[quote=@persianversion]
She had only been treated like royalty again for a brief time, but Najla was already returning to the woman she’d been before she was Saina. She did not enjoy the parade of slaves they brought in, deciding what to do with each, and tried not to look upon them. Instead, she focused her attentions upon Uzeyir, who had proven to be a far better companion than Ghalid, or the slaver who had been stupid enough to ask for a Sultana. Uzeyir told her of the times he traded in the Sultan’s court, and she devoured this information, eager for any news of her family. 

[i]<“You said you saw Harith upon your last visit? How is he?”>[/i]

[i]<“Well, Sultana. I provided the Sultan and Adina with a few gifts there, and I saw your nephew with them as well.”>[/i]

[i]<“Little Mehmet?!”>[/i]

[i]<“He’s not quite so little anymore, Sultana. He’s almost three, and his father has already taught him not to hide behind his mother’s skirts.”> [/i]

Najla laughed at that, for she had been gone for nearly two years now, and could not remember a Mehmet beyond the small baby who couldn’t stop crying. He was the pride of her family, and Najla had missed the boy dearly, though she remembered only a handsome infant with skin as dark as his mothers and Harith’s flashing hazel eyes, which she had always been envious of as a child. 

[i]<“He’s going to be a warrior, that one.”>[/i]

Even as the pair talked cheerfully regarding Najla’s nephew, another slave was dragged out of the tent, and they went to grab the next one. Though she did not enjoy it, it did not seem to bother her too much. After all, Najla had spent her entire life being served by people, and she knew those who were sent to the Sultan were treated well. Those who were outside the tent were another matter, and knowing how easily it could have been her, Najla found it easier on her conscience to focus on Uzeyir and the future ahead of her, instead of the rather dirty present. 

When the next capture was brought in, Najla was forced to pay attention, no longer able to distract herself by focusing on Uzeyir. She watched as they brought Ketill through the tent flap, her eyes on the wound in his head, the shock easily read for a brief moment before it was hidden again. She thought he was dead. He should’ve been dead. How did a man survive a blow like that? Though she could hear that Uzeyir was speaking to her, a careful whisper in her ear, she could not hear what he was saying. She should have figured he’d be harder to kill, but as he spoke, Najla bristled, her shock giving way to anger. Perhaps his mouth would kill him before a mace would.

When Uzeyir bellowed out an order, cutting off Ghalid, Najla kept her eyes firmly on Ketill. When he belted out another, she watched wordlessly as Ketill was shoved to the ground, and did not react to the sight of his wound reopening when he looked at her again. In fact, she would look bored and haughty as their eyes met, an expression she had perfected long before she was ever Saina. It was a gaze that hid emotion well, though in Ketill’s case, it might not have been entirely necessary. His words would not visibly move her, nor would the wound on his head. It was the mention of her previous name that drew the first reaction from her, as she tensed slightly and frowned. 

Yet, she remained silent and merely watched as Uzeyir stood and walked towards Ketill, stopping before him on one of the steps. Despite the slight anger that the name Saina had brought, a small smile crossed her lips as Ketill cursed in the little Sawarim he knew. Clearly it had been amusing to Najla, whether it was the insult itself or the man that spoke it, but her smile faded instantly when the guards placed their swords against his throat. Ketill’s roar had stilled the tent for a moment, and though no one spoke, it was clear that his desperation for death had garnered some surprise, if not respect, from the Sawarim around him. The Sawarim were a people used to the harsh nature of the desert and the cruelties it came with, both of which required a certain ferocity simply to survive. Thus, while his insults and presence may have irritated the Sawarim, It was a trait they respected.

Yet, even as Ketill spoke, Najla looked bored. The longer he spoke, the more difficult it was for Najla to maintain this expression, but she did nonetheless. Betraying her emotions was little issue for a slave, but Najla would rarely allow herself to do it when she was a Sultana, and would never show that his words had moved her, not in front of a group of Sawarim.

He had not treated her well. He had not been exceedingly kind to her, and had done little to endear himself to her. Ketill had not treated her poorly either. He had never hurt her, and though she remembered his harsh words in the dungeons well, she remembered how he had controlled himself, how close his hand was to her face before he had stopped. He had given her little reason to fear him, and had even protected her on more than one occasion, though Najla knew his actions had never been for her. 

Did that mean she needed to save him? There was a part of her that pitied him, certainly, but she buried this quickly. He had never pitied her. Was he speaking to her out of some sense of duty then? He had saved her life, neither Ketill nor Najla would deny that, but Najla would feel no obligation as a result. He had to know that she could not release him, she’d be called a traitor to her faith. Never to her face of course, but a ‘Servant’s whore’ wouldn’t live long in court. Even if she did, Najla could not imagine he’d make it back to Coedwin with that wound, and that’d be a death worse than what he was demanding of her now. Perhaps it would be easiest to cut his throat right here, prove her devotion to her faith and satisfy his demands in a single swipe. Perhaps it would be better to take him, to remove the decision out of her hands entirely and let God and the Sultan decide as they wished.  

A thick, heavy silence fell over the tent as they waited for her to respond, but Najla made no attempts to cut through this. Her eyes never left Ketill’s even as the blood poured over his face, making him quite frightening to look upon. She would not look away though, not here, not surrounded by her people. [i]“I have forgotten nothing, my lord.”[/i] She spoke the words mockingly, a sentence quite similar to how she had responded to Ketill as they left Coedwin. Then, his presence had still protected her from the clutches of the man who sat near her. Now, it was little more than an unpleasant reminder. [i]“But you have forgotten the company you are in. If you think any of those insults would be answered with a swift death, you’re a fool.”[/i] Her eyes flitted back to Ghalid briefly, as if her explanation to Ketill was meant to be a warning to the slaver as well. [i]“If you had ever put your hands on me, I’d have you tied behind a horse and dragged to the capital.”[/i]

She pushed herself off the cushions and stood. One hand gathered her skirts as she moved to walk down the steps, and the other reached out to take Uzeyir’s as it was offered to her. She had only been treated as royalty again for a short time, but Najla had slipped back into the role with ease. She moved gracefully even in the tent, and when she reached the bottom, thanked Uzeyir with a polite nod of her head as she released his hand. [i]<“Allow me a moment to speak with him.”>[/i] He nodded and stepped back, but the guards did not draw their swords from Ketill’s throat. Her eyes looked almost bored when they trained upon Ketill, but perhaps he’d see some anger in them when she began to speak.

[i]“You won’t spit on me too, will you?”[/i] 

It was a rhetorical question, for she moved forward even as she asked it. He’d be a fool to do so now, she’d have little choice but to kill him after such an insult. Najla did not move too close to him however, stopping while there was still a few paces between them. She did not order the guards to pull their swords from his throat either, only watching him with that same bored expression, her eyes revealing none of the doubts in her mind.

Finally, she continued to speak. It was a voice she had never spoken in to or around Ketill, but a voice she fell into naturally. Najla’s voice was calm, and even her threats were spoken without anger, but allowed to sit as they were, carried by the confidence in her tone. It was the voice of someone who was used to people listening when she spoke, no longer that of a slave who needed to bargain, but that of a Sultana. 

[i]“Do not fool yourself into thinking that your deeds make you a good man, for it won’t fool me. Remember who you make demands of now, Servant. I follow no will but that of God and the Great Sultan, not even my own, and certainly not that of a Monarchist dog. But, I will offer you a concession.”[/i] She stepped forward then, taking Ketill’s chin into her hand softly. It seemed as if she did not notice how his blood spilled down his face, creeping towards her hand, and she would not draw her hand even as it threatened to stain it. Her touch was light and gentle as she turned his head to study the wound from another angle, seemingly taking great care to make sure she did not hurt him farther. Finally, her gaze went down to his eyes, and she remembered how he had handed her the reins. Had he been helping her to flee? He hadn’t been able to finish his words before they had given him this wound, and so perhaps she’d never know.

[i]“If you wish for me to kill you, I will. Whatever manner of death is decided for you, I will be the one to execute it. You will face no death I cannot carry out.” [/i]

Perhaps it should have been a comfort. It might have meant a swift death for her own sake, a quick swipe of the blade so she would not be forced to make him suffer. But Najla had chosen her words carefully, and she had meant for the threat of being dragged behind a horse to linger, both for Ketill and Ghalid. Ketill knew little of her, and thus, no clue as to what she was capable of or be willing to enact. Even beyond her threats, there was a more frightening promise in her words: she would not be the one to decide his fate.

[i]“Go and pray to your false idols that you die swiftly, but remember that it will be my God that decides.”[/i] 

She released him then, stepping back to look at Uzeyir again. 

[i]<“Bring him with us to the capital. You may present him as a token, proof of what you have done for me and for your Sultan. It will not be forgotten.”> [/i]

Uzeyir nodded at her command, pleased by her hint that she would speak highly of him in the Sultan’s court. The guards moved to take Ketill out of the room again, and though Najla would not explain his fate to him, perhaps he had heard the word Sultan, or would understand when the men took their swords from his throat. Uzeyir offered her his hand again, and she took it with her unbloodied hand, once again stepping up the platform delicately. As they pulled Ketill up, she turned back to look at him once more, and finally, some anger came out in her words, rather than the controlled tone she’d been using. 

[i]“If I ever hear you refer to me as Saina again, I will have your tongue ripped out. Or I’ll do it myself, if you so prefer.”[/i] 

Before he could respond however, her eyes went to the two guards who had been ready to drag him out. [i]<“He’ll never make it in this condition. Have his wound treated before we leave.”>[/i] They bowed their heads at her order, and though they might have repeated her title, she had already returned to her seat among the cushions. She sat down gently, but would not look upon Ketill as they dragged him out once more, her mind swimming.

She had prolonged his life by a few more days, at least, if the wound did not take him first. Perhaps it was a mistake to keep him alive, and perhaps it had been a greater mistake to promise that she would be the one to take his life. In that matter, she had little choice, Najla could not sentence him to death if she would not be willing to enact it. She could bring a blade on his neck, but what if they sentenced him to death by lashing? She would have no chance to hesitate if it was the former, but if his death was prolonged, Najla worried she might find a reason to pause. Ketill certainly wasn’t her favorite person, but he had given her little reason to hate him beyond the three marks on his forehead. Najla supposed it didn’t matter, those marks would be more than enough to sentence him to a public death, and they’d have to be enough for her to carry it out. 

[i]<“Sultana.”>[/i] The word drew her out of her thoughts, and she looked up at Uzeyir once more. They’d dragged Ketill from the tent, seemingly having gone to fetch the next few slaves, and Uzeyir climbed up the stairs after her, joining her on the cushions before he spoke.

[i]<“Sultana, you are generous for allowing us this token, but I worry that the Servant will threaten you. I will spare no effort to return you safely, but if you should ever wish for me to take the dog’s life-”>[/i]

[i]<“You are kind for worrying, but it is a worry without reason. The Servant will not hurt me.”> [/i]

[hr]

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Al-Tirazi had been referred to as ‘the Golden City’ before, which would come as a surprise both to those who had never seen it, and those who had never left it. Those who made the treacherous journey across the Sawarim lands would see the name for all it was worth, as the golden domes of their temples glinted under the heavy light of the sun from a distance, announcing the capital on the horizon. To those who lived within it, it was a dusty and sweltering home, but to those who traveled to it, it was a beacon of relief in an empty desert. 

The capital was built deep into the desert, just where the sands began to turn to stone, allowing them to build the seat of an empire. The land was less flat here, and with clever enough irrigation, they had managed to find a land they could actually grow in. It had first been built around an enormous oasis, and the city had grown from there, first as a trading site, and then as the seat of the Sultanate. Now, the city was sprawling, contained only by its massive walls. They could no longer rely purely on the oasis, but if the Sawarim understood one thing, it was water. They had quickly learned how to irrigate the land around them enough to grow some food, nowhere near enough to support the city alone, but it allowed some patches of green in between the Sawarim settlements that lay in the stone. The city also had enormous water reserves, prepared for any crisis. These rarely came however, for the city was a beacon of trade and no man would be foolish enough to try and lay a siege on the capital, knowing they’d have to bring their army across the desert to do so. Thus, the city and the far poorer settlements that were allowed some distance from the wall were some of the safest areas of the Sultanate, and one of the few pockets without raiders. 

Nevertheless, the large walls of the city were heavily guarded, and any who wished to cross into the gates were watched closely by archers atop the walls and guards beneath it. The slavers would have little trouble getting through, as many of their kind crossed through these walls daily, joining the multitudes of traders and Sawarim who made the treacherous journey. Upon entering, they’d be greeted with a noisy city, bustling with people on every corner. They were mostly Sawarim, but it was not odd to see Broaciens as well, mostly in the form of slaves. While all the Sawarim preferred clothing that was loose-fitting and brightly colored, the Sawarim people in the capital came from all over the Sultanate, and their dress styles varied according to this. Some women covered their heads and bodies, some wore the thinnest dresses, bearing a great deal of skin. Similarly, some of the men were bare-chested, some in the long robes that kept the skin from the heat of the desert, and some with long, elegantly tailored tunics. It was a city bustling with noise, the people called from stalls and homes to each other, and at certain moments during the day, the sounds of prayer rang out from the tops of the temples, spreading across the city. 

The city was built around its main structures, meaning that major areas of the city had wide, open streets that allowed for its public to gather and trade. Here, stalls were set up along roads and within markets. The bazaar in front of the great temple was the most largest and most carefully sorted of all, and the stalls near the temple were those selling books or religious ornaments. It was only at a certain distance from the temple that merchants were allowed to sell anything beyond these items, and slave merchants were banished to the edges of this market entirely. There were other markets around the city, but none quite so large, and far more haphazardly sorted. As the roads moved further away from these areas, they grew tighter, narrower, and more winding, some even covered to protect those who lived beneath from the blazing sun. While some merchants lived in homes just beside the markets or above their shops, if they were wealthy enough to own stores, most of the city lived within these streets. Most of the houses were made of mudbrick and of varying sizes and styles. Some were small, meant for a single family, but some were large messes of structures patched together for multiple families to live in together. 

The city was crafted of the few materials they had, and the mudbrick houses looked similar to the desert surrounding the capital, almost as if the city rose from the sand around it. The quality of these houses depended on the neighborhood, and the neighborhood depended on their position. Those near markets and the palace of the Sultan were often those of wealthier merchants, and these houses were far larger, with walls, gardens, and courtyards, built with a far more solid material and often guarded. A great majority of the city did not live in these groupings, but in the neighborhoods around it, where the mudbrick houses would be small and poorly built, and would sometimes give way to tents and shacks when the houses turned to slums. 

Unlike the other cities in the Sultanate, which housed their leaders near their largest temples, the Sultan’s palace was separated from the markets and Great temple entirely. Here, the walls rose nearly as high as they did around the city, separating the opulence of their rulers from their people. The gates would open to a splendid palace, which sat high above the rest of the city, gleaming in the desert sun. This was the home of the Sultan, his family, and his court, and where the Sultanate conducted all its imperial business from. It was restricted for most of the locals of the city, and for good reason, for while the outside was magnificent in comparison to the city, the interior was an exercise in opulence unlike any before.

The palace was divided into separate sections by four courtyards. The courtyards had been placed so that the largest was in the middle, the other three situated around it. The Sultan and his family spent most of their days within these enormous courtyards, surrounded by more green than most of the Sawarim people had ever seen. Their gardens were lush and exquisite, their fountains massive, a clear indicator of their position in a society where every drop of water meant life, and they were spending their drops in fountains for children to play in. 

The halls inside would be just as splendid, as the Sultan lived surrounded by high walls, arched doorways, and decorated rooms, as each room often had splendid colors and paintings drawn on the walls themselves. The audience hall, where the slavers would be received, was the most lavish  of all, decorated with a mosaic made of shattered mirrors, soaking the entrance in a golden light before they were brought in to approach the Sultan. Those who lived and worked within these lavish rooms were not blind to the disparity, one only had to look out the palace windows to see the rest of the city and the harsh land beyond it, and they would see how differently Sultanate royalty lived. 

[hr]

Najla had kept her face covered as they moved through the city, the small group of slaves escorted through the main streets slowly, parting through the crowd with difficulty. The slavers had joked about her making a ‘hero’s return’ but Najla wanted no trouble before she reached her family. While she was able to keep her face covered, hiding herself from any who might have recognized her, the captures had not been granted such a luxury, and thus Ketill was facing a great deal of attention. He’d get a lot of stares and whispers, and perhaps some calls, but none would seek to harm him, not willing to risk the retribution of the slavers for harming a capture. Najla would keep her eyes on the palace ahead, ignoring any attention placed upon Ketill, her heart racing at how close she was to home.

They approached the gates of the palace, and it was at one of these gates that the slavers were stopped by guards, and asked to identify themselves and their business. While the slavers talked, Najla peeked in through the gates, studying the castle guard for any familiar faces. Their conversation was drowned out at the sight of one, and she nearly raced through the gates herself before they were allowed in at all. He was closer than he’d been in a year, and though the slavers conversation with the guard lasted a brief moment, it felt like a lifetime. Finally, when the guards had allowed them to pass, she was the first of their train to do so, and had only made it in a few steps on her horse before she dismounted eagerly, pulling the scarf off her face.

[i]“Papa!”[/i] The call rang loudly, drawing the attention of many of the guard, but Najla’s eyes were focused on one. He was in his late fifties, with bright hazel eyes, dark skin and hair, though white had started to pepper his deep black hair. Najla would have sworn she had not seen so much before. He was speaking hurriedly to a small group of guards, but her call had drawn his attention, and he turned to look at the source, only to pause. She did not give him a chance to take in what was happening, and gave no care as to who was watching, but closed the short distance between them in a brief run. She practically jumped onto him, wrapping her arms around him and pulled him to her tightly, even as she felt his arms wrap around her too, clutching her so fiercely she thought she might break. For a long moment they simply held each other, and Najla would feel her father’s shoulders begin to move under her arms, as if he were crying. When they would finally pull away, no tears had spilled down his cheeks yet, but Najla’s were wet with them. They held on to each other even as they pulled apart enough to speak.

[i]<”My child, my blood, daughter, I don’t believe it. Ya Sawarim, he has answered all my prayers, I don’t believe it! You must be a ghost-”>[/i]

Najla laughed even as she reached up a hand to wipe her tears, looking up at her father, who still had not moved from his shock.

[i]<“I am no ghost, papa, I missed you so much-”>[/i]

[i]<“My daughter, I-Jalil. Do you have news of your brother?”>[/i]

There was a silence then, and Najla could not bring herself to say the words. Her vision blurred as tears returned to her eyes, and though she would not see it, her father would react as well. She shook her head softly, and buried her face in her father’s chest when he pulled her to him once more. 

[i]<“Are you hurt? Did they hurt you?”> [/i]

[i]<“I’m unhurt.”>[/i] She replied, never releasing him even as she did. [i]<“No one hurt me, papa. No one laid a hand on me.”>[/i]

She could feel her father’s relief at those words, and knew that she had dispelled months of fearful worrying as to her treatment. When they parted after a long moment, Najla could see that the guards were looking upon them in awe, and a brief glance showed some familiar faces, though none she cared to speak to now. 

[i]<“How did you return? How did you survive unharmed?”>[/i]

[i]<“Luck, the mercy of God, I don’t know. These men brought me home.”>[/i] She turned back to indicate Uzeyir and the other slavers that had returned with them, ignoring Ketill in her count. They continued to speak briefly, but as soon as she had readied herself, they were both eager to return to the palace and spread the news. Grasping her father’s hand, they returned to thank the slavers.

[i]<“You have my eternal gratitude and thanks, may you be blessed forever for bringing my daughter to me. You shall have every hospitality we can afford you.”>[/i]

[i]<“It is merely a pleasure to serve the Sultan.”>[/i]

[i]<“I will speak with you later Uzeyir, you have done my family a great service.”>[/i]

[i]<“Of course Sultana, go and see your family.”>[/i]

With that, everything behind her had been forgotten. She would thank the slavers formally later, and her father would return to finish his command. Ketill and the other slaves would be dealt with, and she’d have to explain Jalil’s fate, but none of that mattered now. Even her horse had simply been abandoned in the road, and she grasped at her father’s arm as they began walking towards to the palace together. 
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