Najla knew that her family would not bother to knock, and there was no one else who had cause to disturb her.

Even still, she was slightly surprised to see Osman walk in, though not quite as surprised as her family. He was still dressed in black, even though the mourning period was over, and would likely continue to do so until the day of their wedding. It made a rather severe contrast to his lover, who stood before him in green and gold, her eyes tracing his movements in the mirror, from behind the thin veil. The first time she saw her husband in the mirror was meant to be on the night of their wedding, where she would lift her veil to see her future smiling at her for the first time. Rather, he’d fulfilled his promise only to show himself in his mourning clothes, an unintentional glimpse of the future she feared he’d truly promised her. It was superstition, nothing more, Najla told herself as she turned to face him.

<“You came.”>

Her voice was warm as he stepped towards her, almost as if she were smiling, though Osman could see quite clearly that she was not, even from behind her veil. Rather than respond to her immediately, he turned to where Nura and Zahira sat, bowing before them, then turned back to his bride-to-be. Though Zahira looked quite surprised to see him standing there, Nura hid her surprise far better.

<“I told you I would.”> Though his response sounded kind, there was little emotion behind it, almost as if he were stating a fact. It was little different from his behavior before, as Najla felt as if he was simply living their relationship as he remembered, not as he felt it now. Still, she could only be happy that he was here, and looked towards her family expectantly. Nura understood at the first glance, standing up and snatching Zahira’s arm, preparing to pull her out.

<“We’ll return with mother once the dress has been properly fitted, she is quite excited to see it. Come cousin, there’s much to do.”>

Osman bowed to the Sultana’s once more before they turned to go, and a flick of Najla’s hand was enough to send the tailor after them, leaving her and her husband alone. A few weeks ago, Najla would have feared such a situation, enough to feel her heart pound in her chest at the thought. Now, he was merely a ghost, and a ghost could not harm her. Rather, he took in the sight of his bride-to-be. For a moment, Najla waited, hoping to hear something, anything, that might betray how he felt. They had been speaking of their dreams of marriage for years, after all, even if it was no longer a pleasant fantasy, it had startled Najla somewhat to see it inch closer. Osman showed none of that, merely looking upon her with something unknown. It was the same expression she’d seen since as his presence had started to calm, as if he was trying to hide his grief from her. She could not quite tell whether he was restraining his hands or tongue, but she could feel it all the same. He’d only failed in containing it at the beginning of the mourning, nothing quite like what she’d seen in the temple. Now, he did not caress her nor did he strike her, rather his presence haunted her like a silent, patient ghost. What he was waiting for, she could not tell, but it was hardly as if she could keep him from taking it.

<“How much of his flesh did your father sell for that dress?”>

Najla found herself smiling slightly, so barely she was certain Osman could not see it. Even though they could not pretend at love, could do little for more than appearances, it was clear that they could not shed their familiarity with one another. After so many years together, it was near impossible to pretend they were strangers, though at times it seemed they both wished to be.

<“It was worth it, don’t you think? Tahir’s new gift goes splendidly with it.”>

With that, Najla walked towards the dresser, careful to move comfortably in her dress. She reached out, taking two splendid golden earrings off the table, only to hold them up to Osman. He took a few steps forward to inspect them, there was still a distance between him and his bride to be, though he did not need to bridge it. The light glistened off the earrings, making her point regarding their splendor difficult to argue with.

<“I thought the Servant was his gift to you.”>

<“He is no longer mine. It’s fitting he should have sent another gift, though he did not know that. This was a kindness.”>

<“You’ve decided then.”>

Najla bit her lip carefully, gently moving to rest the earrings on the dresser. She had not told Osman her decision regarding Ketill, and truthfully, did not believe he would be happy about it. It was too precarious of a situation, though Najla had little other choice. With a soft sigh, she moved to lift her veil, so that she could speak to him clearly.

<“Yes. I won’t change his master. He is mine now, so he will be yours in name.”>

<“In name?”>

<“His new position will be under Harith. Your property will serve the Prince.”>

Osman’s eyes studied her with something unknown, something that even their years together could not explain to her. They both knew just what it meant. Najla had given Osman control of Ketill, she had not been able to escape that, but he would go through hell if he wanted to touch him. Harith would find some task for him, he’d have far more use for a man like that than she would, though it worried her to think of Ketill surrounded by weaponry. More than a purpose, Harith would be the barrier between Ketill and Osman, placed just as Najla herself was removed. It meant that if Ketill stepped out of bounds, if he crossed the thin line she’d drawn, he would be removed from all protection. Otherwise, he was untouchable. She’d placed his life on a thin, tense rope, hoping to satisfy the demands of her family and husband alike. Najla waited silently as Osman tried to process this information, but to her surprise, he was not angry. It was that newly familiar look of restraint again, and he nodded briskly.

<“Fine.”>

<“Fine?”>

<“Yes. I don’t give a damn about his position, so long as I retain all his rights in name.”>

Najla did not respond. There was no need. She had technically relinquished control, Ketill was a debate between Osman and Harith now, one she would forever remain trapped in the center of. She feared for their future disagreements, wondering if one day she’d be torn between losing another brother or becoming a widow. In this sense, Ketill’s death seemed nothing short of a blessing now, though she was distracted from her thoughts as Osman took a few steps towards her, bridging the gap between them.

<“Who did you stand up to in making this decision, me or your brother?”>

<“My own pride, mostly.”> Najla looked up at him, her expression softening somewhat. This was the closest they’d been in some time, another teasing hint of normalcy when the truth was anything but. <“In truth, I do not believe I’ve ever made a good decision regarding the Servant. They have all driven me farther from you. If this does not drive you to hate me more than you do already, then pride be damned, I will not regret this decision.”>

<“Our language is just a toy to you. You spoke quite those same words to Basim when he was angry about the Al-Uba’yd, don’t you remember?”>

<“Yes. And I love him, just as I love you.”>

<“Liar.”> For once, Najla did not flinch as that insult spilled from his lips. He was not angry with her, not now. There was simply no need to lie about their situation any longer, at least, not to each other. He was here to play the loving husband-to-be, but only to those outside the walls, who could not hear the truth. Perhaps they’d believe he forgot his brother’s death so soon, but both Najla and Osman knew otherwise. <“Don’t tell me you still love me. You’re not that stupid.”>

The words shot through Najla like an arrow, a wound she knew Osman could see in her eyes. She had not expected such words to hurt her so, and it seemed that Osman had not expected them to hurt, but there was a truth to it.

<“I don’t know.”> Her voice was soft as she spoke again, as if she was threatening to spill into tears, though her expression did not waver as she looked upon Osman. <“I don’t know what it is not to love you. You’ve been part of me for so long, deeper than the roots of the olive tree. It feels like I’ve been made a widow already.”>

<“Perhaps you will be.”>

<“God forbid.”> Najla replied swiftly, suddenly easily able to pretend that it was an unheard of notion to her. <“It doesn’t matter how we feel. We’re not children, to call after Leyli and Majnun. You are the blood in my veins, the Sawarim has given me no choice but you. My fate was sealed the night our eyes met.”>

There it was again, that expression she could not understand, though far softer now. It was a strange sight, for Najla had not been lying to Osman, or at least, she did not believe she was. There was no one more familiar to her, and yet, he held something from her, something she could not read. Before she could study his eyes for too long, he gripped her cheek, the kindest touch she’d felt from him since before Sa’aqr’s death. He could not bring himself to touch her afterwards, and so to feel him lean in now, kissing her forehead gently, was a shock she had not expected her words to bring.

<“I’m ordering the Servant to be at the wedding. Will your brother take issue with this?”>

<“He is yours now.”> Najla replied as Osman released her, taking a step back. Their visit was over, she could tell that he was ready to leave, just as she was ready to see him go. Still, she frowned slightly as his request, unsure of why he would want Ketill to be present when he despised him so. Likely to torment him during the wedding, or perhaps to offer him as a gift to another where Harith could not reach him. It hardly mattered, if Ketill was dead, she would breathe easier. <“It’s a strange request, but it’s not mine to fulfill.”>

<“I’ll talk it through with him. I should go. My mother was not too happy that I came, she insisted I make it quick.”>

<“I’m glad you did.”>

Osman moved as if to go, having spent the time as he wanted to. There would be none that doubted they followed the required traditions now, up until the wedding night, they would be free of one another’s presence. He hesitated however, turning back to look at her. For a long moment, Najla waited for him to say something, but only stood quietly as he took in her wedding dress, his thoughts unknown to her.

<“What is it?”>

<“You look beautiful. I could not have imagined.”>

Najla wanted to smile at the compliment, but there was a sadness in his voice now. Rather than linger in it, he turned to leave, walking out of the door with a haste that left Najla worried. He’d left her with many questions and a heavy heart, and Najla turned back to the mirror, eager for her family to return as distract her from both.



The Ibrat Al-Layl was to meant to be the favorite night of every bride, a final chance to celebrate with her family before she became part of her husbands, but Najla only felt ill as it approached. Not only was she opting to be permanently marked as one of Osman’s tribe, a woman of the Al-Suwaidi, she was going to do so in a room full of those very women. Though the mourning period had ended by the time of the celebrations, there was little to convince Najla that night would go about easily. The worries would only begin to erode as each of her family members came into the capital for the ceremony, one by one, so that she felt far more confident as the night approached. However, she could not ignore a sensation that had lingered in her mind, urging her to approach such joyous occasions with the utmost caution.

It was getting easier to quiet that sensation as the sun dipped beneath the horizon, and Najla arrived at the courtyard, giggling alongside her sister and cousins. Nura gripped at her arm, pulling her into the gardens, and her other hand was occupied by a cup filled halfway with that venom she so despised. Despite all the difficulties that had led to this night, there was no choice but to enjoy it now. She had prepared for this night with the company of her family, trading gossip and wine until Najla felt prepared enough to face the women who were waiting for her. And so she entered the courtyard with her family, dressed exquisitely, already affected by the alcohol, and nearly in tears from whatever Nura was whispering in her ear. Najla quieted quickly as they entered the courtyard however, silenced by the far more somber appearance of those waiting.

It was a beautiful sight, truly, those who worked within the palace did their jobs well. They had taken the smaller courtyard below Najla’s window, the one that was restricted solely to the women of the palace, and as such, the obvious choice for nights like this. The gardens were thick and green still, and the pools were already occupied, mostly by the younger girls that would otherwise be clutched at their mother’s skirts. All around them, candles had been placed around the courtyard, illuminating every inch possible. As she remembered during her engagement party, candles had been placed to float in the pools as well, though their effect was dulled by the children who splashed around them, under the watchful eyes of their mothers. Food and drink practically spilled over their trays, constantly offered to the women who sat on cushions around the center of the courtyard. It was little different from most of the parties held within the capital, if it were not for the sole presence of female slaves and eunuch guards. Musicians sat at the edge of the courtyard, playing for women who danced freely, uncaring what of their body was and wasn’t covered when men were not present. However, they parted as Najla moved through to sit on a Takht before them all, where she could view the courtyard. Here, her mother waited for her, as did two faces that were far less happy to see her, and a somber reminder in the midst of a happy night.

<“Mother.”> Najla stepped out of the small group of women, bowing before her mother first. She took her hand, pressing it against her forehead before rising. Her mother leaned in, kissing her on the cheek softly, before releasing her to face Osman’s mother.

At this, Najla turned, bowing again before the woman. She was trying to maintain her expression, that much was clear, but Najla recognized that look in her eyes. It was the same glare she’d seen just before the trial, only now, it was tinged with grief. Still, she would not speak nor show it, only allowing Najla to take her hand and bow as she had done to her own mother. They exchanged no words, and Najla was allowed to pass along to Elif without further trouble, though the awkward nature of the exchange had not been lost on the women behind her.

It would only grow worse, for Elif and Najla were no longer meant to bow to one another. Najla knew the tradition, the two of them were sisters now, she was meant to kiss her cheek like an equal. Instead, Najla only nodded her head at her, a brief gesture of acknowledgement. She could never pretend that Elif was her equal.

Behind her, the women began to whisper, and Najla was certain that if she listened closely enough, she would be able to distinguish their conversations. The women of the Al-Suwaidi were likely gossiping regarding their Sultana, whispering about her audacity to kill a man and then bow before his mother so, before walking past his wife. Meanwhile, any woman who bore the name Al-ibn-Wahad was speaking of Najla’s position, how difficult it must have been for her to even nod towards a woman who had spoken to her in such a manner. And somewhere deep in the midst of it all, she could have sworn she heard another voice taunting her, telling her just how low she’d sunk. There was nothing to do but ignore it, and Najla stepped back, ready to take her seat.

Elif returned the nod, though Najla had expected there to be something…else. More venom, perhaps, or even a sort of smug pride. Instead, Elif showed little emotion, and when she returned to her seat, she was even smiling as she spoke to the women beside her. Najla took her seat then, frowning slightly as her eyes began to trace over the women.

She had expected far more. There was no need for that sensation in the pit of her stomach, if it were not for those expectations. After all, Najla had seen the way Osman’s mother looked at her. That woman would be satisfied to see her dead, though she had greeted Najla as respectfully as custom demanded. The other women of the Al-Suwaidi were similar, they seemed to be enjoying themselves, though Najla couldn’t help but note that the two families were reluctant to mingle. Otherwise, nothing seemed too far off, and this was exactly what ate at her thoughts now. Perhaps the pride of obtaining a Sultana truly was above that of losing a brother, but Najla could not allow herself to linger on these thoughts for too long. If she was worried about any of the Al-Suwaidi, it would have been her husband. Instead, she turned her body slightly to lean into her mother’s ear, speaking as she looked over the courtyard to where the older women had gathered some of the younger girls, launching into the familiar stories to a captive audience. The sounds of music had halted as they spoke, and besides the whispers of playful conversation, Najla could hear little but the story itself now, bringing a strange eeriness onto the courtyard.

<“They were so quick to start the stories, I thought I would have more time-“>

<“You would have, if you hadn’t been hiding from your mother-in-law.”>

Her mother’s response was sharp, though she raised a hand to touch the thick hair that pooled down Najla’s shoulders now, moving it over her shoulder to see the details of her dress more clearly. It was a kind gesture, one that served to dispel some of Najla’s nerves regarding the night ahead, though she decided that the venom she drank had been far more effective.

<“I’m a grown woman, I wasn’t hiding.”>

<“There was no need to, look how easily the night is going. Your wedding will go just as smoothly, only if you relax and enjoy it.”>

<“If God wills it.”>

Najla’s mother repeated the phrase back to her, before finally releasing her daughter’s hair so that they might hear the rest of the story, and the voice of the animated old woman was suddenly forefront in Najla’s mind.

<“Though the crowd threw their stones, Majnun continued to yell, saying there was no God if not Leyli, until finally, a woman began to speak. Her voice rang out over the crowd, as sweet as a desert date, as she called ‘please! Do not beat my lover! For he is not in his senses, so you must all come to your senses for him!’”>

Najla smiled as she watched the young girls, their eyes wide as they followed the old woman’s story carefully. They were sure to hear it again, as Najla had many times over, but it was a story she had adored as a young girl. It was not hard to imagine their excitement, as she could easily recall hers, when she had begged her mother to tell her the story. The tale was a common one throughout the Sultanate, though it’s exact telling varied by tribe. She had always preferred the version her mother’s tribe had told, for the Nasir tribe were one of the few that granted it a happy ending. The capital was not quite so kind to its listeners.

<“She lifted her veil, and in the face of such a great beauty, the crowd parted. Leyli ran to her lover, draping her body over his as she pleaded. ‘May I take his pain, for I have taken his sanity as well. It is the copper of my skin that makes him curse the sky, the red of my lips, the arch of my brow. If you must stone a man for his insanity, beat that which has caused it!’ Upon hearing her words, the crowd lowered their stones, for none could bear to hurt Majnun, for fear that they would bruise Leyli’s lovely skin. They saw that she spoke the truth, for Majnun found a new strength in her arms, standing though his body was bruised and bloodied, so that his lover could help return him home.”>

<“So he lived? Were they married?”>

The old woman chuckled, for she had told this story often enough to grow used to the children’s disappointment when the ending they sought was not the truth. It was not a stories purpose to end well, Najla had been told when she had complained as a child, but to impart a new wisdom onto the listeners.

<“Leyli pleaded for it. She loved him too, you see, and so she pleaded with her father as Majnun recovered from his wounds. He laid in bed for 20 nights, and every night, Leyli fell to her father’s feet before evening prayer. There, she pleaded with her father to allow them to marry, for she knew that Majnun would only be cured if he were allowed to possess the softness of her heart for himself. Upon the 20th night, Majnun rose from his bed, and pleaded the same of her father. The nights of pleading had softened her father’s heart, and he did not wish to hurt his lovely daughter, but, he could not allow them to marry.”>

<“Why not?!”>

<“Majnun had cursed his God. He had put Leyli in his God’s place, believing that she was higher than him. Her father refused, saying that the only punishment for such blasphemy was stoning, and that by recovering from his wounds, Majnun had avoided repentance. Yet as Leyli began to cry, her father could not bear to see his daughter’s suffering, and so he refused to stone her lover. ‘If my daughter wishes to take on your pain, I will not hurt you, for I cannot hurt her.’ Thus, he banished Majnun to wander the desert for 40 days and nights, twice the time it had taken him to recover. ‘Go’, he said to Majnun, ‘and if you return, then I know God has cleansed your sins, and so you will have my daughter.’ And so Majnun left, and for 40 days and nights he walked, and no food nor water touched his lips, for beside the sweetness of her lips, even the ripest grapes tasted of ash. The first night, he forgot the name of the moon, for in his darkness, that too, became Leyli. Then, the sun was forgotten, and its name too, became Leyli. He wandered this way for 40 days and nights, and when the final night came, Majnun wept tears of joy, for he knew he could return to his lover once more, and tell her of how he had survived. When he sought to return home, he found that north was Leyli, but so too was south. There was no star to direct him, for they too, were Leyli, no wind that could lead him, for they all spoke her voice. And so he fell to his knees, realizing that he had not been granted repentance, and that he would never be cured of his madness.”>

<“What?”> The outraged cry of the young girls caused a sudden ripple of laughter among the women present, who had all heard the story before. In some versions, Leyli died, for she had taken on the pain of her lover and starved in his place. In others, he returned, only to find his lover married. Yet this version, the one in which Majnun suffered eternally, it was the most common told within the walls of Al-Tirazi, and the old woman’s next words made it obvious as to why.

<“Our God is not a weak God, but he is a merciful one. Majnun will live on forever, long after Leyli has passed, for he needs only her memory to subsist. If you are ever alone in the desert, the wind will certainly carry her name to you, for Majnun wanders it still. And if you are brave enough to follow this particular wind, you will find a frail man, his throat hoarse with years of calling, his eyes blinded by sand, still searching. But he will be smiling. For though his madness was not cured, our God deepened it, so that all before Majnun is Leyli, and so that the madman would be satisfied in his madness.”>

The story ended, the young girls began to speak amongst themselves as they dispersed, most being called back to their mothers, while others ran off towards the elegant platings of food. Najla’s eyes were not upon the children however, but upon the woman that moved to kneel before her now. She was a woman well into her forties, a respected Mother within the palace. The Al-Suwaidi tribe had offered to bring someone of their own to do the job, most tribes typically did, but it had been refused as politely as possible. Those who came in such close proximity to the royal family had to be held in the utmost confidence, and the way Najla nodded her head at her in greeting made it clear that she was such a woman.

<“You know what that story means, Sultana?”>

<“Unfortunately.”> Najla replied, reaching out for her wine glass. She raised it to her lips before the Mother could protest, downing the remainder as she heard a few of her cousins giggling behind her. Zahira’s enthusiastic cackle was the loudest, especially since she knew the pain Najla was about to receive. The end of the famed story of Leyli and Majnoon meant that it was time for her to be marked with that eternal symbol, the one that they claimed would help these lovers connect as Leyli and Majnoon were never meant to. It was an excuse, they all knew the story was a distraction, but she did not mind pretending otherwise.

<“Sultana, please, I’m begging you not to drink. This is delicate work-“>

The way the woman spoke made it rather obvious that she was used to dealing with the royal family, a strange notion for the Al-Suwaidi women, who would spend most of the night dancing gracefully around their own words. These women were held in the highest of confidence, they birthed the royal family’s children, patched their scrapes as children, introduced the princesses to womenhood, and for their position, they were afforded some leniency in their speech. It was often necessary, in fact, as Najla made clear when she ignored the woman to finish off her wine, setting it down again only when it was empty.

<“Don’t deny me a drink before you prick needles into my skin, that’s cruel.”>

<“They’ll hurt her if she fucks up because you’re bleeding too much. Have some compassion.”>

This voice was clearly not that of the Mother before her, but her cousin Zahira, who had silently moved beside her to whisper in her ear like a snake. Najla grinned at her words, looking down at the Mother who took her right hand now, pulling it forward as she looked over it.

<“Don’t try to feed me that, I was the one sneaking you sips of venom every time the Mother so much as blinked on your night.”>

Zahira laughed at the memory, resting a hand on Najla’s shoulder gently as she straightened up. <“Of course. It’s criminal for a woman to be sober on her Ibrat Al-Layl.”> Najla felt her pat her shoulder gently before walking away, and she barely heard Zahira’s words as the Mother placed Najla’s hand on a steady surface, just beside the needles and a small stone basin containing a dark mixture.

<“I’ll get you something to smoke instead.”>

As the Mother began tracing over her hand, drawing out the design, voices began to rise up before where she sat, as did the patter of feet as others moved to stand, eager to dance to this new song. The Al-Suwaidi were far more somber, and most chose to remain seated, but the royal women did not seem to mind, for they were quite content to dance with themselves. The song was a familiar one, though for once, Najla would not raise her voice to join the others. Her eyes were on the pattern that was developing on her skin, the thick lines that followed the same pattern as Elif’s, as Osman’s mother, as all the women that would rather see her dead than family. Their displeasure would not matter, but Najla chose to ignore that possibility altogether, focusing on the rising voices of the women and the drum that beat relentlessly behind them.



The songs continued as the Mother traced the design into her skin, making certain that it was symmetrical, above all. The Sawarim valued this symmetry highly, as could be seen in the designs of their art, their palaces and temples, and in the careful lines the woman drew upon her now. It seemed there was no mark without another to match, just as there was no God without his wife, no life without death, and no union without dissolution. Najla took a final inhale of the pipe, passing it back to Zahira. Before she could even nod at the woman that she was ready, Najla let out a soft hiss, the smoke fleeing her mouth as the woman pierced through her skin.

<“Ya Sawarim, that stings.”> The woman did not relent, clearly used to working through a princesses complaints. For Najla’s part, she did not move her hand, trying to quiet the urge to pull it away or smack the poor woman who was causing her such pain. Rather, she turned her face up to her cousin, who stood beside the wooden platform where they sat, grinning widely. The smirk stretched that thin line down her chin slightly, making the reason for her laughter even clearer.

<“Didn’t I tell you I wasn’t just bitching?”>

<“You’re still bitching.”>

Zahira did not respond, but only laughed when the Mother continued to trace along this design, pricking the needle in and out of Najla’s flesh. Najla let out another hiss as she pierced her skin again, though now it was her mother’s voice that replied, far gentler than Zahira’s.

<“Not too loud, or they’ll think you’re too weak to bear children.”>

Najla could have rolled her eyes at those words, annoyed by her mother’s advice. Those were superstitions of the tribe she had come from, one far deeper into the desert than any of the women who surrounded them now. Her female relatives were pampered, the only pain they felt came in their monthly bleedings or in childbearing. The women of the Al-Suwaidi were not quite so spoiled, Najla could see this in the faces of many of the tribal women sitting across the courtyard now. However, Osman’s family came from the greener lands of the desert, which would be evidenced by the mark she would soon bear on her skin. Their lives were not filled with all the same sufferings that Najla’s mother’s tribe had known, and as such, their rituals were not quite so strict.

<“They think me to be many things, but never weak.”>

Najla whispered the response to her mother, so low that even the woman piercing her needle could not hear. Rather than anger, or a chiding response, Najla felt her mother place her hand on her hair, stroking it gently. It was meant to bring her comfort, but the fact that her mother had nothing to reply with was not. It only meant that her words must be true, and a glance over to her left, where Osman’s mother sat, would only confirm this. She had moved so that she was closer to her own daughters, a movement that brought about no cause for awkwardness, at least not between the Al-Suwaidi and the Al-ibn-Wahad’s. These nights tended to be segregated between families, usually because they were simply more comfortable with each other, though Najla’s particular night had an unspoken, yet unavoidable, reason for this. What caused Najla to frown was the sight of Elif, who was sitting farther away from Osman’s mother than any daughter-in-law was meant to. She was still among Osman’s sisters, but Najla could not help but note that she looked slightly excluded from their conversations, as if she was not quite a part of the Al-Suwaidi, despite all her years with Osman. This realization might have brought Najla some joy, but just then, Osman’s mother would glance up, her eyes burning into the mark that was forming on Najla’s hand. Najla would not look away, but waited until the woman finally raised her eyes to meet hers, at which Najla would bow her head respectfully and look away. She could still feel that glare burning into her face, but Najla would not look back again.

Rather, her gaze moved forwards, to the cousins and family that were dancing in the center. The younger women danced as the older ones clapped and sang along, gossiping about this one’s grace or that one’s clumsy footwork. They would not dance as they did at their parties, for the Sawarim women seemed to know a whole world where the men did not, and here, they were free to dance as they pleased. It was a seductive art to those who did not quite know its art, but the women who danced it followed a graceful technique, though they did so in a passion that often masked it. Their hips moved to the hypnotic rhythm of the drums, their feet twisting in careful circles, dancing around the golden coins the elder women threw at their feet. It was a welcome distraction for Najla, and as the companions around her shifted constantly throughout the night, she found herself gossiping with them much like the older women sitting around the circle. Now, she was sitting beside a daughter of the Sultan, who had passed her a cup of wine, to which the Mother before her would only object briefly. There was no point, for the process had taken quite some time as the night moved on, and Najla had not bothered to follow much guidance during this period.

<“It’s her own fault she got caught, don’t feel too much pity for her. At least now she will remember to teach her daughters better.”>

Ikram’s words were harsh, but Najla did not receive them as such. They were speaking of a noblewoman, a friend of Ikram’s once, though this friendship was little more than a formality these days. As it often went in the Sultanate, the only true allies they held were their blood, and so Ikram was quite eager to spill her friend’s secrets to entertain her cousin’s ear. The story was hardly a pleasant one, as Ikram was telling her of how the girl’s new husband had found out that she was not a virgin before their marriage. Though he had told no one, for the shame it was certain to bring him, the news could not stay contained forever. It was something Najla would never need to worry about regarding Osman, and for this, she felt some gratitude.

<“I thought she’d be smart enough to soak a sponge, at least.”>

These words were another indicator of the secret world Sawarim women often held, for she would not have to elaborate for Ikram to understand. It was a common secret among women, to soak a piece of sponge in blood in order to fool their new husbands. The Mother who still kneeled before her, squinting at her hand using candlelight, had often whispered this trick to many a frightened girl.

<“She did! Believably enough too, up until she started taking him like a trained whore.”> Najla interrupted her cousin here, letting out a laugh before she felt the Mother grip her wrist, steadying her in place. As she tried to relax herself, her cousin continued to speak. <“Ya Sawarim, it’s a good thing she was sent across the desert, I don’t think her family can hear that shame from the Awjila.”>

Najla responded with a smile now, keeping her body steady as the Mother continued to prick in and out. The pain had become tolerable by now, but the Mother was working on some of the smaller details, and a relaxed and drunk Sultana was hardly a pleasant canvas. Before she could say anything in response, or change the conversation to another topic, Ikram was quick to do the job for her.

<“Look Aynaya, you have a well-wisher.”>

Najla looked up from that hypnotic prick and pull, first at her cousin, then up to where she was looking. Across the courtyard, Elif had parted with the women of the Al-Suwaidi, and was now threading her way towards the sultana. It was expected that she’d come to speak to Najla at some point during this night, though for once Najla found herself cursing the Sawarim’s penchant for ritual. Likely, Elif was doing the same.

<“I hate to leave you to that insolent bitch. Is there any song or story you’d like to hear?”>

<“Serenussi has been asking for the tale of Yaseen and Bahiyya for some time now. Ask for her sake. If you must do something for me, ask her how loudly she is willing to tell it.”>

Her cousin smiled, pushing herself off the wooden bench, before she clicked her tongue, throwing her head back slightly to indicate a simple ‘no’.

<“Fuck, no more virgin lovers. I can’t hear any more. Besides, this calls for something with a little more violence, don’t you think? Rustam and Sohrab? Rustam reminds me a great deal of your bear, it might interest the women to hear it.”>

<“Have you forgotten how that story ends? Sohrab dies in his father’s arms, she’ll lose her tongue for telling a story like that. It’s the wrong crowd for it, dear cousin.”>

<“The story of Sudabeh, then. It must’ve been quite a shock when they caught her fucking her stepson, I’m sure her people thought the Sultanate would never see a scandal like that again. Imagine if they saw the scandals her descendants would conjure up.”>

Najla laughed softly at her cousin’s comment, choosing to watch her leave rather than watch Elif as she approached. She would not have the luxury of ignoring her forever, and she was given only a few moments of peace before Elif stood before her. Najla nodded her head once in greeting, Elif bowed slightly in return, and for a moment, Najla felt as if the entire courtyard’s eyes were upon them. It was a fantasy born of suspicion, for many were too distracted to notice them, but she still breathed slightly in relief as the old woman started up her story. Elif moved to sit a little ways away on the wooden bench as a new series of words began,

<“You should have stayed beside your new family, sister. You’ll find nothing from me, neither anger nor friendliness.”>

<“I don’t want either of those.”>

Rather than answer, Najla looked down towards her hand, where the Mother was continuing with her work, pretending as if she could not hear the two of them. Behind her, the women were enthralled with the story the woman was now telling, though Najla noted she had indeed grown louder since the first time. It was for the best, anyone distracted by her would be hard-pressed to focus on whatever Elif and Najla were saying. Although in truth, Najla already knew why she was here. She had to be, there was no reason other than that, just as Najla had been forced to invite her to the party. Still, she had hoped that Elif would be content in ignoring traditional roles during the party in favor of leaving her alone, but it seemed the girl was not quite bold enough to flout convention. Or more likely, she was unwilling to project a poor image of her husband to the women here. Najla had left it up to Elif to explain, and the girl would not be silent for long before she did.

<“You have little care for your husband’s reputation, to ignore me as you did before.”>

<“I care deeply for it, but not at the expense of my own.”> Najla’s anger was tightly controlled, a fact that could barely be hidden from her voice. Her eyes were down upon her hand, watching the design evolve with those same bored eyes she’d mastered so well. She had given in to her anger with Elif once before, and though she could not push the girl away, she would not allow her to push her lower. <“Is that why you’re speaking to me? Because of Osman? He hasn’t got a cunt, so he’s not here to see.”>

Elif did not reply to Najla’s dismissal, a fact that could not have gone unnoticed by either. Elif would never have dared to withstand a Sultana’s command before, but they were equals now. In some ways, they were equals before the law, but more importantly, they were equals before their husband. With no one else besides a silent Mother to hear her speak, Elif’s words had grown far bolder, and Najla could not have been ignorant as to the cause.

<“You’re bleeding.”> Elif remarked, looking down at Najla’s hand. Elif held a similar design on her hand, though they varied slightly, they were both markers of the same tribe, forever marking them as sisters. A lie, Najla knew, but a lie that was inked into her skin now. <“I don’t suppose it’s the first time you have bled for your lover.”>

Najla’s jaw tightened, and it took all her restraint not to clench her fist as well, still well aware of the mark being inked into her skin. Elif had to be drunk, Najla could see it in her eyes now, though it was not the wine that had brought this sort of bravery. She knew that Najla was trapped within her own appearances now, unable to do much to Elif for fear of starting even more trouble just when it was beginning to pass. Yet even that was not enough reason for her to approach her only to speak to her so, after all, she had done more than Osman’s mother in keeping up appearances already. There was a more tangible reason Elif felt so comfortable speaking to a Sultana in this manner, and Najla did not have to ask in order to guess at just what, or who, it was. If Elif’s distance from Osman’s family hinted anything to Najla, it was that they had not forgiven her for her role either, not entirely. More than anything, it annoyed Najla that Elif would dare to equivalate their fears, that she’d dare believe Najla feared their husband as much as Elif did. They were not equals, not before the Sawarim, their people, or even their husband, and Najla could not allow Elif to forget this.

<“Osman was the first man to strike you, wasn’t he?”>

Elif’s carefully controlled gaze quickly slipped into a confused frown, and she turned her head to look at Najla. The Sultana however, was looking down at her own hand, watching the last few marks of the design come into form, always glancing at the Mother to see just what she’d hear. She’d told no one of Osman’s anger, but the Mother would not speak, and Elif’s expression confirmed her guess without need for a word.

<“You know how I can tell?”>

<“How?”>

<“Because you’re still afraid of him.”>

To any who could see the pair talking, they looked as if they were holding a polite conversation, their expressions carefully controlled so as not to arise suspicions among the women. It was growing easier for Najla however, who allowed the barest of smiles to slip through as she glanced back up at Elif, repressing another hiss at the prick of the needle. She had not forgotten that this conversation had another witness.

<“It must have been quite a shock, the first time. It is frightful, I must admit, and painful. Men always seem to rejoice in their strength. But it must have been far worse for you. The pain of betrayal cuts deeper than any edge, hm? To realize you would lay your head on their chest even as they slit your throat…it must have been the greatest pain you’ve ever known.”>

<“What are you saying?”>

Najla’s eyes were cold as she finally turned her gaze up to Elif, that precarious hint of a smile having died down at her words. Her voice died down slightly as she snatched her hand to her, ignoring the Mother’s protest so that she could speak to Elif as if she were telling a secret.

<“I’m saying, there are worse things out there than Osman and worse grief than that pain. I have seen them. I have survived them. I have become them. For all that I have seen, I fear nothing more than I hate you. I will never forgive you for taking my husband from me. Make your threats, if you like, but do not forget this. I will suffer no fate that you will not see tenfold.”>

With that, Najla straightened up again, offering her hand once more to the Mother, who took it cautiously, watching the pair. Najla’s eyes moved over her for a brief moment, knowing she’d have to do something about this woman, for though she was a trusted figure among the women, Najla trusted no one with the knowledge of Osman’s anger. She would have little time to ponder it now, for her gaze turned back to Elif, wondering just how her threats had settled. There was a small flicker behind Elif’s eyes, perhaps fear, though Najla wondered if she had simply imagined it. Elif controlled her expression carefully, and her words followed much the same pattern, as she stood and bowed her head barely to Najla. It did not feel like a victory, but much the same way as when Ketill bowed to her, a mockery only she could read.

<“If God wills it.”>

Najla could have snarled at the phrase, but she would not have time. The process was near completed, and upon seeing Elif leave, Najla’s family would be quick to return to her side. Her mother was seated beside her, and the women began to sing as the Mother brought out a bowl. It was filled with a thick substance, a mixture of soot and breast milk, which Najla nearly cringed at even as the Mother looked over her hand, preparing to apply it. Even in the noise of the song, Najla heard her mother whisper in her ear, a concerned hand running through her hair.

<“What did Elif say?”>

<“Nothing of substance.”>

Najla would have been ready to end the conversation there, but she could tell her mother was slightly worried. She had every reason to be concerned about her daughter, though she did not know most of them, and Najla could see this in her eyes. It pained her to think she could bring any kind of strife upon her mother, and it was made even worse when she comforted her, or attempted to.

<“Osman will forget her as soon as you bring him children. Your line is strong, far stronger than Elif’s, by the grace of God you will have even more children than I did.”>

<“If God wills it.”>

Najla said nothing else as she turned back to see the woman spreading the thick substance on her hands, letting the color soak into the marks she’d made with her endless poking. The song continued around her as it did, only to end as the Mother wiped off the excess, revealing the final product. Even though her hand was pained and swollen, still somewhat dirty-looking from the mixture that remained, Najla could see the design clearly.

It was an olive tree, the base of which started near her wrist, the branches pushing straight to her knuckles, only to stop just before. The symbol of the Al-Suwaidi and the olive trees they held so dear, a marker of Najla’s new alignment. She was part of her husband’s family now, first and foremost a wife before she was a daughter or a Sultana. Though the voices around her were giddy, Najla was pensive for a moment, taking in the new mark on her skin. She was Osman’s now, marked as his forever. She licked her other thumb, but just before she could move it across the mark, a voice spoke up. Not the woman that had worked so hard on it, but her mother, who could sense her unease as if it had been her own.

<“You’ll only have a permanent smudge that way. Leave it, it suits you.”>



The night of the wedding was one they looked forward to with a great degree of excitement, but Najla could hardly tell the difference between excitement and dread at that point. Rather, she’d simply run through the motions, celebrating as she was expected to, until the night of the wedding came. Then, she’d sat in front of a mirror for hours as slaves fussed over her hair and face, sewing her into her dress, covering her with gold and jewels, all before placing the veil upon her face. It was only veiled that she was able to leave the presence of her female family members, and meant to be brought before her husband, and the entire Sultanate, all at once. The only thing blocking this path was a thin curtain that covered the entrance to the balcony, which did nothing to quiet the ululations or the deafening music.

She took a deep breath, hoping to find the strength she needed to continue. It did not come, and yet Najla felt her feet move one in front of the other, following the path she had dreamt of so often as a girl. She moved under the curtain as it parted, the light of the courtyard nearly blinding, but though she could hardly see, Najla did not falter. This was a familiar path. Her feet carried her to Osman, who stood waiting for her at the edge of the balcony, a hand extended to help her reach him. She took this gently, allowing him to lead her while she took in the sight of the courtyard.

However splendid Najla’s engagement party had been, it could not compare to what she saw now. The courtyard seemed to have been flooded with candles, so delicate they looked like stars flickered around the sights of the palace. Truly, it looked like paradise. The candles reflected the lush green they surrounded themselves in, the flickering of the clear water that filled the countless fountains, they even seemed to glitter off of the people themselves. Underneath the balcony, a crowd of well-wishers had gathered, flooding the courtyard with their cheers and ululations. Yet Najla and Osman would not move to join them now, as they had during their engagement. They stepped to a small, luxurious bench that had been set just for the two of them, where they were meant to sit as if they were a king and queen for the night. First, Osman helped Najla sit among the cushions, only to be seated himself. Once he was, delicate jeweled hands moved to pull a veil over both of their heads, holding it so that it did not fall. As tradition went, this task was given to the unmarried female relatives of either side, and though Najla knew just who this honor had been granted to, she could not turn to see them. Rather, her eyes were meant to be lowered demurely, even from behind the veil, raised no further than the spread before them.

The low table before them was covered with fine fabrics, and even finer materials were set upon them. They were all symbolic to the life their family had wished upon them, the bowl made of crystallized sugar gifted by a wife of the Sultan, baskets of fruit, decorated eggs, and spices, candles around the entirety of the table, and finally, the mirror. It was exquisitely designed, and placed right in the center, so that Najla could see her new life every time she looked up. Now, when she looked, she could only see a veil that had been placed over their heads, but once it was lifted, she was supposed to see her future, the man she’d given herself to. The truth was, he had shown himself in the mirror before, dressed in black, and Najla knew that they would get no other chance at a first start for their life.

There was no choice but to continue this one. As the cheers died down, their family would begin to approach one by one, placing various items on the table as continued wishes. Najla’s family came first one by one, placing jewels, flowers, spices, and cups filled with rosewater. Najla greeted them with little more than a nod of acknowledgment, for she was allowed to do little more, and Osman’s voice thanked them in her place. It felt strange, to have her voice replaced by another’s, but there was little she could do. Rather, she stayed silent as Osman’s family trickled in. First came Elif, placing a delicate golden bracelet down on the table before backing away. A gift for Najla, as custom demanded, given without any smug looks or smiles. Najla’s eyes followed where Elif moved to return to Osman’s family, only to be distracted by his kin. Their attitudes seemed similar to her own families at first, cheerful, drunk, simply excited for their son’s engagement. But as Najla peered at them from under her veil, she could not quiet that sensation in her stomach that told her to run before it was official, to refuse her name on the contract and flee before any could force her otherwise. All she could do was ignore it, and she watched as Osman’s cousin Na’ib stepped forward, a cup of that dreaded viper’s sweat in his hand. It was one of the final items that would be set upon the table, and he placed it so that it was just before Osman. Within the groom’s reach, as the tradition went. Yet as Najla eyed the drink he’d set down, something did not quite settle to her. It did not look quite like viper’s sweat, though it seemed to mimic the substance, it did not seem quite as cloudy. Perhaps it was meant to be a slight to her, though she would not be the one that drank it. It was Osman that reached out for the glass, though Najla watched him from the corner of her eye as he took a swig. He did not flinch, nor gag, though his expression did contort as if to express his distaste. A strange reaction, Najla thought, for surely someone who had someone who had known the drink since youth would only react involuntarily, if at all. Yet there was no flinch, only that expression that faded too quickly, as if it had been real.

It was not. Najla could feel her heart beginning to race, trying to fit the pieces together even among the rush of the event itself. Why would anyone need to fake viper’s sweat? Was it fake, or was she allowing the paranoia to seep into her conscious, tainting her present vision? Even as she sought an answer to these questions, Osman’s family stepped back, and a final figure approached. She bowed her head as he did, as did all the others, lifting it only when he stopped before the table.

There was her Uncle, draped in clothes so fine even Najla sat in awe. He wore the long, elegant thobes that the rest of her family sported, but the golden embroidery was far more intricate than any of theirs. Just beside him stood a guard, a strange sight at a celebration like this, though Najla was used to how protected her Uncle was. There were few times when he was not surrounded by a guard. The Sultan reached down, picking up the gilded holy book from the table gently. Even though Najla was watching him from under the veil, she watched as he hesistated, looking at the book that sat just beside their holy book, a small, gilded copy of collected Sawarimic works that Jalil had gifted her years ago. Najla had insisted that it be placed on the table alongside the other symbols, and now, she saw a small smile flit across her Uncle’s face at the sight. It only served to make her feel less confident in what she saw, and Najla eyed Osman’s drink once more, wondering if she had imagined both the smile and the viper’s sweat. Perhaps, but the smile had faded even before her Uncle turned outwards slightly, so that the crowd could see as well, and the drink was still there, not quite swirling. Osman had set it down on the table in a haste, the drink spilling onto his hand slightly, but he did not have time to do much before the Sultan’s voice rang out.

<“May the Sawarim bless this couple before me today. May the Umma grant their union peace. May they always find comfort in one another, and may the desert sands part if they should ever be too far.”>

With those familiar words, the recitation of the wedding vows had begun. Her Uncle would continue to read the prayer, his voice carrying effortlessly over the quiet crowd. She’d heard him recite these vows many a time, for any kin of his that was to be married, as it was considered a great honor to have the Sultan bless the union. Najla was merely meant to wait until he was finished, until Osman had agreed to the terms of the marriage, and then she would agree as well, solidifying her place by Osman’s side forever. Still, it did not feel right, something had still settled uneasily in her heart, though she tried to force it out as her Uncle continued to recite prayers as the guard backed away. It was a symbolic movement, for the only time the Sultan did not have his guard’s protection, he was protected from harm by the Sawarim himself.

Her thoughts were interrupted by the touch of a hand, a strange gesture that nearly startled her. Osman’s hand wrapped around hers, holding it tightly. It seemed a sweet gesture to those before them, the only contact a Sawarim couple were allowed to have even seconds before their vows were read. Yet Najla felt her heart drop at the touch, even as she squeezed his hand in return. The last time he’d touched her so gently had been when he saw her in her dress, and before that, she could not even remember. Ever so gently, Najla lifted his hand under her veil, raising it to her lips.

Water.

Najla’s eyes widened, her heart stopping as she gently released Osman’s hand once more, licking her lips to confirm. She’d seen it spill upon his hand, she knew the taste of viper’s sweat, but this was not that. Osman did not release her hand however, and Najla left it in her hand limply, her heart pounding in her ears. Something wasn’t right. The prayer continued, pounding away in her ears like drums, and Najla suddenly found the strength to pull her hand from Osman’s, watching as his cousin approached to take the holy book from her Uncle. It was as tradition demanded, but Najla could feel that dread rise up inside her as the Sultan attempted to finish the last lines of the prayer.

<“Ya Sawarim, by the grace of our God-“>

<“UNCLE!”>

Just as Najla’s scream came through, so did Na’ib’s blade. Without a guard to protect him, there was little to block the path of the blade, and Na’ib stabbed it through the back of his throat. Blood splattered over the open pages of the holy book, and as the Sultan fell forwards, the crowd descended into chaos.

Najla would not wait to watch her Uncle die. The scream had ripped from her throat too late, but as soon as it had come, she had moved to flee, and Osman’s hand had tried to reach for her once more. Najla had just barely managed to slip out of his grasp, but when he reached for her again, she did not feel the warmth of a man’s touch flitting past her. In its place, steel raked at her side, grazing it lightly as she tried to flee. She could hardly feel the pain, trying desperately to lift her skirts and run before he could catch her. Najla had only made it a few steps before she felt the steel of his blade catch her once more, raking at the small of her back now. The blow forced her onto the ground, and from where she fell, she could see the glint of a weapon, something that would give her a chance. It was a thick shard of glass, broken from the mirror when her Uncle had fallen, and Najla gave no care to the pain in her hand as she snatched it up.

Just as she did, a hand wrapped around in her hair, yanking her upright onto her knees. The veil had fallen from her head the moment she stood, leaving a clear vision of what her husband had brought. Death, carnage, all around her, she saw her family fleeing or falling, their screams reverberating in the night.

<“I’ll take care of her, don’t let her brothers get away!”>

Though she knew the voice as Osman’s, Najla could not tell who he was yelling to. Her eyes were trained ahead, where her father was fighting off two of Osman’s family. Her mother was nowhere to be seen. She wanted to call for him, beg him to run, tell him a ceremonial sword would do little, but before she could even find a word in her throat, it was over. A sword was drawn over his throat and he crumbled, and her cry for her father turned to a bloodcurdling, wordless scream in her throat. Just as Osman tried to position his blade to bring her father’s fate upon her, Najla turned swiftly, stabbing the shard of mirror into the closest flesh she could find. It pushed into the flesh of his thigh, and the sound of Osman’s cry of pain was left far behind as she scrambled to her feet.

<“Grab her!”>

Najla did not hesitate, lifting her skirts as she tried to flee off of the small balcony. They’d be slaughtered up here, trapped like animals, but they’d be slaughtered anywhere, it seemed. The crowd below her had been thrown into chaos, rebels and guards fighting as the crowd around them tried to scatter or chose a side. As she reached the top of the stairs, Najla did not allow herself to glance back, running as fast as she could on the stairs, a difficult feat in her fine skirts. The crowd pushed around her as she did, either in attempts to flee, or in a foolish effort to find their loved ones. Najla could only push on, and she had nearly reached the bottom before another of Osman’s kin found her. He kicked out at her, and the force of his foot in her knee was more than enough to cause Najla to tumble down the remaining stairs, collapsing in a heap at the bottom. The people that had bowed before her minutes ago had little care for her fate now, so that Najla was worried she might be trampled before steel ever kissed her throat. Rather than allow that fear to linger, Osman’s kin was upon her again, standing before the bleeding princess as he raised his steel, prepared to let it fall.

He’d never get the chance. His expression contorted into one of pain just before he fell, and Najla would have no time to look at her saviors face before he grabbed her by the arm, pulling her from the ground with little care as to how pained she was now.

<“Get up, you’ve got to get out of here!”>

She’d recognize her brother’s voice anywhere. It might have brought comfort any other day, but now, it brought a new strength, and she felt as if the pain was shed while she ran behind him, allowing him to pull her forward, the sword in his other hand. It was much like Ketill had, when their camp had first been attacked by slavers, but the way Harith cut through those before him was anything but. Then, they had been clearly determined, slaver and expedition, but now, Najla felt as if she watched him cut a path through friends and foe alike. His blade struck through another even as Najla called out to him, yelling though his hand was wrapped around hers.

<“Where’s Basim?!”>

<“Alive! Go, run, you’ll catch him!”>

<“Me?”>

Harith stopped, a movement that would have startled Najla, for every hesitation meant death here. It was quickly answered, for he pressed the sheath of a dagger into her hand, trying to push her onwards.

<“See him? Go, get to Basim and get out! Don’t look back!”>

<“What about you?”>

<“I said go!”> He turned to run then, away from her, in the opposite direction of where he needed to be headed. Najla was near the edge of the courtyard, the few points where the crowd had managed to slip through the doors of the courtyard, and back into the palace, likely only to be slaughtered again. But Najla would not let him, and she called again and again, knowing her life ticked away by the second.

<“Harith, please! We’ve got to go! I’m not going without you!!”>

He swiveled around then, his gaze focusing on her with the intensity of a lion, the sort that strike fear into her stomach if he had meant it to. Rather, Najla drank it in, as if realizing it’d be the last she ever saw of him.

<“Fuck off Najla, my son’s in there!”>

With that, he turned, vanishing into the crowd once more. Najla did not spare another second for her brother, she could not afford it. Rather, she turned to where Harith had pointed out Basim for her, fleeing from those who wanted him dead. He was not there, no longer in her line of vision, but as she moved closer, she spotted him once more. Basim was trapped under another man, both without weapons, but it was a fruitless battle regardless. The man rained blows upon her brother, as if hoping to end his life without the use of a sword, a sight that filled Najla with dread and anger. She ran towards them, using the dagger Harith had given her to stab through the back of the man’s neck before he could turn and see her behind him. As he collapsed, Basim rolled out from under him, looking up at Najla.

<“Where’s Harith?”>

<“He’s not coming.”> Even as Najla answered, Basim had reached down to the man, pulling the dagger clean out of his neck before forcing himself to stand. From underneath the bruises and blows, Najla could tell this news had saddened him, but Basim would not give either of them time to feel it. Rather, he took her hand as Harith had done before, and they passed through the exit of the courtyard, back into the palace hallway.

<“We’ve got to get to the stables.”>

<“We’ll never make it!”> Najla cried out, though they both knew it was the truth. Ahead, she saw a figure, recognizable even when she could not tell friend from foe. Tightening her grip on Basim’s hand, she tried to pull him in the direction, though it did little but force his attention.

<“Basim, this way! Follow Ketill.”>

<“He’ll kill you!”>

<“Come on!”> Unable to pull him, Najla slipped her hand out of his grasp, turning in her path to chase after Ketill. Basim was right, she knew that even in the midst of this chaos, but she did not care. They’d all kill her here, Ketill was the only one who might spare her brother.

<“Najla! Fuck, wait!”> His voice called after her, and he was beside her again in a few paces, the dagger still clutched in his hands. His sister reached back for him now, grabbing his free hand as the two ran, bruised and bloodied from the mess Najla’s husband had left behind.


In ℰxpedition for the ℬanner of St. ℱriedrich → 7 yrs ago Forum: The Gallery
After the fight, Ketill was brought to a new room, though from the adrenaline and the blood seeping from his body, it felt more like a blur, everyone and everything moving past him in vague streaks of color. As the guards dragged him past people left and right, who seemed more concerned with looking at him than moving out of the way, one of them handed him a rag and ordered him to put it against his wound. Ketill followed suit – not because he understood the man, but because there was nowhere else to put the rag. <‘’Ya Sawarim, for a beast that can’t be hurt he bleeds a lot,’’> one of the guards said to the other, earning a laugh while they rushed him further.

The healer had been expecting someone it seemed, though from the surprise on the man’s face it seemed like he had expected Ketill to leave in a casket, and for Sa’aqr to need some patching up. But despite that, he got to work quickly, ordering Ketill onto a bed and pushing him onto his side. Within a few seconds of arriving the guards had disappeared, leaving the healer to sew up Ketill’s wound. <‘’You’re coming here far too often,’’> the old man said while he worked, <‘’to your credit, most slaves don’t live long enough to come here twice.’’> With a needle made of bone he pricked Ketill’s skin through, but Ketill didn’t flinch or whince from the pain, focusing himself on the wall in front of him. Soon enough the man had fixed him up, and rather than let him rest, the healer called the guards back and told them to escort him out.

<‘’Why we keep healing this Monarchist dog, I don’t know…’’>

<‘’If his Monarch was so caring, wouldn’t he heal the wound for him?’’>

<‘’That’d mean his God was real.’’>

The two guards continued to squabble as they escorted Ketill back to his chamber. Once again people crowded around them, only making room for them to move past when the guards almost forced them to move. While most people would be deeply saddened by the loss of Sa’aqr, if not for emotional reasons then for political ones, the people seemed to care very little for that at the moment, looking at Ketill as if he was some prized horse, nothing more than a chained beast that did the bidding of his master. It was the truth, no?



No. It was not.


When one particular noblewoman stepped too close and attempted to halt the guards, Ketill lashed out, stepping closer to her and yelling at her, not in Broacienien or Sawarimic, but in the Northern mother tongue, which sounded like incoherent rambling to anyone not familiar with it, and like a strange accent with strange words for anyone versed in Broacienien. The woman stepped back, the fear visible in her eyes even when the guards reached out and held Ketill back, pushing him forwards towards the hallways again. ‘’HORFÐU Á MIG!’’ Ketill then yelled at the woman again, once again being pushed forwards, down the hallway.

He was not a chained beast – not any longer. Najla had not realized it but she had set him free, she had taken the shackles from his neck and from his wrists, from his ankles too, and allowed him to move freely. He was now completely part of her demise – he was the centrepiece that the Gods would shove around in her fate that would ultimately kill her – or worse, kill her family and leave her sitting in the bloodbath, wondering what she had done to deserve it all. As he walked, Ketill’s mind began filling itself with the buzzing sounds of the music of the Gods, the whizzing sounds of the bones on ropes swinging around that could be heard for miles, the beats of the drum, yes, even the sound of Audrun’s many daughters, singing their songs together with their brothers. It was all there. It all made sense to him now, and even with the pain of his wound stinging him, he laughed.

The guards looked at him as if he had gone insane, shaking their heads as they dragged him along then, with Ketill stumbling a bit. They finally got to his chambers, and opened the door. Without much care they tossed him inside, before slamming the door shut. <‘’Did you hear him laugh?’’>

<‘’Don’t talk about it. I prefer not to think about him. It seems that the Sultana has broken him after all,’’> the other guard answered. <‘’I thought he’d always remain an beast. Now he’s just an animal.’’>

As Ketill came to rest in his room, the drums, the whizzing noises, the singing in his head, it all disappeared again and made way for the empty silence of the desert through his window. Slowly he stepped closer to the window, putting his hand on the windowsill first, then his other hand on the edge of the window, more upwards. He stepped into the windowsill, pulling himself up and looking over the vast desert ahead of him. For one moment he felt like a king – all this was his now, this worthless sand was of no value, but it was his. No, that could not be true. If it was true, he could leave, but it was not his time yet, not yet. ‘’Then what is it that they are waiting for?’’ he softly mumbled to himself, before looking up at the sky. ‘’What are you waiting for still? Answer me!’’ There came no answer, and Ketill’s eyes dropped to the ground below. Was that the answer? He leaned forwards, getting a closer look at the ground below. It was a steep drop, some fifteen meters to a small cliff, and then another ten or so meters into the sand itself.

He leaned back then and closed his eyes, the music of the Gods filling his head once more. It seemed to be the answer, but if it was this what they wanted, why had they given him the signs before? Was it all a trick? The cool breeze coming in through the window felt good on his face, and he breathed it in deeply. Yes, it was well. All was well. He lifted his foot and moved it forwards, floating effortlessly in the air outside the castle then, outside his window. He let it hang there for a moment, and was about to take the final step when he heard the door open behind him.

‘’Ketill, do you nee- Ketill!? What are you doing?’’

Slowly he turned around, for Yasamin to see his tired face. Slowly he pulled his foot back, before turning around and stepping down from the windowsill. While the answer might have been obvious, his answer was far from. ‘’Meeting the Gods,’’ he slowly spoke, a faint grin on his lips as he looked at the woman.

‘’Gods? There is only one God, what are you even talking about?’’ Yasamin replied, her face distraught over what she had just witnessed. She inched closer, taking a look at where he’d been wounded. ‘’They didn’t even take the armour off,’’ she mumbled. She began untying the leather straps, and then took the armor off, leaving only the tunic underneath, which was seeped with his blood. ‘’Ya Sawarim, look at this…’’

Ketill didn’t let her look for too long, waving away her hands and moving to the bed, sitting down and putting his head in his hands. ‘’Go, leave. Get me food and wine.’’ Normally he wouldn’t request wine, but just ale, but he needed to drink for his own sanity.



For several days he’d rest, the wound closing up leaving a grotesque scab while it healed. The armour was retrieved by some guards later, as it seemed rather unfitting for the slave to own a set of ceremonial armour. However, soon enough he’d be dragged back out and made to wear something else again – for once not on the order of the sultana, but rather the sultan himself. The ultimate goal of it was rather confusing, and Ketill’s initial thoughts went to a punishment for killing Sa’aqr, even though that had been the purpose of the fight. But it didn’t seem to bother the Sawarims when they were hypocritical and as far as they were concerned, a Monarchist dog wasn’t someone to treat with decency anyway. Understandably so – they faced the same treatment in Broacien.

He was retrieved early in the morning and once again sent to the bathhouse, this time without Yasamin. A set of two slaves washed him despite his protest, and made sure to clean the wound and bandage it after he was done in the baths. They took extra care to bandage it extra thick, so that even if blood would come out, it’d not stain his tunic. Though the purpose of this was unknown and seemed to indicate something other than his punishment or execution, it was wishful thinking according to Ketill. The Sawarim obsession with cleanliness meant that even if they were going to execute him, they might just be cleaning him for that. Nobody would want to touch a filthy animal like him, after all…

After they dressed in, putting new pants on him as well as a blue tunic with golden trims on the sleeves and the low v-shaped cut on the neck. The final touch was a dark leather belt that they tightened around his waist. They were about to put him down next to a small stone water basin when he spoke up, expecting the slaves to speak Broacienien. ‘’Is today the day?’’

The slaves kept working, not answering him until he asked again. ‘’Are they doing it?’’

‘’We’re not allowed to speak to you,’’ one of them answered, a frail man with the build of a scholar. He was not olive-skinned, so the assumption that he’d been from Broacien seemed correct and his accent only confirmed it.

‘’Today they kill me then,’’ Ketill answered, being forced over the stone basin of water. He gripped the edges of it and peered down into the water, staring at his own reflection.

‘’No,’’ the man answered, extending his hand to the other slave, a woman with darker skin than him. She handed him a pair of shears and the man immediately pushed it up against Ketill’s head, beginning to trim his hair down a bit. ‘’Now shut up. Don’t move or I’ll cut your head instead, and they’ll kill us both for that.’’

‘’Why are you cutting my hair?’’

‘’I said shut up. This isn’t the Sultana that ordered you here – she couldn’t care less if you looked presentable as long as you can kill. You’re here for the Sultan himself. Don’t talk, unless you are spoken to. Now, shut up.’’

The snipping of the shears was mildly annoying, but as Ketill stared at the reflection in the water it seemed to matter little. While he had maintained his hair himself and occasion had let Yasamin cut it, it had grown out a bit recently. After a while the man grabbed his head and forced him to turn slightly, allowing him to trim off the edges of the beard which had grown rather wildly. Now his beard was tamed back into a more respectable shape, which was perhaps somewhat unfitting for a slave, because for once Ketill looked like a regular man, and not the animal he was portrayed as.

‘’You’re done. Go see the guards outside,’’ the slave told him while taking the stone basin out of it’s holder, that was now filled with water and hair, and moved to empty it somewhere. Ketill got up and moved his hand through his hair and beard, shaking loose some hairs that didn’t fall out yet before turning to the doors out of the bath and left. Outside, the guards were waiting. Now that he realized who he was intended to serve today, he also realized why the guards looked so unfamiliar.

‘’I’m ready,’’ Ketill told them, clapping and rubbing his hands together to get rid of the little hairs on them. The guards merely raised their heads, grabbed him and pushed him forwards. They seemed entirely unwilling to make small talk with Ketill nor explain what was going on – in fact, now that Ketill thought about it, Najla hadn’t mentioned this either. Perhaps she was unaware of it happening. Even if she was, this was the Sultan’s orders, so it wasn’t like she could get mad over it. Knowing her, she’d probably be happy that Ketill wasn’t around to be a bother on her mind for once.

He was brought to the Sultan’s great hall – or rather one of the many – where he regularly received foreign dignitaries from tribes, villages or other cities, as well as Broacienien diplomats who tried to mediate, usually without results. Although this was very secretive, there had also been foreign dignitaries from a newly discovered people, who lived far to the south, much further than the Sawarimic sultanate had ever expanded its borders. The two cultures had been separated by a desert that stretched so wide, it took weeks if not months to cross it conventionally, but explorers from this new people had found the Sawarim sultanate. Rather than immediately invading, it seemed they were more interested in trade and peace – but how long would that last.

The original meeting had been postponed for a while, as the crossing of the vast desert was an undertaking on its own – but the discovery of a route with plenty of oases meant that this meeting could occur sooner than many people had believed – many had even believed it’d never occur at all. But now, the dignitaries had arrived, and entered the city without much splendour at all. Perhaps a political move, but the existence of these people was a secret to most except the highest of the highest within the sultanate. And, now, Ketill was included in that, though not for any good reason.

When he was brought in, he was made to stand next to the sultan’s throne – if you could call it that, since it represented something more resembling of a lounge in one of the many gardens in the palace, though obviously much more luxurious. It seemed like everything today had been put in order to specifically impress the dignitaries, from the arrangements of the guard’s positions, to the locations of the cushions in the lounges for the harem girls, to Ketill’s chain placements.

The guards put him in place and were quick to put a set of chains around his wrists, connected to the wall behind him. While the chains were long, at three meters, it seemed that this had been specifically made to allow him to move around without reaching the sultans throne, which was just half a meter further. Even in the worst case, Ketill could not reach him, unless he freed himself from the heavy chains.

He was made to stand there then, waiting for others to appear. It wasn’t long until a good batch of harem girls entered the hall, seemingly the finest of the finest among them, and took their seats in the lounge arrangements. They simply chatted among themselves, some shooting some glances at Ketill while he stood there, waiting for whatever else was going to come in.

More and more guards poured into the room, trickling slowly but certainly, filling the corners of the room, standing between the entranceways and at either side of the stairs that would lead up to the throne. Rather than the common guard outfits, they were seemingly outfitted in the most extravagant armours, wielding only the most beautiful of weapons – ceremonial, so their effectiveness was likely something that left a lot to wish for. To Ketill, it seemed like whoever was entering the hall today was surely a bit more special than the average guest.

He could not be more right, it seemed. Once the Sultan had arrived, it only took a few minutes before the guests to appear. At the front of the group were a set of guards, armed with long daggers that they cradled in their arm while their other hand would hold spears, the size of which was impressive, surely used to combat cavalry. They were dressed extravagantly in multiple layers of cloth, with the cloth wrapped around their heads and with a hood of chainmail over it, seemingly made of gold. Although it was the least effective material out of all to make armour of, it certainly looked nice – though to Ketill, who was a warrior at heart, it resembled nothing more than stupidity. But, these men weren’t here to fight.

Following the warriors were a group of four slaves, carrying on their shoulders a large wooden plate between the four of them. The slaves, similarly, were adorned with gold, with golden neckbands around their neck, and armbands on their wrists and even their ankles. They wore pure, white cloths around their waist, exposing their upper body. It reminded Ketill of how he looked when he was sent to do battle and killing in Najla’s name, minus the golden accessories. Atop the wooden plate they carried was a large collection of gifts – two ivory tusks with inlaid gold and jewels, shields and swords for the Sultan’s children, artwork made of pure gold. It seemed their riches were without limits – normally this would have intrigued Ketill, to pillage and plunder it to honour the Gods’. All it did now was instil a sense of hate in his heart, for the riches that the sultan would receive, knowing that he already had all he had need of.

Then came a row of two more soldiers, followed swiftly by a man that looked different. Normally, Ketill could have distinguished the country of origin from skin colour – the Sawarim were olive, the Broacieniens were beige like tree bark, and the Northerers were white as snow. The darkest were the slavers and some of the tribes that lived in the Sultanate, especially those close to the small rivers that flowed here and there to provide a stream of lush greenery in an otherwise void desert.

But these men all topped even that – they were dark as coal, their skin shining and glistening almost. But that was not what set the man that followed the guards apart – it was his extravagant clothes. Atop his head was a dark red cloth, with white trimmings and detailing, draped to shield him from the desert heat and sun, over which he put his golden crown. For a culture that fitted their slaves with gold, it seemed only natural that the crown was equally as impressive as the rest. The shapes on it were intricate enough to catch the harem girls’ eyes, though perhaps it was merely the exotic nature of these men that had done that trick.

His robes were equally as impressive, with more golden stitching on it than Ketill imagined you could even fit onto a set of robes. Then, over his shoulder, was the head of a lion, mounted there like a cape with the rest draped over his shoulder. It seemed to match his beard almost perfectly, the collection of his outfit reinforcing his status. Evidently, this man was the king of whatever nation had been found. And from how he looked – there was a lot of gold to be gained there. And also a lot of gold that he could use to buy an army. It was evident now why the Sultanate had decided to be more courteous than not.


Negusi Solomon


The Sultan himself looked equally as good today, though perhaps he lacked the exoticness that enticed everyone to glare at the newcomers. Never the less, the Sultan moved up out of his seat when the slaves that carried the gifts set the large wooden plate down in front of the stairs. He moved down halfway rather eloquently, carrying himself with grace. Naturally, this was his home. <‘’Greetings, friends,’’> the Sultan greeted while lightly bowing his head to the foreign king. <‘’Negusi Solomon,’’> he then added, greeting the king himself specifically.

<‘’Likewise,’’> the king returned, similarly bowing his head. The king spoke with a heavy foreign accent, but the languages matched closely. Perhaps, years ago, long before either of the two kingdoms existed, they had been part of one greater culture – with a similar language. Although it was evident that the two languages were different, they were so close that they might as well have been dialects of one another. <‘’Sultan Kamil al-ibn-Wahad,’’> the king added, before he raised his face to meet the gaze of the Sultan. He looked around the room, his eyes falling on the guards, the harem girls, and then Ketill, staring at him a bit longer than the others. <‘’A chained man?’’>

The sultan merely folded his hands behind his back, glancing over his shoulder at Ketill, before he calmly looked forwards again and stepped down the stairs more to stand on equal ground with the king. <‘’No,’’> he answered simply, smiling at the man. <‘’A beast.’’>

A small stifled laugh came from king Solomon, who seemed amused at the idea of a man-beast. <‘’His chains are steel, not gold?’’> he then further inquired.

The sultan replied in kind, the question doing nothing to make him flinch. It seemed that, while Ketill was versed in the art of a duel with swords and axes, these men were jousting with words, and though it seemed less lethal, the stakes were much higher. But, at the same time, it seemed that the two were friends – despite the fact that this was their first meeting, ever. <‘’Gold holds your slaves, because they are willing and much like man – gold would not hold him, this foreign beast. It is said only blood does. We have tried everything – tame the Daab al-Broacien with gold, women, food, alcohol. Only blood sates him.’’>

The nickname that he gave Ketill piqued negusi Solomon’s interest, though he did not ask for more information straight away, merely nodding at the answer. He then turned and made a wide gesture at the gifts that were presented before him. <‘’For you and your family,’’> he said, <‘’the finest goods Ye’inyani Merēti has to offer.’’>

Once again the Sultan slightly bowed his head in thanks, offering his thanks for the goods. <‘’My family thanks yours for the gifts,’’> he added, and king Solomon returned the light bow. <‘’Please, negusi, let us sit, that we may discuss and eat together,’’> the sultan then said, gesturing up the stairs to his throne, where a small table had been prepared as well as seating for king Solomon. The king merely nodded, and walked up the stairs, his eyes resting on Ketill as he moved until he reached his seating, after which he sat down and looked forwards, where the Sultan was just sitting down as well.

The sultan didn’t even have to say anything, and the slaves were already bringing in plates with food, setting it up on the table, though Ketill had the idea that there would be very little eating going on. It seemed that curiosity got the better of the king, when he opened his mouth and asked the question he had refused to ask earlier. <‘’You call this man the Bear of Broacien – perhaps it is the difference in our language, but I do not know this word ‘Broacien?’ Perhaps you would care to explain it’s meaning to me?’’>

<‘’It is not a word, negusi, it’s a place. Further North is the country of Broacien – a godless people, who worship their king. They are little and puny, not smart enough to even begin to challenge the Sultanate – but they make for fine decorations for our rooms.’’>

<‘’I see – so you marked his forehead with three dots, to mark him out as someone from Broacien? Surely, they are inferior, so they cannot mingle with the populace?’’>

<‘’No,’’> the sultan answered, reaching for a cup of wine, raising it to his mouth and taking a sip before placing it down calmly. Every movement he made seemed to be calculated and calm, reflective of his posture. <‘’They are beasts that harm themselves – he did that to himself. He is, what they call, a ‘Servant’ of his king. They are perhaps the best their army has to offer.’’> The sultan smiled when king Solomon looked Ketill up and down, his eyes searching for more marks of self mutilation. <‘’But again, they are not strong enough to challenge the Sultanate. For all their devotion, they are easily defeated.’’> For the ease of information, the Sultan quietly did not relinquish the fact that these very same little and puny Servants had done extremely well for themselves in capturing castle Coedwin, and had for years stopped any Sawarim incursions into the Broacienien lands.

<‘’It seems that the strength of the Sultanate was not exaggerated when my scouts reported to me then,’’> king Solomon answered, his eyes finally leaving Ketill’s body. <‘’It is good, then, that the sultanate and Ye’inyani Merēti can work together as friends, not foes.’’>

The comment seemed expected as the sultan grabbed his cup of wine again and held it up, toasting to the words that were spoken. King Solomonon followed the same movements, also raising his cup, before the both of them drank their wine, though rather than look up, both men stared deep into the others’ eyes even as they raised their cup, telling books about the stakes of the conversation.

<‘’A test of strength between our people would only lead to needless bloodshed – over what, a piece of sand?’’> the sultan then said when he placed his cup down again. Once more the king let out a stifled laugh, seemingly agreeing with the appraisal of the land they’d be fighting over – yes, a piece of sand. That was all there was.

<‘’It seems that way, though I have travelled through your lands for some time to reach this city. There is more than just sand here – your lands are good, as are the people.’’>

<‘’The entire sultanate thanks you for your kind words, negusi,’’> the sultan replied in kind, simply exchanging pleasantries at this point. <‘’It would please me greatly if one day I could visit your lands, too.’’>

<‘’Perhaps one day – but we did not come here to exchange compliments all day, did we, Sultan?’’> The kings reply was sudden – and culturally, it was likely very strange for the sultan to hear straight forward that they should move on. <‘’After all, my journey is long, and it would be unfitting for a negusi to disappear for a month at a time.’’>

The sultan contained his surprise very well, however, and merely nodded, picking off some grapes from the plate in front of him and putting them in his mouth. <‘’You are right, let us speak about our countries, one ruler to another.’’>

<‘’Our traders have expressed interest in trading with your people – primarily with the city, here, but also the villages. I assume this would pose no problem, as trade is mutually beneficial. You receive goods, gold, and we receive other goods, gold and other fine items.’’> It seemed the king was very obsessed with gold, though from the amount he had on him, it seemed like it was plentiful in his lands, so perhaps he was merely using it as a persuasive tool.

<‘’Ah – our perfumes. They are very desired, even here in the sultanate. Of course, as the sultan, I can simply order them manufactured for your traders. I will arrange for the royal caravanserai to simply make arrangements for that, so it will be done,’’> the sultan replied, a smile on his face when he spoke of the perfumes. It was true that some of them were highly desired, and it could definitely be considered the pride of the sultanate when it came to trading goods. The king nodded in agreement, seemingly satisfied with the offer – whatever the sultanate had to offer he was willing to take.

<‘’Very well. It should be mentioned that the many tribes of Ye’inyani Merēti are always willing to fight for the right amount – in our lands, they are renowned for their skill in combat, and are feared by enemy and ally alike. Though we do not typically allow foreigners to hire them – an exception can be made, for the right amount of money. As a show of good will – I have prepared a gift and a small presentation for you, that you may see the power of our tribesmen.’’>

The sultan seemed relatively surprised by this, though whether that was feigned or not, Ketill could not tell – the entire conversation was a blur to him, and he understood little of what was going on. Their body language gave little away, as did their words – the Sawarim language was still too much for him.

<‘’Ah? I see. Very well, let us visit the courtyard, then,’’> the sultan said, nearly raising to his feet, before being interrupted by the king.

<‘’Ah, sultan… perhaps it would be an idea to bring your ‘’Daab al-Broacien’’ along for the presentation.’’>

To this the sultan nodded, and gestured at his guards nearby to unchain Ketill. They followed the command quickly, unchaining him and holding their hands on his shoulder to avoid him charging off at the two rulers. However, Ketill had no mind to do such a thing, merely rubbing his wrists as the clamps were removed.



The group moved to the courtyard, where just a few days, perhaps a week earlier, Ketill had killed Sa’aqr. A troublesome affair for the sultan, but not entirely important at this point. As the negusi and sultan perched themselves atop the platform, the area now devoid of any life besides the two of them and their entourage, a warrior under service of the negusi entered the ring in front of them, stepping to the center and bowing before them, remaining bowed down until the negusi raised his hand and spoke to him. <‘’Raise, now,’’> he said, with his words echoing through the courtyard. The sultan merely looked on, waiting to see what would happen.

<‘’Sultan, I would dare my life on it that my warrior can defeat your ‘’Servant’’ with ease, if he is truly so tiny and puny like you say,’’> king Solomon then said, his eyes glancing at Ketill before moving on to the sultan, awaiting an answer.

The sultan milled it over in his head – although the warrior looked impressive, Ketill was known to defeat anyone that crossed him. Still, he had been injured recently, so perhaps the warrior would win – the only one that would have reason to be upset was Najla, though she would not speak up to the Sultan. Even so… for the sultan to let Ketill fight would mean the risk of having the foreign warrior die – an embarrassment to the king and sure to cause a disruption in the discussion. <‘’You have seen the man – he is not tiny, nor puny. He is a beast, negusi Solomon,’’> he answered, solemnly looking forwards, facing the warrior. <‘’Although I trust my own warriors, too, I would not bet my life on their victory against him.’’>

Rather than feel insulted, the negusi flashed a wide grin, showing his white teeth. <‘’So the Servants are not so weak, after all, then.’’> The sultan remained silent to this comment, looking at the warrior still, his eyes resting in one place as he entered his thoughts. <‘’Perhaps we should give the Servant a disadvantage then, to even the battlefield?’’>

<‘’Negusi Solomon…’’> the sultan began, raising his hand at the two guards that were holding Ketill, beckoning them to come forwards. Soon enough Ketill was standing in front of the raised platform. <‘’See, here,’’> the sultan said as he gestured for them to turn him around. <‘’Raise his tunic.’’>

The guards did as told and raised Ketill’s tunic, revealing the horrendous scars that the whipping Osman had given him had left behind. The negusi seemed visibly shocked at the scars, though he did not gasp or reveal it anywhere else other than his eyes and mouth. The grin disappeared as he looked at Ketill’s back, the scarred tissue seemingly enough to make him question his choice – no man with that amount of scars was to be taken lightly.

<‘’A man that does not speak or scream when receiving those is not a man at all. If you ask me to let your man fight him again, I will not deny you, for I wish not to insult you so by denying your request. I simply ask that you rethink your request. For a man to fight a man is…’’> The sultan looked to his side then, looking at negusi Solomon, before finishing his sentence. <‘’… fair. For a man to fight a beast… the chances are slim.’’>

<‘’Very well, Sultan. Perhaps we could let him fight one of your guards – he came here expecting a challenge. I’m sure it will match his expectations.’’>

<‘’As you wish – whomever draws first blood?’’>

<‘’Agreed.’’>

Ketill’s tunic was let down again and he was moved aside quickly, out of sight of the sultan and negusi – they did not need to stare at a slave any longer than absolutely required. Instead of him, a guard was brought in – nobody in specific, just some random guard that happened to be nearby. He entered the ring and prepared to fight.

The negusi’s warrior was armed to the teeth, having a set of six long curved daggers in the cloth sash around his waist, as well as a sword and a shield made of reeds bound together. However, besides his sash and the cloth around his waist, he wore very little, revealing his upper torso. The muscles were clearly visible, and it was evident this was a man that had trained his entire life to be a warrior. The sultans’ guardsman however seemed better armoured, and it’d be a lot harder to draw blood for the negusi’s warrior.

However, as soon as the battle began, the warrior rushed forwards, seemingly with the same ferocity Ketill possessed. Rather than wait for the other to deal the first blow, he simply rushed in slashing his sword while holding up his shield, and once his sword had passed once, he slashed it back.

However the guard would defend, his fate was sealed – the warriors’ sword fell down into the sand while the shield hid any movements from the guards vision, and before he knew it he was on the floor. The warrior dropped the shield too and pulled out two of his daggers while diving on top of the poor guard, who could do very little to defend himself at that point. Without much force the warrior pushed the daggers beneath the mans helm. It seemed the battle was over before it had even really started.

<‘’No blood – but I think it is done,’’> the negusi said, getting up from his seating and clapping for his own warrior. The sultan merely nodded, looking at the warrior with a sense of interest.

<‘’It is. This man is one of those that would be for hire, then, I take it…’’>

<‘’Better – he’s my second gift to you. He’s a eunuch, so he can serve your women without problems.’’>

Although it was true, it would be truly stupid to let a foreigner guard the women, especially the sultan’s wives. The sultan merely nodded and smiled, getting up then and also applauding the warrior. <‘’My greatest thanks, negusi,’’> the sultan then silently said, before turning and walking off of the platform to return inside.



<‘’Let us break the discussion for the day – I have arranged for a guide to show you around the palace. I trust you will enjoy the company of my niece,’’> the sultan had said after a few more hours of discussion. The negusi had agreed, seemingly out of his own boredom with the negotiations. Ketill could only be relieved that he was released from his duties for now. He was escorted back to his chambers, and then left to his own devices. It did not take long for Yasamin to find out and, hurriedly, to come find him.

Once again she barged into the room, just as Ketill was preparing to lay down on bed to sleep. ‘’What happened?’’ she immediately asked, slamming the door shut behind her with a loud bang. It seemed that the curiosity that harem girls possessed had never left her, though he had expected her to already know what had happened.

‘’The sultan needed me.’’

‘’You mean the sultana?’’ she corrected him, under the impression that he had misspoke and meant Najla, rather than her uncle.

‘’No,’’ he said, opening one eye and glancing at the woman, letting out an annoyed sigh at her remark. ‘’The sultan.’’

‘’Ya Sawarim, oh Monarch,’’ she hushed, raising a hand to her forehead, covering it with the back of her hand as if she was unwell. ‘’Who did you insult?’’

‘’None.’’

‘’Then you were sentenced for killing Sa’aqr?’’

‘’No, I was brought in as a tablepiece.’’

‘’Surely you’re joking? For what reason?’’

‘’For some foreign dignitary – a man with skin black as coal, his teeth white as the snow.’’

‘’Snow?’’

‘’It’s- never mind. White as the whitest horse of the sultan’s herd.’’ He forgot that, even if Yasamin was a Broacienien, she was born in Coedwin and had never left that place until she entered the Sultanate – snow was about as foreign to these people as a flying cow.

‘’So it was true?’’

‘’What?’’

‘’Oh, nothing. It’s just that I heard of foreigners entering the city – I thought it was just someone mistaking a tribal delegation for foreigners. But it seems they were right. So what was said?’’

Again, Ketill opened one eye and stared at the woman until she realized her mistake, and corrected herself. ‘’Right, sorry, I forgot you still don’t speak Sawarimic.’’

‘’The foreigner gave the sultan gifts – gold, weapons, shields, and some sort of bone with gold and jewels on it – two of those bones, actually. They were very large, unlike any creature I’ve seen.’’

‘’And the sultan? What did he give the man?’’

‘’Nothing – but the foreigner is still in the palace. I suppose he’s staying a while – knowing the Sawarim they will-’’

‘’Pamper him with gifts, yes, yes I know. Perfume, horses, lord, they’ll give him a Sultana if they’re in the right mood. I wonder who they’d pick, ah, maybe Aliyah, she’s just become of the right age. Marrying a foreigner must be a good prospect for her. Tell me, what did he wear? Was he just a diplomat?’’

Ketill shrugged then and closed his eyes, putting his hands behind his head while he told her what he remembered. ‘’Hm, robes with a lot of golden embroidery. He also had a crown, and a deep red cloth underneath it with trimmings. Looked like a king, I guess.’’

‘’A king? Surely, that would be a good prospect for a marriage. His age?’’

‘’When did I become your servant, and not the other way around?’’

‘’Ketill, please, please tell me. I’m dying to know, I’ll do anything for it.’’

‘’If I tell you, you will leave right away and find someone else to bother. He looked about forty, perhaps older. His beard had grey already, though he looked like he could still go to war and partake himself.’’

‘’Not bad, not good, right in the middle. I suppose it’d have to do for Aliya – what about his people?’’

‘’You need to leave.’’



The next day the process was repeated with slightly less commotion. The negusi seemingly enjoyed his time in the palace, and the negotiations were bound to continue swimmingly. Ketill was brought in again, once again shackled to the wall. The discussion seemed a bit more casual now, with only a few guards from either side present there, besides the harem girls and Ketill.

<‘’… two daughters and five sons. And that is merely from my brother – my sister has had five daughters so far, and two sons – and she is pregnant again right now,’’> the deep voice of the nigusi echoed through the hall, as the sultan and negusi spoke of their families. It seemed that the topic of marriage had come up sooner or later, which was a prevalent method of unification perhaps for the Sawarim and the foreigners both. For the Broacienien family, things would be much different – the families were nowhere near as large, and marriage was a serious ordeal – there were only so many princes and princesses. For the Sawarim, for every potential spouse there were at least ten others that could fill the same spot equally as good. Setting up a marriage seemed to be the same as shaking hands at times.

<‘’It seems easy then. The only issue is who to pick – I’m sure there are many good potential spouses on either side, however.’’>

<‘’The niece I met yesterday was very kind, so if she is a benchmark for the others, I am sure it won’t be hard to find a suitable husband.’’>

The sultan smiled at his reply, seemingly thankful for the compliment about his family, while returning it in kind. <‘’And if your good nature and traits are a benchmark for your family, then I am sure they will feel no regrets for marrying into it.’’>

<‘’Did you have someone in mind then,’’> negusi Solomon inquired, his brows raised slightly in a questioning matter. <‘’Tell me of them now, so that I can return next year with a selection of princes.’’>

For all his kind words, the negusi remained straight forward and honest – this much earned a laugh from the sultan as he leaned back and dropped a grape in his mouth. Thinking about it, he found himself coming up with one name – but it was the one name that he couldn’t promise. <‘’I had intended for my cousin Najla to be presented when I first heard reports of foreigners. But alas, she is betrothed now,’’> he slowly said, thinking about other candidates too. <‘’It would go against the will of the Sawarim to force a break of that betrothal. Perhaps it would have been good to send her away. She’s headstrong. Might have been a perfect fit for your people.’’>

<‘’She would’ve fit in perfectly, yes,’’> the negusi replied, sipping from a cup of wine as he leaned back. His eyes traced the harem girls now, no longer interested in the Bear of Broacien as it seemed. <‘’Our women are strong. As strong as the men, even.’’>

<‘’You make it seem like women make up half your army now, Solomon.’’>

<‘’That would scare off many invaders, wouldn’t it? But no, our women manage the household. Whatever they say is law inside the house. Anything outside of that is the man’s authority. But there are not many men who can freely say they are fully in control even outside of the house.’’>

<‘’Perhaps it’s different here – but I can’t say for certain. The niece I was talking about, Najla, she has made sure to prove otherwise a few times, and she’s not even married yet.’’>

<‘’Perhaps her family raised her to be strong. It’s not a bad trait.’’>

<‘’Her father is unlike her now, but her brother Harith is much the same. Basim is different – he’s more controlled. If I were a wiser sultan, I would fear that boy, as he thinks like a man with the wisdom of the world, but alas, I am not such a wise sultan, so I can feel nothing but love for him,’’> the sultan explained, before his mind wandered to the missing link. <‘’There was also Jalil – may the Sawarim rest his soul – he passed away in Broacien.’’>

<‘’Sultan,’’> With a sudden movement, negusi Solomon placed his hand on the top of the sultan’s hand as a sign of empathy. <‘’My condolences. No amount of words can remove your feelings of loss, but perhaps they can soften it.’’>

<‘’It’s alright, my dear friend. He passed away some time ago, and time has healed the wound. It’s his family that should have had the blow of losing a son and brother softened.’’>

The negusi nodded at this and patted the sultans’ hand before pulling back and returning to his position of lounging, eyes befalling the harem girls again. <‘’You keep talking about this ‘Broacien,’ and while I believe you when you say they are godless people, I cannot help but be curious about them. They are savages, I take it, but even savages must have culture, a language, purpose and tasks?’’>

<‘’Their only task is to defile the holy lands, their language is one that sounds like death itself, and as for culture, it mostly consists of dredging in mud and swamps. Just look at the beast behind us, and you will see what people roam that place.’’>

<‘’May I speak to him then?’’>

<‘’As you wish, negusi, but you will not get a word out of him.’’>

The negusi rose to his feet, and straightened his robe out with his hands, smoothing them out downwards before he turned to face Ketill, who was still chained to the wall. His entire expression hinted at boredom, but that would change when negusi Solomon approached him.

<‘’Beast,’’> he said, confusing Ketill with his language from the start. <‘’Do you speak?’’>

Ketill could only stare, waiting for him to speak in Broacienien, or clarify what he wanted. But the negusi would do no such thing, his eyes piercing Ketill’s eyes in a deadlock. After a few seconds, the negusi merely repeated. <‘’Do you speak?’’>

When no answer came, the negusi only laughed, looking back at the sultan who also laughed – though, it would not be surprising if the sultan also feared for the negusi’s wellbeing. <‘’What an animal,’’> the negusi commented, before reaching out to Ketill’s shoulder. Before he could grab it, Ketill pulled himself back, not allowing the negusi to touch him. Again the man laughed.

Inside of him, Ketill could feel the fire rising. It was one thing when Najla or Osman punished him or spoke ill of him, but for a complete stranger to use him like some animal meant for their entertainment, it was not something that he could take any longer. He spat his insult, the only he knew in Sawarimic, before anyone realized how Ketill would react. <‘’Your father fucked a horse to conceive you, horse-fucker.’’> Then, the clank of the chains could be heard as Ketill attempted to step forwards and beat the man down, only stopped by the length of the chains around his wrists.

For a moment it went silent, as the guards looked on in shock, as did the sultan. Nobody was sure how the negusi would react – seemingly not even the guardsmen he had brought. Ketill stared at the man’s face, his own eyes spelling doom and anger, the negusi’s eyes spelling something unknown to him. But then the man burst out in laughter, glancing at the sultan with sparkling eyes. <‘’The fire beats within him at least. Savage or not – they are fearless. Imagine having an army of men like him – big, strong, they don’t feel pain and are not afraid to insult anyone that stands across them. You could conquer the world.’’>

The sultan nodded slowly before looking at the table ahead of him, seemingly not reassured of the negusi’s words. <‘’Yes, or they would break your back the moment you stopped giving them things to fight. Guards, please restrain him and return him to his chambers. I am bored of him.’’>



Again, Yasamin was eager to visit Ketill immediately after he was returned, as if she could hear from a mile away that his door was opened. She barged in again, though this time she was met with Ketill standing almost right behind the door, forcing her to take a step back. ‘’What is it now?’’

‘’I- I just wanted to ask if you were alright?’’

‘’I’m fine. If that’s all then I’ll see you later.’’

‘’No, wait, how was it?’’

‘’Boring.’’

‘’That’s not what I meant. What happened?’’

‘’They talked about things that I could not understand. I believe Najla was mentioned about two or three times.’’

‘’They mentioned the sultana? And not Aliyah?’’

‘’No, just Najla. Is that all?’’

‘’I suppose,’’ she answered, and her eyes told him all he needed to know. She wanted to know more, but she also realized that he wouldn’t tell her anything more useful than that. She simply took what she could and left, leaving Ketill alone while she went to find the sultana and tell her all about what she just found out.


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