[hider=Yay!]So that took forever and I do not apologize for the oddity of the post. I have a young man working on high solvent projects in my kitchen and the fumes are no doubt getting to me. ;) But here it is! [/hider]

The darkness parted much in the way it might after a night of heavy celebration. Not one to overindulge, still Zahi had, a time or two, managed to be young and foolish. So the sense of having eyelids unfit for opening and a stomach that rebelled even a horizontal position wasn't foreign. 

The pang in his side and the shocky numb sensation everywhere else were odd. As was the sensation of surrealism. Waking always was always to the sounds of his camp or the sounds of the hidden oasis of his people; Anat's snuffling nearby, the chatter of children over the softer murmur of mothers, both underlying the more brusque laughter of a brother, an uncle, a friend – men working. A breeze against tenting, the soft hiss of shifting sands, or a crackle of fire with the spiced scent which filled the nostrils, this was waking and had been waking from his first breath. 

This – no this waking had a bitterness as if the air itself had gone bad. Rotten flowers and dying camels long left to the winds had something similar and Zahi's brow furrowed at the unpleasant scent. Somewhere, echoing footsteps like men walking through a cave and the murmur of old women broke free of a strange bird song – consistent and chirping without melody. The very air about him felt too light, stripped of life and sunshine. 

Opening his eyes, Zahi blinked in bleary surprise at the white world all around him. Metal shone and angles broke the world like a shattered spear. Memory tried to tie him to the moment he and Anat had left the genie's world, but it failed to function completely and Zahi moved a hand in an attempt to pull back the dream. He met air and with a groan, stared at his arm – cold and with a worm like creature wrapped against his forearm and buried into his hand. 

“Saaa...” a woman's voice interrupted him, her soft, warm hand taking his other when he reached for the thing which sucked, leechlike, from his skin. She came into view and he stared at her, attempting to make her fit into the rest of the world about. 

“[i]I have given myself to the djinn,[/i]” he frowned. “[i]Is this to be my fate?[/i]” 

She touched his arm and guided it with a gentle pressure back to his stomach, atop a poorly woven blanket, thin and delicate under his palm. Such weave could not last in the sands but perhaps, in a world where there was nothing like sand or wind or men with their work, blankets like this were as silk was to the maharaja. The weave was unlike silk in that even silk had substance. 

Assured he'd not try to pull at his other arm, the woman stood and leaned over him. She moved like a woman at the loom – checking thread and drawing color. However, there was no weaving over him. Instead, lights whirled and the bird chirps, so unlike any bird, jarred his ears. He winced at the pain which rocketed through his head. Unsure what he was to do, he watched her. She was a small woman, much like his mother and aunt. Her skin hadn't the same wear, but she was old nevertheless and capable. Her every action had purpose even if he was unable to divine it. When she completed her motions, she gazed down at him and there was warmth in her gaze. Perhaps, if there was one to look at him in that way, then this was not a fate, but more magic? 

“[i]Anat safe and … alive,[/i] she began – her words stumbling and confused. At the broken language, he realized she was trying with thick accent, to tell him something. Confusion plain on his face, he reached for her arm, tapped the back of it after she'd murdered every word she was trying to say, he almost could have made sense out of it and he rolled a finger in a circle in the air until she nodded and tried again. 

The second time was slower and she had seemed to have forgotten some of what she was to say. What was obvious throughout, was her attempt to tell him he was safe and that there was trusting to be had. She had mentioned Anat and while he did not see his companion, he felt her kindness meant that the mare was sure to be well. 

The djinn, or the man who was not djinn, she did not mention and with a pat to his hand, she left him to the silence of death all about. He struggled to sit up, his stomach screaming in pain, and with a grunt, stared down at himself. It was no wonder he was so cold, for nothing on his skin was of any substance. With a grimace he ignored the babble of words which the woman seemed to be speaking outside the cold door and instead, tugged at the flimsy garment he was dressed in to get a better look at the wound in his stomach. Whatever it was in his arm, the worm was long and she had asked him to leave it, though the concept bothered him and yet it would not have done to argue any desire of those who lived in the djinn's realm. Who was he to question she or any other? 

The garment was almost torn to one side when she reentered and with a cluck of the tongue she rushed to the edge of the bedding they'd laid him on. He waved her away with a short, “[i]Woman, I will not lay down like a child![/i]” but she batted his hand to the side and the pair made a gentle war over his clothing and his resting once more. After some moments of her chatter and his grunts of annoyance, she gave in to his sitting up, but began to make much of the bedding itself and with some alien rumblings of the bedding itself, made the back raise to support him. 

He grimaced at her in distaste. He was no ancient to have pillows plumped, but nevertheless, he could accept it was easier to manage the pain in his torso if he bent somewhat to her will. If nothing else, she gave him peace from her fussing and instead, merely frowned at him. 

At the first sign, the doctor had sent an intern to the physician's apartments. The girl ducked her head inside and held her breath. There, in the midst of the room, stood a horse, tail swishing and head turned to look over her back at the door. Upon the bed, not far from the mare and a bucket of half eaten vegetables, lay the traveler who seemed almost asleep, if not fully there. 

“Sir,” the girl whispered, unfamiliar enough with animals larger than a medium sized dog that the presence of the horse left her uncertain, “Doctor asked I get you. Your friend is awake.” 

The mare shook herself and returned to gazing down at the man on the bed, having been rather taken with him. Anat was a quick animal and he was the kind hand on her in the midst of confusion. Trained and bred for battle, for utter trust, she had no experience with men of kindness leading her astray so that her trust in the midst of fearful surroundings was complete.