“Is that so?” Ketill mused as she answered him about the decision between life and death for her, her surrender to the slaver implying she'd die much the same way. “You haven't seemed to be too preoccupied with your own health. I have little reason to care for yours more than I have already,” he'd add, and found himself believing the words despite heir harshness. If she was hellbent on getting into situations that nearly killed her, why was he expected to suddenly care? And if what she said was true - that she could give him more - then the question was just how much. But, that would imply also that Ketill was looking for wealth. In fact, he found himself caring very little for that. It was worthless on the day of judgement in the eyes of the Monarch. That was all he cared for - not for any amount of money in the world would he have entered in this expedition, but for the Monarch? Anything for the Monarch, even his life.
Her next words, however, were very telling. That she was not a merchants' daughter was not news - she had no skills, knowledge or mannerisms that a merchant would have. He had assumed it was a cover for herself, a way to make herself seem more important and avoid being captured. Despite it not working, he'd assumed that she kept up appearances despite that. But it being a cover for something like this was unexpected. His eyes rested on her as he processed the information, what it meant, and how it'd affect him and the expedition. She was an asset - no, she was also a danger. If anyone else knew, there'd be trouble.
As she finished her speech, he remained quiet, looking her in the eyes while he crossed his hands over each other, more or less holding onto his own hand. Tension filled the air slowly with every passing moment of silence before he finally spoke up. His lips slowly formed the hint of a smile, looking at her with slight disbelief playing in his eyes. “There were rumours,” he slowly said, thinking back to his time in Coedwin. They'd heard that the niece and cousin of the sultan were missing. He'd not expected them to end up in Broacien, though. They just expected them to.. have found the sharp end up a sword in the political intrigues of the Sultanate. “Though why you would enter Broacien is beyond me. You never swore off your faith, that much I know, because you do not act like the slaver.”
Though it seemed unremarkable, Ketill knew full well that a Sawarim that didn't swear off the faith would, ultimately, end up dead in Broacien. If not worse, captured. Perhaps that part had been true. Looking back, she might have been lucky to end up with the expedition - under his command, even. She was in the desert again. If she was lucky she'd find her way back home - if he allowed it, at least. She seemed more trouble than she was worth at this point and perhaps, out of pure logistical reasons, he'd have let her go. But now that it was revealed she was in fact, more or less a princess of the Sultanate, well, it'd be harder than that.
“Your brother is not with us. Unless you lied about that, too, though I'd find little reason for that. He is.. somewhere else then. Still in Broacien? Dead? Worse?” The question was without tact, but she had given him little reason to warrant any tact whatsoever. She did not seem the kind that cared for that - much rather, she'd probably demand tact from him if she was given the chance. But she was a slave, and thus without such a power.
“But you're right, after all, you can not convince me. We will see how the wheel turns, and when it does, we will find out who you are. We leave the fort today. I will not sell you, but you have some explaining to do - to me. None else might hear of who you are, or rather, claim to be. Get ready to travel. I have arranged a horse for you, so you can ride yourself. We will travel fast, and we will use one of the slaves from the slaver as a guide. Furthermore, we will avoid any Sultanate soldiers that we find. We're here for a banner, not a war. So, I am sure you can imagine why I want to keep your supposed identity a secret. We'd hardly want to have the sultan find out that his beloved niece was degraded to nothing less than a slave. That would hardly be a convincing argument for you, however. So I'll let you go then with the knowledge that, if anyone finds out you're a princess of the sultanate, you'd be dead before nightfall, if not by the hands of the commander, then by the hands of the Servants. Not all of them are as understanding as the Hochmeister, nor the bishop. Your kind is not loved here. Go, pack your things.”
In truth he had had half a mind to stab her down where she stood - she was adding piles upon piles of trouble on his already troubled mind. Two trials, one for murder, and then she turns out to be a princess. None would question why he did it - perhaps the bishop would. If it had not been for the bishops order, he'd strongly have considered it. But alas.
“Pack my bags too, and meet me outside by the stables. I'll prepare our horses.” He immediately left without saying anything more - an inconclusive ending perhaps to her revelation, but he'd found little else to say. Was he to believe her, or not? Was she spinning a trick to avoid being sold? The more Ketill thought about this the more he realized that, perhaps it didn't matter. Regardless of her previous position, she was a slave now, and regardless of how she felt about it, she would do as commanded, or die a lonely death in the desert.
Perhaps that was a savage way of thought. But Ketill was taken out of the North, the North still remained in him. Death was a fact of life - Najla now had her own choices to make. She could obey and live, or resist and see the bishops' order overturned in the desert at her next mistake. Time would tell.
He went down to the stables and saddled his own horse, while ordering a stableboy to find an extra free horse. He returned with a very dark, brown horse. It was obviously a Broacien breed, more strong and muscular than most Sawarim horses but obviously lacking in speed. The expedition would not be speedy, so this was not so much a drawback. The stableboy saddled the horse with a rather cheap saddle and then handed the reins to Ketill, who would lead the horses to the front of the castle, where he'd wait for Najla. Once she'd arrive, he'd take his bags and hook them to his saddle before looking at her one last time.
“Do not think your 'position' in the sultanate will earn you many favors. You are still a slave. Best to remind yourself of that.. set your expectations low.”
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Dion JIHAD CHIQUE ® / NOT THE SHIT, DEFINITELY A FART
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3 days ago
OP
Dion JIHAD CHIQUE ® / NOT THE SHIT, DEFINITELY A FART
Member
Seen
3 days ago
Her eyes never left his during the silence. She could not tell what he was thinking, but was clearly desperate to know. Telling him the truth had been a move born out of desperation, but Najla had nothing left to bargain with. Her title was all she had, Najla had lived off of it, cultivated a network of spies through it, had pulled herself into the most important reaches of the Sultan’s court with it, and now, was left praying it’d be enough for her life. The smile on his face unnerved her, and Najla bit her lip nervously as he began to speak, only able to hope.
At first, it seemed as if there was a chance he could believe her. At least Ketill had heard the rumors, and Najla was already trying to find a reason for her to have ended up in Broacien when he mentioned her brother. Regardless of the excuse she dreamt up, Najla figured she’d be safer so long as Ketill did not know what Jalil had attempted.
The mention of her brother was enough to snap her out of this brief line of thought. Her body tensed up at the way he spoke of him, her fists clenching slightly as her eyes narrowed. The indignities she had suffered in Broacien had humbled her somewhat, but only in regards to her own image. Jalil had suffered too much at the hands of the Monarchists, and continued to suffer from their treatment, to watch Ketill speak of him with so little regard for her pain was far more infuriating that it was hurtful.
“Worse.”
He was not dead. His body had been mutilated after death, he was separated from his family, and so long as his head remained on a spike, he would be forced to suffer. Najla knew how vital it was for a Sawarim faithful to be buried decently, to be offered the chance to present themselves in front of their God as they were in life, to honor those who came before and to keep a family united even in the depths of death. They had always been able to bury their family, and though Najla had never had to know what happened to an unburied Sawarim, she knew death was better.
The thought left her somewhat distracted as Ketill started speaking, though she was at least relieved to hear he wouldn’t sell her. She had accomplished her goal then. It should have felt miraculous, to have narrowly avoided death, or worse, so often within the past night. However, when Ketill gave her a few final orders and left, Najla did not feel victorious.
For a moment, she simply stared after him. She had grown used to being ordered around in Ketill’s nonchalant manner, but it seemed to hold a fresh humiliation now, one she had forgotten since her capture. Pride was a small thing to abandon when her life was at stake, but even then, the humiliation had not been Najla’s, but Saina’s. Now, she had outed herself as Najla, only to be told to pack a Servant’s bags. Perhaps a small price to have been saved from death, but Najla could not forget it so easily now.
Regardless of her pride, she obeyed. Najla packed up Ketill’s things, taking care to fold them neatly and place them in his bags carefully, as if avoiding any detail that could anger him now, though she knew there was little need. So long as there was any chance she was Najla, selling her would be a mistake. It was somewhat of a struggle to balance his bags, even though they were mostly clothes, but it was not long before she had cleaned out his room and was heading down to where she had slept.
---
She had prayed not to see Qamar’s face, and it was a slight relief to see that the girl was not among the slaves who were scurrying to pack their things. As she moved towards the mattress they had shared, the relief vanished. She should not have been surprised that the slaver was nearby, after all, he’d want to keep an eye on his slaves as they packed up. He looked angry, however, and was speaking rapidly to a male slave. Upon seeing her approach for her bag, the slave was dismissed, and Najla pretended she could not see the slaver approaching, hoping he would leave her alone, until he was standing above her.
<“You’re lucky.”>
Upon hearing his voice, Najla abandoned the bag and stood, looking up at him only briefly before moving her gaze back to the ground.
<“Your friend is not.”> Her gaze snapped up to the slaver then, and his eyes bore into hers, as if looking for anything beyond the confusion and worry she was showing him now.
<“My friend?”> She looked down at the mattress they had shared, as if just realizing what he meant, then back up at the slaver. <“You mean Qamar? Is she hurt?”>
She’s been caught. That idiot, that stupid, simpering fool she’s been caught. If she does not keep her mouth shut long enough for us to leave-
<“She will stay here.”> Najla’s eyes widened at that, and she moved to ask another question but he cut her off before she could speak. <“Don’t plead for her, I will not hear it. I will not risk angering the Servants for a whore, even though your master seems eager to do so.”>
Najla eyed the slaver carefully, as if she was just beginning to understand him. Perhaps her hatred of him had blocked his sight before, but Najla had paid little attention to a shrewd man, which could always become a fatal mistake. She had already known that he was smart enough to deny his faith for profit, perhaps smarter than her for that reason. He had to have been clever in order to become part of this expedition in the first place, given the lack of trust Broacieniens had in the Sawarim. And now she knew that he was smart enough to abandon Qamar, and was ruthless enough not to care, so long as he thought she’d be replaced easily. Defending a pleasure slave against the Servants was a foolish endeavor for a Sawarim slavemaster, but to let them take her life for trying to escape, while scouting out her replacement was the mark of a man who wanted only to move upwards in the world.
<“Not everyone is like your master, who shows such…faith in his slaves.”>
Najla looked away at that, as if ashamed. She bit her lip nervously, this time, a calculated gesture on her part. For a moment, there was silence, and she only returned her gaze to him when he spoke again, only to see the beginning of a smile form on his lips.
<“He has lost his faith in you. Does he want to be rid of you yet?”>
Najla shook her head, crossing her arms across her body. <“H-he is angry with me now, but I know he does not mean it. I’ve been loyal to him-”>
<“Stupidly loyal. To him, and to your gods. You’re a fool to think either will protect you.”> He stepped forward again then, taking Najla’s chin in his grasp gently. Najla flinched at the touch, but did not move as he examined her face.
<“Someone will have to protect you from these men now. You rejected my help before, but because I am a generous man, I will offer it again. Go to your master, tell him my offer stands, though he will understand if I lower your price now.”>
<“You promise to protect me, but you will not tell me why you will not do the same for my friend?”>
The slaver leaned in closer then, and Najla could see a flash of anger in his eyes, despite the smile on his lips. <“You will not be foolish enough to sell yourself out for coin and run, will you?”>
Her fears confirmed, Najla tried to read his gaze, tried desperately to see what he knew. Clearly he knew they were friends, but did he really believe Qamar had sold herself out for the coin? What did it even matter what he believed? The Servants would be the ones to impart the judgement on Qamar it seemed, for despite the fact that Ghalid was her master, he had abandoned her to maintain whatever burgeoning relationship he had with the Servants. Would it even matter if Qamar talked? They would be gone. Her thoughts were frantic, but Najla knew only one thing for certain: She’d left Coedwin full of loose ends, threads that threatened to wrap around her neck if she didn’t leave soon. She shook her head then, finally answering the slavers question.
He released her then, and turned away from her, moving to herd his other slaves out of the hall as quickly as he could. Najla immediately returned to her things, eager to leave Coedwin before her luck ran dry. She’d lied to the slaver deliberately, made herself out to be just as silly as some of the pleasure slaves in the Sultanate, who had believed their masters had developed an attachment to them. It seemed to have worked as well as she had hoped, for now the slaver was satisfied, and would dig no further into Qamar’s story to save an investment. Najla knew she’d be a great source of profit to the slaver, Ketill would have been willing to be rid of her for rather cheap, and after last night, the men would be lining up to exact ‘revenge’ on the Sawarim that had killed their friend. All Najla wanted was to be out of Coedwin before the slaver realized she was lying, before Qamar or Suhayb were made to confess her name, before anyone here could realize who she was.
Coedwin had been a failure, one Najla was lucky to have survived. She had placed her trust in people swiftly, in a girl who knew too little and in a poor source of her cousin’s. Saving Inaya had been her downfall, Najla saw this now, for if she had not tried to save the girl, she would have left Coedwin with nothing but a guilty conscience.
It was a sobering experience, and Najla could only worry about her future as she gathered her things quickly. There was not much to collect, she had not been able to unpack, and it gave her little time for the sheer number of thoughts.
She had been an excellent spymaster. Then again, Najla had been able to give or take much from people. She’d never had to build up the resources herself, and her title and name was often enough to convince others of her promises long before they heard them. She’d been able to convince people to come under the fold of her network with promises of reuniting families, gold, horses, power, safety, anything they had wanted, she could grant. Now, Najla had none of that. She hardly had the resources to convince Ketill of her position, let alone have the power to cull potential threats like Qamar before they could talk.
I’m not powerless, not really, but I’m pretty close. I’ve got nothing to bargain with that they couldn’t just take. I’ve got a title no one would believe, and some empty promises. Whatever happens, I can’t fail again, whatever I do, I won’t live if I fail again.
She had little to pack, as she had little chance to get settled, and it was not long before she had stuffed her clothes into the bag rather carelessly. Walking through the halls and courtyard of Coedwin, struggling to lift bags with little more than clothes in them, followed by the sting of whispers, both clear and hidden, Najla was once again faced with the realization at what had been snatched from her when she had hidden her title. She had always considered herself a proud woman, proud of her faith, her title, her family, but she had never considered that she would be useless without these.
When she approached Ketill at the front of the castle, she handed him his bags as he hooked them to the horse’s saddle, her eyes on him as he spoke. His words drew a small, humorless smile, likely a confusing sight to Ketill, but Najla’s failure had humbled her far more than his words could.
“I have not forgotten, my lord.”
She would be somber as they joined the expedition, clearly worried about something. There were multiple possibilities for the source of this worry, and depending on who saw her expression, they would imagine something different. Being able to ride was a small comfort, though the fact that she was able to hold the reins and ride along on her own gave Najla some semblance of control. She was running. Suhayb would not confess, not if he had a semblance of intelligence, but she estimated that Qamar would instantly upon learning that Saina had been released along with the expedition. Despite the heightened pace of the expedition, and the knowledge that at least, there was a few days before Qamar would learn of this and speak, she felt she couldn’t run fast enough.
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Dion JIHAD CHIQUE ® / NOT THE SHIT, DEFINITELY A FART
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3 days ago
The heat of the desert was a familiar discomfort, and at first, Najla did not mind it. In her time at Barren Flats, she had prayed for the way the sun beat down without mercy upon the sand, begging for any change from the biting cold. She had missed the rolling golden dunes of her home, and the way they seemed to stretch on forever, a devastating sight to a lost traveler, but an inspiring sight to someone who felt these lands belonged to them.
As the red sand of the valley slowly began to give way to that which she was familiar with, Najla slowly remembered why her home was so treacherous. She had been reluctant to cover her head as the Sawarim were known to do, as she knew that to most of those she had angered in Coedwin, and likely before, altering her appearance to look more like the Sawarim would only anger them more. However, once she saw Ketill reach back, taking a piece of cloth from his bag, Najla felt more comfortable following suit.
She had already dressed for desert travel, wearing the lightest colored dress Ketill had bought for her, and had made certain the cloth covered nearly every bit of her skin, leaving nothing exposed for the sun. Najla tied her hair up first, relieving her neck from the heat her hair trapped, then covered her head with a light cloth. For some time, she rode with just her head covered, but the dust of the desert, kicked up by both men and horses, forced her to look more like her people than she wanted to. She undid the cloth and retied it so it covered all but her eyes, protecting her mouth from the drying dust of the desert. It made travelling far easier, but it brought no comfort beyond that: Najla could only worry about whether her new attire would anger the men on the expedition.
Despite all her worrying, Najla had managed to note that Ketill had been the first to cover his head, and thus, clearly had some experience travelling through the desert. From what she had seen and heard of the Servants at Coedwin, most of their travels into the Sultanate were spent fighting, and so Najla was at a loss to understand why he would instinctively reach for a cloth. Perhaps he was simply copying the attire of the Sawarim he had seen, or perhaps he had travelled farther into the desert than she had assumed. Whatever the reason, Najla was distracted from her attempts to understand it as the Servants began to return, some stopping to wish her master well. Though she listened to their interactions closely, she would otherwise avoid drawing any more attention to herself, for if the cloth had not covered her expression, every approaching Servant would see the uneasiness on her face all too well.
Clearly, Najla had expected them to despise her as the others did. Even if she had not caused even more problems by trying to free Inaya, she had killed a Monarchist. Therefore, even though her expression was covered, her eyes gave away her surprise as the Servant that caught her gaze nodded at her as he rode away. Frozen by her shock, she would have no time to respond as he rode away, but returned her gaze to the endless stretches in front of her.
It did not take long after the Servants departed for Najla to notice a new presence. She had expected that scouts would appear at some point. In fact, she had been counting on it. Najla had never been involved with the positions and training of scouts, as that was reserved for those who operated the Sultan’s army. Still, she had a close familiarity with the movements of the scouts. She had learned how to find the barest traces of their presence among the shifting sands, both from previous experience in the desert, and the teachings of her family. When she was younger, she had even begged her father to allow her to watch the scouts train as Jalil was allowed to do, and was finally allowed to ride into the desert with her father. Then, she had pointed at every scout she spotted, shouting out their positions with glee as if it were a game. Now, she marked their positions silently, and would only admit she was aware of their presence when Ketill did.
When he leaned in to speak to her, she pulled the cloth down from her mouth and nose, readying herself to reply to his words. Instead, she followed his gaze, noting the scout he was referring to. It was not surprising to her that Ketill would be able to notice Sultanate scouts, as she assumed he had become adept at it during his time in the Servants. However, Najla was slightly surprised to see that the other leaders seemed to take no notice, or simply did not care. She had assumed that they would be more worried by the appearance of scouts, for though she knew that being tracked was not always an indication of an attack, the Sultanate would not allow the expedition to continue on forever unchallenged.
“Yes, my lord.” There was nothing else to say. The trackers did not worry Najla. If anything, they presented an opportunity, a chance for one to recognize her among the vast expedition and tell the others. It was a slim chance, but she would offer up no further observations to Ketill in the fear that he could use that information to keep the trackers at bay. Despite the dust of the desert, Najla did not pull the cloth to cover her face again, leaving her face exposed for the slim chance that one of the trackers might recognize her.
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Sleep came easily for Najla. The days ride had exhausted her, and she had forgotten how a day spent under this blinding heat served to sap one of their energy. As the exhaustion of the day settled over the camp, it settled over Najla as well, and she fell asleep moments after she laid her head down.
The screaming did not wake her, not instantly at least. First it punctured her unconscious, and Najla would only stir as if she were entering the beginnings of a nightmare, turning in her bed. They grew louder in these dreams, more realistic, until they pulled her from her sleep and she felt her eyes open, only to realize the screaming hadn’t stopped when her dreams did.
Najla sat up in her bed then, waking just as Ketill walked over to the tent flap. She watched him anxiously from her bed, fear begging her to both shut up and ask what was happening. Instead, she watched helplessly as the two men tumbled through the tent entrance, one tackling Ketill to the floor. While Ketill wrestled with one, Najla’s attention was quickly drawn to the one who stood, now approaching her with a grin. She knew what that sort of grin meant.
Before he could fall upon her, Najla glanced around hurriedly, desperately seeking for anything to use as a weapon. It had never occurred to her that these were not Sultanate soldiers, but there would be no time to reason with this one. She had found none when he reached her, and his free hand grabbed at her, finding her arm and pulling her up and towards him. Najla used her other hand to try and pull his grip away, but he was far stronger.
<“Get up and I won’t hurt you!”> The man threatened, but a sudden burst of flames from the corner of the tent drew both their attentions. Both Najla and the slaver stopped for the briefest of moments, frozen by the horror before them. Before Ketill could stand to kill his friend, Najla recovered, kicking her attacker in his knee. He only stumbled slightly, and just as it caused his grip to loosen enough for her to slip her arm out of it, she watched his expression contort into a cry of pain as Ketill’s sword raked across his back. Once more, she found herself frozen as she watched Ketill drive his sword deep into the man’s neck. Perhaps any other day she would have cringed as his blood fell onto her, but Najla could barely think, and only gripped his hand in return as Ketill grabbed for hers. Without looking back at the bodies in the sand, Najla could only watch as Ketill killed a third man before her. She followed closely when he dragged her through the camp after him, her eyes on the carnage around her. It was at Ketill’s words that she began to understand what was truly happening around her, and even among the horror, she felt her heart sink when she realized the truth.
He’s not lying to me. She thought even as she struggled to keep up with his pace, following along as quickly as she could. He’s right.
Sand made it difficult to flee, and Najla trekked through it as fast as she could, rushing to run instead of allowing Ketill to drag her. It became more difficult when he began to pull her up the dune, and she felt the sand slip from under her feet, tumbling down the hill and threatening to loosen her footing. Najla continued nonetheless, only to feel Ketill release her and shove her up the hill in front of him. At his command, she looked back to see him draw his blade as the horses drew nearer, and she needed nothing further. Najla turned her back to the slaughter behind her and forced herself to the top of the dune, at which she turned to see Ketill fighting below her.
She had only ever seen the aftermath of such a raid before, and was unused to the sheer terror of being caught within one. Najla could only watch as tents rose up in flames or died down, and it seemed the screaming had not stopped since she awoke, and would never stop again. When Ketill reached the top to hand her the reins, she took them quickly, only to hear herself cry out for the first time when a rider approached, knocking Ketill into the sand. She did not watch as he fell away from her, only turning to the horse, her only intention being to leave Ketill and the slavers behind. The command pierced this intention however, and Najla looked around wildly as the slavers circled her, leaving no path for escape.
She heard the command clearly, but acted as if she hadn’t, only gripping the reins tighter in her hand. The noise of the camp seemed to fade as she watched them point their weapons at her, waiting for her to move. They did not want to kill her, Najla knew, but if she ran they’d run her down. Her gaze went to Ketill’s body for a moment, and she saw his sword glinting in the sand.
She released the reins then, allowing them to slip through her fingers as she stepped away from the horse, stepping closer to Ketill’s body carefully even as one of the men on foot moved closer to her, ready to grab her. She wouldn’t be able to fight them off, both the slavers and Najla knew that, but they knew she wouldn’t try to. She was a Sawarim woman after all, and as slavers they had likely seen many like her, ready to risk slitting their throats before the chance was stolen from them for good. She had not forgotten her name and title, but Ketill’s words had not been forgotten either. Seeing the man edging closer to her, even as the others aimed their weapons at her, Najla ran for the sword. Her path was cut off by pounding hooves as one of the slavers rode in between her and the weapon, and Najla let out another cry as she jumped back from the horse on instinct, only to be tackled to the ground by the man behind her before the sand could settle.
<“Thought you would slit your throat before I fucked it?”> The man taunted loudly, even as Najla struggled under him. She tried to push his hands off of her, but he was far stronger than her and had knocked her down quite harshly under his weight. She could not fight him off for long, but it would be long enough.
<“Don’t touch me! I’m the Sultan’s niece, let go!”> It seemed her title had been her last resort, a desperate attempt even below a sword at her throat, but she tried regardless. He hesitated for the briefest of moments, one hand of his now pinning both of hers down onto the sand. <“I’m Najla ibn-la-Wahad, I swear!”>
<“Prove it.”> He spat down at her, his other hand now reaching for the front of her dress.
<“I-”>
<“You’re not fucking anything yet Karib, bring her back!”> The order came from a man sitting atop his horse, and the man on top of her hesitated again. It did not take him long to make up his mind, and he moved off of her, taking a fistful of her hair and yanking her off the sand harshly as he did. The slaver led her towards the man on the horse, and Najla glanced around to see that most of those that had gathered to threaten her had left, either to rejoin the fighting or find their own spoils. The master on his horse looked down at her as the slaver stopped in front of him.
<“She’s saying she’s part of the Sultan’s family, master.”>
The man on his horse looked down at her and grinned.
<“Funny how she didn’t tell us that before we got the sword away from her throat. Even if she was telling the truth, who cares, she’s probably one of their ten thousand bastards.”>
<“I’m no bastard, my name is Najla ibn-la-Wahad, I am the Great Sultan’s niece!”>
The slaver on the horse just shook his head, but turned his horse anyways. <“Bring her, she won’t be ours to deal with.”>
--------------------------------------------------
The slavers had only set up a few tents, likely for the masters, though as the others continued to ride into their makeshift settlement, it seemed they did not desire such privacy. She could hear the cries of women from all around her, pleading or sobbing as men threw them down into the sand. She’d be there soon, Najla knew, and she tried desperately not to look at her future. The men leading her seemed eager to get her there however, and sped up their pace, forcing Najla to come along, hoping they’d be allowed to reward themselves for this capture. The resistance of the militiamen captured came through in threats and insults but they were silenced quickly as the slavers retaliated, laughing and returning insults as the men were thrown into the sand.
The tent they pushed her through was large, and many populated the tent, far calmer than those who had done the work outside. Both slavers and their new slaves, or at least any of them that they did not want subjected to those outside, either sat or stood around the tent. Najla’s eyes widened when she spotted a blonde woman among them, a rare sight this far south, but her attention was quickly called away as someone called for her.
<“Saina! Where is your master?”>
Najla’s gaze darted from a familiar face to another, and she froze when her eyes met Ghalid’s. He sat between two other slavers, one bare-chested with olive skin and dark hair, and another. The other was even darker than most Sawarim men, with a pointed beard and eyes that studied her thoughtfully. Even in her shock, Najla recalled that she had only seen men as dark as him in her brief dealings with the Rabi’ah people.
<“A rider took the Servant out. She was about to slit her throat when we caught her, master. She keeps saying she’s royalty.”> The man holding her had answered for her, as Najla’s surprise had left her without words to reply. He released her at that, and Najla glanced back at him briefly before turning again to look at Ghalid, who had found her death wish amusing.
<“You really do hate living don’t you? Or else you’re not very good at it.”>
She did not respond to his taunting, only watching him silently. There was no fear on her expression, only a frown that told of both distaste and confusion. Najla supposed she understood why he had wished to join the expedition at all, and pledge his own slaves for such a cause. Had he lied about abandoning his God as well? He had done the Sultanate a service, she supposed, whether it was for his own greed or for a purpose. Yet, whatever favors he had done did little to temper her distaste.
<“Speak up.”>
<“My name is Najla al-ibn-Wahad. I am the niece of the Great Sultan. Release me and I’ll make you rich, hurt me and you’ll regret it.”>
She would sound nothing like the slave Ghalid had heard before, she was not trying to lie or pull pity from him. Her voice was clear and confident, and she spoke no words beyond what she needed to. Her words drew a pause, but it was broken by the man behind her within moments.
<“She’s been spitting that lie since we got ahold of her. She didn’t want to tell us that before she tried to slit her throat though.”>
<“It’s no lie. I am the second daughter of Ali ibn-la-Wahad. I was travelling north when I was captured, then given to that Servant before the expedition began. Ya Sawarim, I swear it upon my life and that of my mothers, I am Najla. I will make you rich if you return me unharmed.”>
Ghalid looked upon her with disbelief, even as the other slaver laughed, less convinced than he was. However, the dark man leaned forward slightly, and Najla’s attention was brought onto him when he spoke to her, his voice far calmer than Ghalid’s.
<“Tell me, where is your brother then?”>
Najla’s eyes snapped to him now, and she frowned. He certainly possessed more tact than Ketill had, but even so, Najla studied his face carefully.
<“Dead, he rides alongside his God now.”> A lie, he was unburied, but she did not want to say it now.
The others said nothing, but the dark man bowed his head at that, reciting the standard <“May his journey be swift.”> He moved to say something else then, but was interrupted by Ghalid, who motioned her closer. The man who had been holding her pushed her forward slightly, until she was just close enough to for the slavers to touch.
<“You really are more trouble than you’re worth. I know you’re lying to me, girl. The most you ever were before this was a Servant’s whore, and he is not here to protect you again. I should just give you to my men and be rid of you.”>
Najla wanted to speak up in protest, but she soon found she did not need to. While the other slaver sitting beside Ghalid had not said a word, but only laughed at her claims, the dark slaver waved his hand at Ghalid, dismissing his words even though his eyes never left Najla.
<“Have you ever visited the Zanj?”>
When Najla looked upon the man again, she felt herself smile softly, and nodded. <“I knew you were of the Rabi’ah. I was there when my brother Harith was promised to his wife Adina.”>
She recalled the Zanj well, a place even more treacherous than the desert, where sand gave way to harsh stone. Nothing grew, but Rabi’ah were raiders at their core, and their ability to hide within the treacherous cliffs of their home was a danger to any of the Sultanate who wished to pass through it. Bringing them under the banner of the Sultanate had been difficult, yet necessary, and promising one of their women to a prince had been yet another way to keep the Rabi’ah satisfied. It made sense that one of them would come so far to profit as a slaver, but Najla did not tell him that.
The slaver turned to Ghalid then, and she could see the beginnings of a grin on his lips. <“She’s not lying. I know her face, I have seen it before.”> She could see Ghalid’s shock as the dark man stood, still speaking as he walked towards her. <“Don’t look so disappointed Ghalid. We are about to be rich men.”>
He took her hand then, softly, and bowed his head towards her. <“Sultana.”> His attitude seemed almost mocking, but Najla did not want to chide him for it. She was simply relieved that it seemed someone would believe her, even as the other slaver finally spoke up.
<“Even if you’re right Uzeyir, it doesn’t mean you get her first.”>
Uzeyir turned to glare at the slaver, then looked back at Najla, his expression softening. <“My apologies, Sultana.”> He looked back at the slaver then, his tone annoyed and sharp. <“Think with your mind instead of your cock for once. If we try to give her for ransom, they’ll have our heads if they find out we’ve touched her. Go find yourself another girl.”> He hesitated for a moment, then turned to look at Ghalid as well. <"I have dealt with the royal family, this is no light matter to them. Any insult is repaid a hundred times over, remember that.">
The slaver stood, angry, but did not argue. Ghalid was still silent, clearly displeased, but he did not want to argue. The profit they’d get from taking Najla to the capital seemed enough to quiet him, and even this made Najla dislike him more. Despite thinking that she should be grateful they preferred profit over pleasures, it did little to help her image of his character. The other slaver walked out of the tent, and she heard a voice call out her name just before he did. It was a familiar voice, but when Najla turned to look at the source, it was gone. Nevertheless, when she turned back to look at Ghalid, she knew, but said nothing more.
She could have asked them to release Anne, or at least not touch her until they reached the capital. It seemed Uzeyir had enough sense to understand that royal captives needed to be treated as guests, and Najla had already proven that she’d be willing to slit her throat. She would only need to threaten it again. However, she turned back to look up at Uzeyir as he spoke again, and the woman was forgotten entirely.
<“Do you know if the Servant is alive or dead?”> Najla shrugged slightly. It seemed that just as with Anne, Ketill had been forgotten within moments. <“Dead, I assume. At least he looked dead, it was a harsh blow.”>
Uzeyir turned to two of the other slavers in the room, commanding them swiftly. <“Go out and see if anyone’s seen the Servant. Bring his head if you can find it.”> They nodded and left as well, while the slaver looked down upon Najla again. <“Come, sit and rest. We will begin transporting tonight, just after the last are rounded up. You will need your strength.”>
OP
Dion JIHAD CHIQUE ® / NOT THE SHIT, DEFINITELY A FART
Member
Seen
3 days ago
As Ketill came back to consciousness, he found himself being dragged through the sand by two figures. Either one of them held on to one of his wrists, while they drug him back to what seemed to be their camp. His vision faded slightly, and he closed his eyes preparing to lose consciousness again. He merely focused on their words. He couldn’t understand them, but perhaps he could hear a single word that he knew, to figure out what would happen.
<‘’They are always so heavy. How did we get stuck with haul-duty? We don’t even know if this one will make it. Look at the bump on his head – whoever did him did a good job of mashing his face in.’’>
<‘’Yeah.. seems that way. And while we’re dragging this ugly guy around, they’re having fun with the slaves in the camp. I swear, if I find out Nasir touched that girl I found..’’>
<‘’Calm down. We’ll just drop this guy off, kill him when we’re given the order, and then we’ll go find your girl.’’>
Ketill couldn’t understand much of it. He was obviously not well versed in the Sawarim tongue nor was he intending to learn it at any point in his life. He was too old for that, and had too little use for it. Well, that’s what he thought. He also figured that he wished he’d spent more time trying to learn that language. But one word stood out to him. Kill. He would be killed. At least, that’s what he understood.. and knowing the Sawarim feelings towards Servants and his obvious mark as a Servant, it would be the first thing they’d consider for him.
As they dragged him towards the ‘slave’ area, he simply let them carry on, not resisting or showing signs of life. It would be wasted effort. If only he had a knife – he’d show them the Monarchists would die before capture all the same. Perhaps there would have been some more dignity in suicide than in the cruel death the Sawarim had planned for him. Or perhaps that would’ve been the cowards way out.
With a sudden thud, he was dropped into the sand. He laid there for a bit, listening to the sounds around him. After a few seconds, he put his hands next to his head, and slowly pushed himself up, blood dropping down from his head. It stained the sand, reminding him precisely what a battlefield would look like, or perhaps ten times worse.
<‘’Seems he’s alive. Let’s leave him for now. Did you bind his legs?’’>
<‘’Of course. There’s always one that tries to run, and it always looks so funny. Let’s hope it’s him. I’d love to see a Servant run for his life.’’>
Ketill continued to push himself up and managed to get himself to sit up, before he would look around and see what had happened. There were plenty of survivors – of course.. they would see to it that people survived their wounds. A dead slave was not worth selling. He looked around for Najla, but found no such luck. He then looked for anyone else he might know. Again, no such luck.
So he sighed, and looked around, his blood stained hair sticking to his forehead. His head hurt badly, like someone was taking a battering ram to his brain. ‘The Siege of Ketill’s Head.’ That would make for a great poem one day, he thought briefly, before a sharp pain forced him to shake that thought. Humour would be a bad idea right now.. no time for it, nor the pain-resistance.
He managed to form a slight grin as he looked at the major tent in the center. It was only a matter of time before they sent for him. Among the fifty Broacien men and women around him, he would’ve felt like he could blend in. But for once in his life, the three marks on his head felt more like a curse than a sign of service.
From the tent, a man stepped, holding on to a set of chains. Shortly behind him a blonde woman followed. With his eyesight fuzzy from the blow to his head, he could not quite make out who it was. That was, until she came closer. The slaver guided her and she followed with a bowed head, before she was set down next to Ketill. Only when she sat there, did he recognize her.
‘’Anne,’’ he said. His tone was remarkably casual for the situation they were in and it seemed to catch Anne off guard. He looked her up and down, and noticed that her clothes were still intact. So, at least she had not been raped. Yet. One single glance around him would show off just how many camp followers had been captured. They were defenceless and fragile, so it made sense they were the main victim of the slavers when it came to slaves.
Just to the left of them, not even two meters further, a woman was on her back, her legs spread out as the Sawarim man saw fit to take her. Whereas she might have resisted at first, it seemed she had seen quickly how futile it was, and now merely laid there. Whether she enjoyed it or not was a question Ketill did not dare ask himself. Several more men had already lined up to be next.
‘’Ketill, I thought they killed you,’’ Anne said in a hushed voice, careful not to anger the guards.
‘’So did I. But, rest easy. I know they will come for me soon. Servants don’t live long in the company of Sawarim.’’
‘’I didn’t mean to say I wanted you to..’’
‘’I know, but it is the truth. I will be dead by the end of the night. Before morning, my body will be the sole mark of a fight here.’’
‘’That is.. probably true.’’ Her reply was slow and drawn out – perhaps she had come to the realization that she herself might not live too long either.
‘’Did you see Najla?’’ Ketill then asked, though he realized too late that nobody knew the name Najla.
‘’Who?’’
‘’Saina.’’
‘’Yes, they had brought her inside shortly after I was brought in. I’m not sure what they wanted, but they kept me out of the clutches of.. well, you’ve seen what they’re doing.’’
Ketill knew they were probably saving her for one of the more important slavers. He decided not to tell her. It would only make the situation worse at this point.
‘’Did they treat her like they treated you?’’
‘’Uh..’’ she slowly said, looking back at the scene before her. Slowly she opened her mouth, only to change her mind and think for a moment more. ‘’No, they questioned her. It was in her own language, so I didn’t understand. She just mentioned the word ‘Sultan’ and then one of the men said the word ‘Sultana’. That’s about it.’’
Ketill grinned as he stared at the tent, waiting for the moment some more slavers would arrive. He did not even blink, wanting to see the exact moment they came for him. If they knew Najla was royalty, then surely, they’d kill him for enslaving her.
‘’I see. They know then.’’
Anne’s eyes widened slightly as she saw the slaver that held her chain earlier approaching again. It seemed her time, too, had come. ‘’Know what, Ketill?’’
‘’She’s a niece of the Sultan.’’
‘’What? Why didn’t you say that earlier? Whose idea was it to bring the niece of the Sultan on this expedition? As a slave?’’
‘’I only knew the night we left Coedwin, after the Archbishop rescued her from the Commanders’ clutches. If you did not understand why I would die before, then now you know. If they don’t kill me here, the Sultan will make a public display of my death.’’
His voice was remarkably calm – much like how he’d usually speak to Saina, stern, stoic, giving her orders, speaking like a man. A warm voice but commanding. He’d usually reserved that voice for serious moments, or moments that he didn’t like. Perhaps this was both of those.
‘’That’s..’’ The chain clanked lightly when the slaver grabbed it, pulling it softly. Anne’s head jerked forwards as the chain around her neck was pulled. ‘’I.. Ketill! You.. have to do something at least!’’
Ketill didn’t answer, only looking down finally when he saw two men appear from the tent. First Anne’s time had come, and now his. Shortly he looked at his hands – the blood still marked them. He raised them up in front of his face and put them together, saying a prayer of the Servants. ‘’Ketill! Do something! Ask Najla to help us, surely she remembers we saved her from the com-’’ The slaver jerked the chain harder and began pulling the woman away. Ketill did not look up, focussing on his prayer.‘’Broacien Tessera omni Armatura Fortior. Amen.’’
<‘’Get up, you pig.‘’> With a rough grasp at his arms, the two men grabbed him, and pulled him with them. As they pulled him upright he got his footing, and with whatever amount of manoeuvrability the bindings allowed him, he shuffled along. The two dragged him past the women being raped, the men being beaten or humiliated, and into the tent. At least he’d be spared that suffering – though, was it truly lucky to be forced in here instead?
As he was pulled into the tent, the two man dragged him closer to the center and then shoved him forwards, causing Ketill to stumble towards the center of the tent. When he stopped, he stood there and looked around. There were slaves – women, all of them – and slavers. In front of him was a dark skinned slaver, whom was then promptly joined again by the two that had caught him. Ghalid, and some unknown nobody. Of course, it would be Ghalid. The sight of Ghalid caused a slight grin to appear on his face.
‘’I see you’ve taken great measures to make sure any rumours of honest Sawarim men have been dispelled adequately today, Ghalid.’’
The backhanded comment about the Sawarim would’ve been sure to anger the Sawarim, if they could’ve understood him. But now, it seemed like only Najla and Ghalid would’ve been able to understand him, and perhaps those that hid their knowledge of the common Broacien tongue.
‘’This is not about my faith, Servant. This is about money… which you will provide us wi-’’ Ghalid attempted to answer, before he was harshly interrupted by the dark skinned individual. Najla was sitting close to him – seemingly enjoying the comfort.
<‘’Silence. I will not have you two speak in this foreign language, when our Sultana is sitting right here.’’>
Whether the words were meant or not was not clear, but Ketill did not even understand them. His angered look at the dark skinned man explained that much. <‘’And show some respect for the Sultana. Bow!’’>
Again Ketill did not understand, but the issue was clarified when two guards appeared from behind, grabbing onto his neck and pushing their boots into the backs of his knees, forcing him forwards onto his knees. He caught himself with his hands, looking down slightly as the headache came back, booming in his head carelessly, as if he needed that at the moment. Slowly he’d look up again as a dried line of blood down his forehead became red and wet again, the wound reopening.
‘’I see you’re taking to the new found luxury well,’’ Ketill said to Najla, his eyes resting on hers as he stared into her very being – or at least attempted to. He felt angry at her for betraying him so easily, for turning her back at him and the others simply to save her own skin. But above that, he felt stupid for not cutting her down earlier when he had the chance. ‘’Will you be sharing your cushions with the women that are being raped outside, or is that a pleasure solely reserved for those around us right now, that are to be sent off to the Sultan as his slaves?’’
‘’Or did you forget who you were, Saina?’’ He purposefully used her slave-name to remind her of what she’d been through so far. He did not wish to change her at this point – he knew it was too late to beg her to help him. No, he wanted to make sure she remembered that he had been the one that prevented her from getting raped, and that he had been the one that almost lost a finger for her. He had been the one that voted in the chamber of the Hochmeister. He had given her clothes, and a horse. He wanted to make sure she remembered, now, that she owed her life to a Monarchist of all things.
‘’I know I will die. I just ask that you swing the sword yourself Saina.’’
Again, the dark-skinned slaver interrupted him. <‘’Speak in our language, you Broacien pigfaced fool!’’> The man rose from his seating and stepped closer, down some wooden steps of the raised platform he sat on, towards Ketill. He put his hands in his side and looked at Ketill, who must’ve looked quite bruised at the moment.
Bruised, beaten, near-death, and possibly broken. But he did not look scared, nor did he look like he’d give up.
Gathering some of the bloody saliva in his mouth, Ketill spat out the only Sawarim insult he knew. <‘’Your father fucked a horse to conceive you, you horse-fucker.’’> Following his insult, he spat his bloody spit at the man, having it land on his pants. Ketill grinned victoriously, as the two guards grabbed his shoulders and pressed their blades against his neck. They would not pressure him, but rather, they would feel him pressing himself into the blades edge, as if he were trying to cut himself.
‘’Do it then!’’ he bellowed, his strength and power raging through his voice. Despite how bloodied he’d looked, he still made a strong impression, as if he could jump up at any moment and begin beating people. But the dark skinned slaver looked back at Najla, offering her a questioning look.
<‘’Sultana, what should we do with this Broacien pig?’’>
Ketill smiled eerily, looking at Najla with weary eyes. The blood streamed down from his head now, smearing itself over his nose and cheeks, and messing up his vision as it came into his eyes.
‘’Tell him I raped you, so that he will kill me quickly. Tell him I was not a good man. Tell him I let others rape you, and that I sold you to other men. Tell him that I beat you, like a whore. All of these things I never did, because I am a good man. But you have the power, ‘o Sultana’. Show me how quickly you turn your back on those that help you. That is what you’ll do, so at least offer me a swift death, like I have offered you. Or did you forget about that?’’
OP
Dion JIHAD CHIQUE ® / NOT THE SHIT, DEFINITELY A FART
Member
Seen
3 days ago
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.
<“You said you saw Harith upon your last visit? How is he?”>
<“Well, Sultana. I provided the Sultan and Adina with a few gifts there, and I saw your nephew with them as well.”>
<“Little Mehmet?!”>
<“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.”>
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.
<“He’s going to be a warrior, that one.”>
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 have forgotten nothing, my lord.” 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. “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.” Her eyes flitted back to Ghalid briefly, as if her explanation to Ketill was meant to be a warning to the slaver as well. “If you had ever put your hands on me, I’d have you tied behind a horse and dragged to the capital.”
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. <“Allow me a moment to speak with him.”> 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.
“You won’t spit on me too, will you?”
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.
“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.” 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.
“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.”
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.
“Go and pray to your false idols that you die swiftly, but remember that it will be my God that decides.”
She released him then, stepping back to look at Uzeyir again.
<“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.”>
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.
“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.”
Before he could respond however, her eyes went to the two guards who had been ready to drag him out. <“He’ll never make it in this condition. Have his wound treated before we leave.”> 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.
<“Sultana.”> 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.
<“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-”>
<“You are kind for worrying, but it is a worry without reason. The Servant will not hurt me.”>
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.
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.
“Papa!” 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.
<”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-”>
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 am no ghost, papa, I missed you so much-”>
<“My daughter, I-Jalil. Do you have news of your brother?”>
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.
<“Are you hurt? Did they hurt you?”>
<“I’m unhurt.”> She replied, never releasing him even as she did. <“No one hurt me, papa. No one laid a hand on me.”>
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.
<“How did you return? How did you survive unharmed?”>
<“Luck, the mercy of God, I don’t know. These men brought me home.”> 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.
<“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.”>
<“It is merely a pleasure to serve the Sultan.”>
<“I will speak with you later Uzeyir, you have done my family a great service.”>
<“Of course Sultana, go and see your family.”>
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.
OP
Dion JIHAD CHIQUE ® / NOT THE SHIT, DEFINITELY A FART
Member
Seen
3 days ago
Ketill did not resist, nor speak, when Najla approached him and spoke to him. He simply looked at her with weary eyes, when she spoke of making demands, following the voices of God and the Sultan. Meaningless words to him – but she called him a Monarchist dog which earned a faint smile from him. It had been a Monarchist dog that had saved her from rape, after all. But he didn’t speak, only giving her that smile, a sign that he did not care for what she had to say. He was dead as far as he knew, and even then, he continued to press his throat against the cold of the blades. He lacked the movement space to end it now, but soon enough he would try.
Upon the notice that she would indeed carry out his execution if it came to it, he stopped pushing himself into the blade and seemed satisfied. He was quite sure she could not do it, if it came to it. Then again, she had killed her assailant in Coedwin. But he would see what happened. “Then I hope to die a thousand deaths at your hand, that you might come to understand what it takes to swing the sword,” he replied, but he knew that in the end his words were worth less than sand in a desert.
Najla said something about his ‘false idols’ which provoked some anger, but immediately after she spoke in Sawarim, and the two guards would move to grab him. Before they could, Najla interrupted them once more with her words. He heard her words, but paid no mind. Perhaps she’d found her Sawarim servants were easy to manipulate, but he was a strong man, who even now showed no signs of wanting to surrender. He would call her what he wanted to call her. But, he was also smart enough to realize that now would be a bad time to torment her further.
When that was done, the guards would continue. It was now that Ketill began to struggle, pressing his feet into the sand and attempting to move forwards towards Najla and the slavers. “It was me, a Monarchist dog, that saved you from the clutches of your would-be rapist. It was a holy man of these ‘fake idols’ that saved your life in Coedwin after you took a Monarchist life! You have every reason to be dead right now, but you live on! You have abused the trust of his holiness, the bishop! You will p-”
At that moment he was forced outside, and once outside, one of the guards lifted his hand and punched Ketill in the face, forcing him unconscious once again. <‘’He’s got such a big mouth,’’> he commented, before the two dragged him off to another tent where the Sultana’s wishes to have him taken care of medically would be followed up on.
Even from afar, Ketill had saved a breath when he saw ‘the city of Gold’. It was quite a sight to behold after all, and even more so for someone who was not used to it. Not even the tales of the city of Gold could do this city any honour. That was his first thought, but his mind was swiftly changed when they came through the front gates.
Immediately he felt the piercing eyes of the Sawarim resting on his face, the eyes spotting his three dots with ease. Though they did little more than whisper and point, or some yelling, it still felt uncomfortable. Never the less, he stood tall. His bloody wound had been covered, but the dried blood still remained on his face – they had seen no reason to waste valuable water on washing him.
But what stuck with Ketill the most was the nagging feeling that the city of Gold was not quite as golden as it had been made out to be. The shining rooftops of the holy buildings of the Sawarim quickly made way for stinking alleyways, with hovels made of mudbricks and, in some cases, various random materials. It was almost like these people were less well off than Broacien people, which was surprising considering the amount of wealth Ketill supposed they had. And, ultimately, he was not wrong about that. It was just that the nobles and religious controlled even more gold than the Broacien nobles and religious did. Perhaps not surprising. And despite the squalor of the city, it seemed like most people were, in general, not too unhappy.
They passed by a bazaar or market of some sorts, and while they passed, Ketill got a short glimpse past the large amounts of people that stood to watch the caravan of slavers. Perhaps they did not see slavers like these everyday – they were generally considered plunderers and savages, though perhaps they were treated with some respect as long as they behaved within the city. Or perhaps most people were just interested in looking at a Servant. Very few Servants ever lived to make their way to the Sultanate capital, after all.
The bazaar was stocked with people – rich and poor – and along the outer edges of the bazaar Ketill made out the shapes of cages. Iron cages, obviously owned by professionals that had made an investment into them. It seemed the slave trade was alive and well here despite the slavers being confined to the outer edges of the bazaar. Perhaps that was to become his faith. Momentarily he slowed down to get a better look, but he was quickly put on the right tempo once more when a slaver pushed him in the back and ordered him to walk. He did little more than grumble back. His feet moved on and soon enough he could no longer see the bazaar. Instead, they were headed for the large walls, with a similarly large gate. Perhaps they had not lied when they had spoken of offering him to the Sultan – a single promise that Najla would make good on. And perhaps the one promise that he had no wanted her to fulfil.
As the caravan came to a halt, Ketill was left standing still next to a dark skinned man. He looked similar to the Sawarim, but seemed nervous and uncomfortable all the same. Surely, a Sawarim man would survive the slavers, and make off becoming a house slave of sorts. If not that, he would be bought by some blacksmith and used as labour force. Ketill looked at the man with wary eyes, as if he wasn’t quite sure what to make of the man, but against better judgement struck up a conversation with him anyway, hoping the man would understand the common tongue of Broacien.
“You seem nervous,’’ Ketill said, looking the man directly in the eyes. The man’s eyes shifted left to right and didn’t look at Ketill directly, only past him.
“I will die. I will die,’’ the man repeated several times while continuing to fuss about, not making much sense.
“How so? A Sawarim like yourself would be well off, regardless, right?’’
Without saying a word the man lowered his tattered tunic slightly, showing his right shoulder. On it was a burn mark of a hot iron, shaped like a Monarchist cross. It was the sign of a convert – a voluntary one, too. Although most Sawarim men and women would simply ‘swear off’ the faith, and maintain it in secret, there were very few that voluntarily converted. And, while you could swear off the Sawarim faith without any real mark, and go through your business as a temporary atheist, the converts were branded for life.
“So you joined as a pilgrim then, not as a slave?’’
The man nodded, dragging the tunic back over his shoulder and continuing to look around like a madman. Ketill had seen it before – in Coedwin, when they were preparing to fight a large Sawarim army when they had threatened to cross the pass. The younger recruits would begin becoming fearful at the thought of death. Back then it had only taken some inspiring words from the captain or the Hochmeister. But this man didn’t answer to the Servitude of the Monarch.
“In the holy books it is written that the Monarch favors those who go in His name. You have nothing to fear – if you die, you will die in the mortal realm and pass to His side. You have travelled in His name? Always done your best to honour His name, and done your best to do good?’’
“Y-yes, Servant,’’ the man answered, slowly looking up at Ketill. The sight of Ketill’s face – stark, unwavering, even in the face of an almost certain death, seemed to calm him.
“Then none shall say you do not have a right to your place in the Heavens. And if you do not die today, but you are sold as a slave, then remember that you must remain in His light. Do not stray. Do what you must to survive – and once you have done so, do what you can to honor His name like before.’’
The man slowly nodded, seemingly calming himself with the thought that he would enter heaven.
“I see now why they spoke so highly of the Servants in the Hoffburgt. Before I came to Broacien, I lived in the Sultanate, near the border. I was in Coedwin when the Servants captured it. They… were not unkind. I was terrified of the repercussions of being a Sawarim follower, so I swore off my faith. But I noticed they did not kill the local Sawarims, nor demand an extra tax. They just… let them live. When I asked about that, they explained that they answered to the Monarch – both Him in the heavens, and the king of Broacien, the embodiment of the Monarch on earth.”
Before he could continue, Ketill filled in the rest of the story. It was a famous one, but it was strange to talk to someone that was there when it happened. “Because it is not in the interest of a Servant of the Monarch to kill innocents. The very definition of a Servant is to carry out the will of the Monarch. Our only goal in life is to obtain salvation and access to heaven. Killing innocents would shatter that goal. We would be unworthy.”
“I decided then that I would convert to Monarchism. My family hated me, and in this moment I understood. I doubted my choice now, knowing I might die. But..”
“These are wasted words, friend. Even a Servant is a man. I understand. I was merely telling you that the Monarch also favours the brave. Do not fear. The Monarch hates cowards.”
Again the man nodded. It seemed the message was clear. “I am Jonesy, by the way. Uh, well, I suppose I look more like my Sawarim name – Ta’iq. Nobody but the bishop that converted me calls me Jonesy.”
“I can see why. I’m Ketill – though, I assume you already knew that.”
The man nodded and opened his mouth to speak, but before he could say anything the caravan was to continue moving, the gates opening for them and the large train of people moving once again. Within the few moments of chaos, Ketill lost Ta’iq to the masses. He knew that Ta’iq would die – much like him, there was little chance. But where Ketill had a chance of becoming a slave to serve as a trophy, to show Broacien that their Servants were not undefeatable... Ta’iq was a convert, and to the Sawarim faith there was no worse insult than converting. Even one that swore off the faith might be given amnesty in rare cases – for converts this would never happen. The Sultanate would collapse before that happened.
Not much later, Ketill was introduced to the dungeon. He was stripped of all he had – though his sword and shield had been taken long ago, his clothes were now also taken and exchanged for some rough spun tunic, which made him look about as poor as a beggar. For Ketill it was like a blessing to finally get out of those bloodied, dirtied clothes.
He stayed there for what felt like an eternity. At first he had stood at the metal bars, watching the guards pass by with slaves. Most were taken out of the dungeons and never came back. At first it was the women – Ketill had no question about why they were taken. Then were the men – the able bodied first. The Sultan had first pick, and the rest would be given back to the slavers to sell on their own accord. Naturally, it was better to sell to the Sultan. But not all men were created equal, and therefore not all men were worth anything to the Sultan.
Then it was the converts. They were all going to die. There weren’t many of them – some five, perhaps ten. It seemed the Monarchists were saved for last. Some twenty militiamen had survived and were now waiting for their fates. Most would follow similar fates as the converts. Some might become labourers. None would return to Broacien.
After two days Ketill no longer managed to stand at the bars. The near constant stream of slaves was something he was used to by now, and he felt like his legs could no longer carry him as he stood there. He had sat down next to the bars at first, then slowly moved towards the corner, and eventually fell into an uncomfortable sleep.
He woke up at the clank of the doors being opened, two guards stepping in immediately. They walked towards him, ready to grab him. Ketill got up, however, and promptly stepped towards them. His hands curled into a fist, and with one swing he managed to knock the first guard on his helmet. The feeling of hitting metal was painful, but it was some sort of reminder that he was still alive and fighting. The guard reeled back but quickly returned, pushing onto Ketill’s chest and ramming him into the wall.
Ketill continued to struggle, wrestling the guards and trying to punch them, kick them, hit them where ever he could. But ultimately his waning strength and stamina caught up with him, and he was wrestled to the ground.
<“Ya Sawarim, this guy. Why do they always insist on fighting.”>
<“What manner of beasts calmly walks to the butcher?”>
<“Ahaha, a sheep, you’re right.”>
“Shut… the hell… up...”
The response to Ketill’s remark was a firm kick in the side, to which he reacted by rolling over and holding onto the sore spot. With a powerful move they lifted him and escorted him towards the main hall, through the dungeon halls. The walk seemed to take longer than needed, as Ketill came under the impression that he was being paraded around the large halls of the Sultan’s palace. For a moment he thought that he was being given a tour of the palace to impress him, but soon enough a crowd of noble men and women found themselves along the path.
It became clear that Ketill was only being paraded around like a trophy. And he had not even been ordered to death yet. He slowly walked alongside the guards, despite the rather cruel treatment. As they passed the crowd of noblemen- and women, he made a rather large gesture towards them, as if he was about to attack them. The guards were quick to restrain him, and the crowd stepped back in fear of this apparent savage. Their opinion of him would be quickly lowered as Ketill found he couldn’t reach them with his fists, and thus would resort to spitting at them. The guards were quick to correct this however as they both punched him in the side.
As soon as they dragged him further, the crowd of noblemen and women began laughing. Ketill felt, for the first time since his arrival, defeated. But the Monarch would help him, surely. He would not keep Ketill alive this long for no reason – only to let him die in a cruel manner? He did not deserve that, did he?
After a few more rounds they had finally entered the main hall, where a large throne room had been constructed. Or rather, one of the many. There were layers to the hall, with steps to go with them. On the first level, the lowest, there were guards and some girls – laying around on cushions. All of them seemed foreign, non Sawarim girls. On the second layer, more guards and more girls, all of them Sawarim. And on the third layer of the hall, there were only seven women. His extra wives, Ketill guessed. There were guards too – but these were all somewhat different. A different armor, different weaponry, more ornate... possibly eunuchs, or something like that. Ketill was not in the right state to pay attention to it, or guess as to what it was.
Instead, he focused on the fourth layer – a large throne with a similarly imposing man on it. The Sultan, most probably, and to his side some of the advisors. As he was brought before him, the guards stopped him on the third layer – probably to prevent the already violent Ketill from trying anything. The guards let go of his arms but remained close, very close.
<“Kneel,”> one of them ordered him, in a tongue he did not understand, obviously.
When Ketill did not follow the order, the other guard yelled loudly into his ear. <“KNEEL!”> And again, Ketill didn’t follow the order. He did not even look at the guards, his eyes remaining focused on the sultan in a challenging and brave way. But despite his attempts at remaining stoic, it was clearly visible in everything Ketill was that he was not the same man as before.
His clothes like a slave, his face, sunken and unfed, his eyes grey and somber, not the lively blue they were once.
Ketill felt the boot of the guard in the back of his knee and only then did he kneel – when he was forced to, not out of free will. <“Sultan, we present to you the capture of the slavers, a Servant of the Monarchist order of Broacien,”> one of them spoke, bowing lightly at the end of his introduction.
<“What is his story? Why are we not just executing him.”> One of the advisors had spoken for the Sultan, who didn’t seem quite as interested. Perhaps because this was boring, and he had seen enough slaves to know what would happen with a Servant – an execution.
<“The slavers claim he was the one that had unrightfully enslaved your cousin, Najla ibnat Ali al-ibn-Wahad.”>
The Sultan appeared slightly more interested now, but still did not speak. Instead, his other advisor answered. The charges only seemed to become more heavy.
<“Then he dies not by regular execution, but by lashing. His body will be exposed in the central market for three days after that, and then we feed him to the dogs.”>
The guards nodded, and went on to try and pick Ketill up. But Ketill did not seem satisfied, struggling against the grip of the guards. When he was grabbed by one of them, he broke free and got up, stumbling forwards. Immediately, he heard the drawing of swords behind him, as well as the guards on the fourth level of the palace hall moving towards the stairs and drawing their swords.
“You have lost your tongue?” Ketill brazenly asked. He stumbled forwards even more, coming closer to the stairs.
<“Stop now!”> one of the guards yelled, to no avail.
“Surely, you have a word to spare for the Servant, the Monarchist dog as Najla called me, who enslaved her?” Thud, thud, thud. His footsteps came closer to the stairs, and then one of them stood on the first step. “I don’t know what your men said, but I will die. So spare me a word.”
The Sultan smiled and slowly stood up, folding his hands behind his back as he watched Ketill attempt to step up the stairs. <“When did Servants become so brazen and ruthless?”> he asked one of his advisors with a humoured and entertained tone in his voice, while looking back at him.
Ketill saw this as his chance, to perhaps show that he was not some weak Monarchist peasant-farmer, that was scared out of his mind. <“Your father fuc-”> he spoke, the first few words of his only known insult in the Sawarim language. Before he could even finish it, the two guards behind him had reached him and pulled him back, holding onto his shoulders and pulling him down the stairs. As he fell down, he could feel the cold iron that he was so familiar with, touching his neck.
The insult had not gone unnoticed, and the Sultan remained stoic, while the advisors covered their mouths and gasped. Such a thing was unthinkable – Ketill knew, he would not stand for it if someone told his own king that. But the Sultan was not his king.
<“The punishment will be graver. Such an insult cannot be forgiven. He will receive lashing every day, until he passes out, for the next year. We will lash him publicly, every day, in the central market. After a year, we will hang him slowly.”>
The order came from an advisor again, as the Sultan did not wish to bother with this it seemed. It seemed like everything was said and done. But, as per Ketill’s desire to always have the last word, he spoke up again, the iron of the guards’ sword still printed on his neck. “Whatever it is you have sentenced me to, Najla promised me that she would be the one that performed the sentence! She promised!”
The sudden mention of Najla’s name, as well as the shouting, seemed to make the Sultan curious, who gestured to one of the advisors. After a brief moment the advisor seemed to translate the words Ketill had spoken, which caused the Sultan to nod and cross his arms, thinking about what to do. <“Then, we will ask Najla what to do. Besides… she was his victim – so therefore, why shouldn’t she decide what his fate is? Throw him back in the dungeons for now, and we will see what Najla thinks. Once she has returned to her family and they have settled back in, of course. She does not need to be bothered with this man right now.”>
It seemed that the sentence had been overturned – for now. Ketill was raised up and under the threat of the blades, escorted back to the dungeons, where he would be tossed back in and forced to wait until Najla had seen fit to give him a moment of her time.
OP
Dion JIHAD CHIQUE ® / NOT THE SHIT, DEFINITELY A FART
Member
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3 days ago
The next couple of weeks were a beautiful mess for Najla, and though it was a chaotic assortment of tears and reunions, she had loved every moment. As soon as her father had brought her into the palace, Najla had received less of a ‘hero’s welcome’ as the slavers had joked about, and instead had been that of a beloved family. She found friends among guards, wealthy merchants, and the noblemen and women of the castle, all of who stopped her briefly, expressing their surprise and excitement. Her family would have been found everywhere, but her father first took her to the hall he resided in, a small wing of the castle dedicated purely to the rooms of Ali ibn-la-Wahad and his wives and children. Here, she was brought into her mother’s room, and saw her laying on the bed.
She had become frailer since Najla’s disappearance. Najla’s father had always told them of how his wife had been described as a ‘jewel of the desert’, and Najla had once been thrilled at how much she resembled the tribal beauty. Now, age and stress had made their marks where they had not on Najla. Jamile bint Nasir had been a tribal woman before, and thus should have been more accustomed to hardships, but here, her life had been her children. It hurt Najla to see her mother like this, weak and suffering, though she could not imagine she looked much better to her. Whatever they looked like, their reunion had been tearful, and Najla did not move from her bed as the rest of her family poured in. First her youngest brother Bassim was brought in, then Iffra, and slowly the rest trickled in, each taking a seat somewhere on her mother’s bed. Harith came too, and Najla swore she had never smiled wider than when she saw little Mehmet holding his hand as he walked in. Najla greeted Harith by holding him to her tightly, and upon releasing him, Harith would place his son onto the bed.
Mehmet paused when Najla reached a hand to him, trying to turn back into his father’s arms. Harith ordered him to go forward, to say hi to his aunt, and the smile on Najla’s face dropped at the sudden realization.
<“You don’t recognize me, Mehmet dear?”> The little boy shook his head, and Najla forced herself to smile again for his sake. <“I’m your aunt, Najla. I’m your father’s sister.”> She would try to convince the child some more, but upon seeing that he was nervous, simply stopped trying. Harith reached out and grabbed her hand, holding it tightly as he tried to soothe her.
<“It’s alright Najla, he will come to remember you once more.”>
<“I saw him at his birth. I was there, and he’s not even three and he’s already forgotten me.”>
<“They took much from you, Najla. Don’t let them take your life here too.”>
Najla nodded at that, squeezing his hand before she released it. For a long time, Ali ibn-la-Wahad and all his children but Jalil and Nura, who would return to the capital within a few days, simply sat around their mother on her bed. They traded stories and tears long into the night, and even as everyone retired to their rooms for the night, Najla and her sister slept beside their mother, still unwilling to let go.
She would forget Ketill for the next two weeks. Najla would not be able to forget his name, for nearly every conversation she had would involve the Servant that enslaved her. Time and time again, she’d read the shock on their faces when she held that he hadn’t touched or hurt her, and after a couple of weeks of this, it had begun to wear on Najla. Her life here would continue without Ketill, in a manner most could only dream of, but her conscience could not be free of him. The thought of Ketill in the dungeons gnawed at her in the moments where they asked, and yet, in the moments where they didn’t, Ketill would be forgotten entirely, lost among the multitudes of well-wishers.
She would come to him after a couple of weeks. While Najla likely would have forgotten about him for far longer, one of the Sultan’s advisors had come to her, and asked her forgiveness before asking what she’d like to do, as he wanted to decide before the slavers had left. Clearly, they were enjoying the hospitality of the Sultan, though it would be over quite soon. Najla had heard of Ketill’s actions in the court, as her uncle had told her of the insult he had spit at him. As the Sultan, the youngest son of a powerful family, Kamil was a man with little worry in the world, and he had not seemed too upset at the insult, and had even laughed when she mentioned that it was the same he had spit at Uzeyir.
It did not mean the insult had been forgotten. The Sultan was somewhat uncaring as to his fate, but some of his advisors had asked her to consider the year-long sentence. Najla could not bring herself to do so. Regardless of the pain it brought for Ketill, it meant a year where she’d spend every day beating a man to death slowly. Surely, this couldn’t be a just death? Their God has always preached mercy, especially to those weaker than oneself, and Najla knew that in this instance, Ketill was weaker. When it had been her, he had done as her God would have commanded. Did that mean she was less than a Servant in the eyes of her God then?
Najla had told the advisor that she would give her decision within a few days, and retreated to the temple. Those that had been in the women’s section cleared out somewhat quickly upon her arrival, and Najla set up guards at the door to make sure no others came, though it was unlikely at this time of night. She would spend most of her night praying there, and for the first time since she’d been in the capital, Najla spent the night alone, only to come to Ketill the next day.
As if Najla didn’t look out of place in the dungeons already, the guards would quickly escort her to Ketill’s cell, at which point the disparity had become even more obvious. While Ketill had suffered in a dungeon for weeks, Najla had been reunited with her family, her friends, and all the luxuries she had abandoned. She was dressed finely, in a thin blue dress with a plunging neckline, her hair done up elegantly, and gold jewelry wrapped around her wrists, fingers, and neck. She looked healthier than Ketill would have ever seen her, already having gained back some of the weight she had lost, and her eyes were bright and lined with kohl. Her appearance aside, even Najla herself seemed more confident and cheerful, and she dismissed the guards with a wave of her hand. There was a canteen in her other hand, and she would throw it in between the bars of the cell, allowing it to fall on the floor. Ketill would likely hear sounds of a liquid sloshing around in there, not the water that the guards so sparingly gave him, but a wine she’d been told not to waste on him.
“You are so fucking stupid.”
It was a strange sentence to hear from a Sultana’s mouth, but the anger in her gaze made it clear that she meant it. Her night in the temple had eased her thoughts somewhat, but Ketill had insulted her uncle. The Sultan may not have minded too much, but Najla was furious, not at the words themselves but the consequences he had brought on himself by speaking them. While there were plenty of thoughts swimming in her head as of now, Najla would not care to pick through them before speaking, instead unleashing her anger on Ketill at once.
“I offered you a concession. A favor. I was going to let you die as a man, instead of as a dog. Now you’re going to die as something lower than either. You are so fucking stupid!” She stepped closer to the bars, glaring at him through them as she spoke. “Do you have any sense in that thick skull of yours? You can’t insult uncle like that! He’s the Sultan, you donkey! What were you trying to do?! Did you extend your death for a year just so I would have to perform it?”
She stopped speaking then, allowing herself a deep breath. She wouldn’t look at him for some time, turning her gaze to another end of the dungeon, but when she brought her gaze back to his, the anger in her expression had not softened, neither had her voice, though she had managed to reel in the volume of her voice somewhat.
“Do you have any idea what they’re asking for? You’re going to be lashed, every day for a year, then hung. Tell me the truth Ketill, did you want this? Did you do this on purpose so that I’d have to do it, or because you thought I couldn’t?”
Whatever his response, it would not temper her anger. The Sultan’s family seemed to share this temper, especially the spoiled princes and princesses that wandered the halls and courtyards, and while it certainly made their politics more interesting, for those that crossed their paths, it was a danger they needed to maneuver carefully.
“I’ll do it, Ketill. Did you think I was incapable of dirtying my hands? I have taken better men from this earth, you think a dog would give me pause? For that which your people have made me suffer, this would be a small retribution.” She would wait again, trying to steady her anger as she looked upon him. She could feel her irritation rising the longer she was trapped down here, speaking to Ketill in a dirty dungeon instead of lounging with her family. She had spent the day playing with Mehmet in the pools, and was looking forward to sharing some wine with her sister Nura and some of her cousins before bed. In between this, Ketill was less of a person, and more like an unpleasant task.
Yet when she looked upon him, Najla wondered if she was wrong for treating him as such. Perhaps he hadn’t been too pleasant to her, but when she studied him, Najla wondered if he was capable of anything more. The kindnesses he had shown her had been enormous, however, and Najla found herself glancing at his finger as she thought of these. She had been reminded of them often during the past weeks, as many had asked her how she had managed to make it back unharmed, and Najla could hardly tell that story without mentioning Ketill. Therefore, though the anger had not left her, it seemed as if Najla had made a decision.
“I’d do it, but I don’t want to. I don’t want to spend the next year of my life lashing you every day, not when it has just now been returned to me. So I’ve come with a bargain.” She stepped forward at that, wrapping a hand around the dirty bars as she looked down at Ketill. “I’ll give you a swift, painless death. But if you want it, you will apologize to my uncle tomorrow. You will prostate yourself before him and offer the sincerest apologies you can manage for how you spoke to the Sultan. If you do that, I will trade the leather for steel, this I promise.”
Before he would react, perhaps embarrassed at the thought of having to make a fool of himself in front of his enemies, Najla would continue to speak. Her voice grew far softer here, and her gaze made it clear that she was not trying to bargain with him or ease her way out of anything, but offering him a true gesture. Her night in the temple had given her this much, and she had spent much of it recalling Jalil’s face, remembering her pain when she was forced to leave him.
“Where do you want your body sent?” She paused here, briefly remembering the sight of Jalil’s face again before she explained herself further. “I will not have them feed your body to the dogs. Servant or not, you deserve better than that, at least. I do not know how your people are buried, but if you tell me, I will see it happen.”
OP
Dion JIHAD CHIQUE ® / NOT THE SHIT, DEFINITELY A FART
Member
Seen
3 days ago
Ketill would only look up at the ‘Sultana’ once she had thrown the flask at him, its contents gushing around inside. He looked at it momentarily and then reached for it, taking it and taking off the cork, smelling the liquids inside. Smelling the alcohol, he put the cork back and held on to the flask. Her small outburst at calling him stupid only made him smile. “Do you really think that, or are you just saying that because I outsmarted you?” he asked, swinging the flask side to side, the contents once more sloshing.
He would listen to her perform her tirade for the next few seconds, wondering if she’d ever shut up. Perhaps she had thought that, for some vague reason, he would concede to her and do as she asked. When she explained just what they had sentenced him to, he began laughing, softly at first but louder after he realized just what he had done. “Sounds like a good past-time, to whip a man every day.” Despite the anger of the woman in front of him, or at least, her well-contained anger, he seemed perfectly calm. In fact, he seemed quite satisfied with himself. “You are well within your right to go back on your promise, of course. Although a Sultana isn’t meant to break her promises lightly, I assume.”
Finally, he got up and walked closer to the bars of the cell. He stopped once he was close to her, and held out the flask to her. “Keep your wine. I do not need your luxuries to reaffirm myself in my beliefs. You were a meek woman when you first met me – did not speak more than a word, called me ‘my lord’. Now look at you. You’ve settled right back in.”
Her comments at having taken greater men, and having suffered at the hands of the Broacien people… it made him realize something. “So what was a Sultana doing in Broacien anyway? You seem content in your wealth and luxury now. I see no reason to abandon it. You told me you were a trader – but never what you traded. And…” He did not finish his sentence, saving it for later. He had something that he just realized, which he thought would be better asked at the end of the discussion. Where she thought she held the power, she would find quickly that Ketill would not bow to her will. Not now, not ever.
The promise of exchanging leather for steel thus fell on deaf ears. He would not have agreed to it – not after she made him wait two weeks. In this trepid dungeon, waiting for his fate, being fed with what seemed to be leftovers of the house slaves, and being given water only once every two days. The wine had been a welcome present – but his honour had demanded he return it. If only to make a point. Whatever treatment they had given him during these two weeks, it made any chance of him accepting her offer disappear. But he was not really offered the chance to retort, and let her know that if he was paraded through the palace again like some jester, and placed in front of the Sultan, forced to kneel, that he would spit on the sultan if given the chance.
Instead she asked him where he wanted to be buried.
What a question.
He looked her deep in the eyes when he spoke, making it clear that he was not saying anything in jest in that following moment. “When you left the Sultanate, you left with your brother. But you are here, and he is not. When I first heard you were the niece of the Sultan, I was confused about your goal in Broacien – I did not think of your brother. But, it makes sense now. There is a reason he is not here yet.” He’d remain silent for a moment, offering her the chance to reply – but he honestly did not expect that. He expected her to remain silent in anger. He knew this was something she didn’t want to talk about, most likely. If only because it reminded her of the lies she had spoken, not in the name of Najla but in name of Saina.
“We are buried in the soil. Six feet deep, with a cross on top. You don’t have to return me.”
When he spoke to her now, he slowly walked back to his corner in the cell and sat back down, looking up at the ceiling rather than at Najla. He seemed disinterested in whatever else she might’ve had to say, and whatever choice she made now would be without effect – her best bet was to simply leave as Ketill would not listen regardless. “You can bury me next to your brother. He was… or is… a warrior. He would understand that we are equal when we are dead. But from you… I know now, after two weeks, that you do not understand that. So go back to your dear family, and tell them the Servant said mean things to you again.”
OP
Dion JIHAD CHIQUE ® / NOT THE SHIT, DEFINITELY A FART
Member
Seen
3 days ago
Even as Najla spoke, she could see him laughing in the darkness. She had never seen a man quite so uncaring as to his own death, especially not one who was willing to extend their sentence in such a horrible manner simply to hurt her in the process. Najla quickly determined that Ketill must have been the bravest fool in the world, or a madman. She took the flask from him, grasping it in her hands as he told her of the woman she had been. Najla would not answer his question as to why she’d been in Broacien, simply to avoid the name Jalil. She’d commanded him not to say the name Saina again, and he hadn’t, but Ketill was getting dangerously close to making her fulfill another promise.
Though she would not answer his question about her time in Broacien, the mention of her brother certainly drew a response from her. Anger kept her silent, but Ketill would easily be able to see how tightly she gripped the bar at those words, her knuckles turning white as he continued. How dare he speak to her of Jalil? She could barely hear his burial instructions as he returned to a corner of the cell, as Ketill seemed to have found the easiest way to provoke her. When he continued to speak of her brother, Najla could feel herself ready to scream at him once more, to insult him and rid herself of the anger, but she paused, biting her lip as he spoke of burying him beside her brother. His other words had only made her believe she was speaking to a madman. Now, he’d be able to see her anger beginning to slip, and perhaps he’d see in her eyes that his words had stung. A Servant’s words meant nothing to her, but to align his words with her brothers gave Najla pause. Jalil had been a warrior, if anything, and perhaps he would have agreed. It hurt that she would never know.
Najla leaned down and placed the canteen against the bars of the cell. He might have refused her offer before, but she had no use for it. As she stood up straight again, Najla dusted off her hands, her gaze fixed firmly on Ketill. For a long moment, she would only study him, both the hurt and anger dissipating as she watched him. Najla could not understand him. He had no motivations she could understand beyond those marks on his forehead, not even his own life. What man did not fear death? It had always been easy for her to use her position, to threaten and give as she pleased, but as Najla studied Ketill, she realized that perhaps she still had nothing he feared to threaten him with, and nothing he wanted to give him.
More than anything, Najla was confused. She could not imagine what kind of man would not fear death, nor be willing to bargain for their lives. Those that she’d killed before had always been fearful, whether one could see it in their begging, tears, or the forced bravery they put on. Ketill’s was none of those, he wasn’t even trying to be brave, he seemed like he truly didn’t care. Those she’d manipulated before had always been easy, as everyone had something they loved, whether they wanted more of it or taken it away. Ketill wanted no gold or glory, hell, Ketill hadn’t even been interested in fucking her, one of the basest desires beyond food and water. Najla was not trying to understand what he wanted however, but what she needed to do with him. She had wanted to offer him a chance to die by her hands as a sign of respect, as if it was a final confession that she was killing a man, not a dog. She’d never seen Ketill like this in their time together before, and was beginning to wonder if she was killing a man after all.
“I would not bury you beside Jalil, not even if I could. You are not his equal in any manner of life or death.”
Neither was she, it seemed. With that, Najla turned, making her way out of the dungeon. She would return from the cramped cell that had been Ketill’s home for some time, returning to the world that had been hers, one with golden halls and bowing slaves. She walked past these hurriedly, returning to a familiar wing of the house, not where she was meant to find her sister and family, but someone whose voice had always provided her with clarity.
Some years ago, when Najla had been about 18, the Sultan had taken a wife from the Al-Suwaidi tribe, a tribe settled on the edges of the desert, where the land was just green enough to grow. She had been the daughter of their tribe’s caliph, and it had solidified their relations with one of the most important village federations in the Sultanate. Najla remembered the wedding well, where she had met a 20 year old Osman, the brother of the Sultan’s new wife. She had been taken with him even then, when he had just become a man, with no ability to inherit his father’s title. Her cousins had teased her about her childlike crush, as they believed it would result in nothing but a flirtation until the celebrations were over.
Yet Osman remained. Long after the celebrations, long after his sister’s marriage had been solidified. He had proven himself a great help to the Sultan in the short time he’d aided in arranging his sister’s marriage, and had made himself quite useful to the Sultan in dealing with his father’s tribe. After two years, he’d been offered an official position on the Sultan’s court, to help advise the Sultan in keeping unruly tribes under his control. This came as joyous news to Najla, as the pair had since moved past flirtations at parties, and Najla had watched in admiration as her lover pushed himself up the ranks of the Sultan’s court, aiding him wherever she could. They had even spoken of marriage before, which would result in quite a powerful match now, but that had been before her disappearance, and in that time, he’d been promised to another. It had not shattered her heart as she thought it would upon her return, for Najla believed his devotion to her had not wavered. He had maintained that he could not resume their relationship so quickly, yet tonight he had abandoned his new wife in their bedroom and brought Najla to his adjoining office to speak to her privately as dusk approached.
<“I offered him a clean death if he apologized but he won’t take it, I know. I think he only wants to die in a way that will bring me grief.”>
<“It doesn’t matter, you don’t need to let him hurt you any longer. Kill him. Just say you want a clean death and you’ll only have to swing a sword. Your uncle doesn’t care about this insult, he’s got some new additions in his harem, he’ll be busy with that for some time.”>
<“You don’t think I thought of that already? I know uncle doesn’t care.”>
<“What’s the problem then?”>
Najla paused at this, looking up at Osman. He was seated behind his desk, leaned back in his chair as he eyed Najla. She was seated before him, her hand wrapped around a glass of wine.
<“I don’t-”> There was a long pause then, and though she could feel Osman’s eyes on her, Najla had stopped looking back at him. He was quiet however, merely studying her, and the silence forced her to speak again. <“He spoke of Jalil. He said I could bury him next to my brother-”>
<“A Servant’s cruel joke gave you pause?”>
<“It was no joke, he doesn’t know. Besides, it wasn’t that. He said Jalil was a warrior, and that I wasn’t.”>
<“You’re not.”>
Najla let out a small laugh at that, finally looking up at Osman again. <“No, I’m not. I’m not even a spymaster anymore. But Jalil was. He was so brave, and so devoted. He followed all of the laws of the Sawarim, even in war, even when it wasn’t easy.”>
<“He was a good man, Najla, and his life will be rewarded with a better one. But do you think he would have asked you to spare a Servant?”>
<“No. But Ketill-he saved my life, Osman. I told you. He didn’t touch me, gave me all that I needed, he was even willing to cut off a finger for me. He never liked me, yet I’m here because a Servant showed me mercy.”>
<“Send him off into the desert then. If the Sawarim wills it, he’ll live. You will have shown your mercy, and if he dies, it will be because God has willed it.”>
Najla was quiet again for a moment, but her eyes remained on Osman, studying him as he did her. <“What would you have done?”>
<“I’m telling you what I would do.”>
<“Not with the Servant, with me. Would you have raped me? Sold me? Would you have let me die or saved me from my own mistakes?”>
<“What the hell kind of a question is that? You know what I have done for you, what I’ve always done for you. Everything I did, I did because I had loved you, the Servant did so because you were his property. You are merely imagining this debt to him.”>
You did what you did for a Sultana, not a slave. Najla kept this thought quiet however, and moved on rather quickly. Soon, she had moved past the topic of Ketill at all, and it seemed she had already made up her mind. While Osman would find this to be a relief, Najla would insist on making it anything but, and shifted the topic to his wife Elif, speaking only of their life together before she thanked him for his counsel and left to resume drinking with her sister.
When they would drag Ketill into the throne room the next day, he would see a sight that would convince most men of their deaths. Najla was seated just beside her uncle’s throne, dressed even finer than she had been the last time she visited her former master. As if all that hadn’t been enough to prove her position, she wore a thin gold circlet on her head. She was speaking with her uncle carelessly, and the Sultan seemed to enjoy having a distraction from the endless stream of duties, as Najla knew he would. There would be a few new faces among this crowd, mostly those of Najla’s family who had been admitted to see her sentence the Servant, and Osman, who was within the cluster of the Sultan’s advisors.
When Ketill would enter, the guards would not release him, a precaution drawn from his outburst the time before. Najla said nothing, merely watching as he would be forced to kneel before them once more, and her gaze did not leave Ketill as her uncle spoke up.
<“Najla dear, you have decided what to do with him?”>
<“I have, Sultan.”>
Najla stood at this. She had wanted a chance to explain to him, but it seemed she’d have to make the request first. It would have made her more nervous to ask, but this was her family, her court, and her prisoner now. Her will would be followed eventually, and Najla was certain she could withstand whatever consequences followed. Najla turned to her uncle, then took his hand. She did not bow, but leaned down just enough to kiss his golden rings softly before making her request.
<“Uncle, I know better than most that this man is a savage. I know how he insulted you.”> With that, she released his hand, and straightened up, looking back at Ketill briefly as she spoke. <“But I would not have been here if not for his savagery. I told you of the men in the camp, who threatened me?”>
<“Yes, you said he hit you as well.”>
<“He did.”> She touched her cheek gently at that, as if remembering the bruising, but perhaps it would provide a hint as to what she was speaking of. <“He would have done it again, and worse, if not for the Servant. He broke a Monarchist’s jaw and nose for a Sawarim slave. It was the first time he saved my life, but it would not be the last. As his savagery was a mercy to me before, I ask for the same now. Uncle, I ask you to grant the Servant life.”>
Whatever the Sultan’s court had been expecting, it had not been that. Many gasped, openly shocked, and a slow rumble of whispers began at the lower levels. Where she stood, she could see Osman stiffen, and though he seemed as if he wished to speak to her, a look from Najla would keep him seated. Najla did not let the noise continue for long, and as she continued to speak, the throne room quieted.
<“I ask for the mercy he granted me uncle, and no more. Let him live as I did, as a slave to a foreign land. He is not a man that fears death, uncle, or else he would not have insulted you as he did. I would not let him die believing he is a martyr. Allow him to die as I once thought I would, when I prayed I would have slit my throat before my capture.”>
<“Najla dear, you were the one who suffered under the Monarchists, and as such, I granted this to you. But do you truly believe it wise?”>
<“Uncle, I suffered under the Monarchists. This is true. They are not a people who know mercy well, not to those who refuse their false gods. But for all that I suffered under Monarchists, I did not suffer under the Servant. I was never beaten, never touched, never humiliated. We praise our God as merciful, so if our god preaches mercy, and I do not show it, I place myself farther from my god than a Servant. This is not something I will allow myself to do. Let me show him all the mercy he showed me, and let him see just what it is worth.”>
One of the advisors leaned in now, a cousin of Najla’s, and when she glanced back at him she could see that Osman was angry. He had assumed her decision had been to end it as he would have done, and Najla had not cared to correct him before today. He’d be angry later, but Najla was his Sultana now, not his lover, and she’d make sure to remind him of that.
<“To keep him alive could be seen as betraying our faith, is this-”> Her cousin had spoken in a whisper, likely so as to keep this from the rest of the crowd, but he would not be able to get far regardless.
<“I did not betray my faith in all my time under the Monarchists, you think I return to do so now? Refusing him mercy would betray our faith, for I will not demand blood where the Servant did not demand mine.”>
<“Najla, what do you propose we do with him then? He can fight, but we cannot put a weapon in a beast’s hands.”> Her cousin’s voice rose with this new point, not in anger, but to allow the other advisors a chance to speak.
<“Perhaps we could make him a eunuch?”> This suggestion came from a familiar voice, and Najla was quick to reply, glaring at Osman before he could finish.
<“No. I will not see him mutilated.”>
<“Then what, Sultana? Keep him as a pet?”>
<“No. Have him serve me, as I did him.”>
Before any of the advisors could argue this time, it was the Sultan that spoke up. He raised a hand, silencing the advisors and Najla, though his gaze was on Ketill when he spoke. <“No, Najla. I will not have him serve you. He is a violent man, I did not forget how he acted here before. You have just been returned to us, I will not risk your life for a Servant’s.”>
<“Uncle, if he wished to hurt me, he would have done it before. The Servant will not hurt-”>
<“No. I will not risk your life.”> It seemed there was no further debate on this, and Najla glanced at Ketill swiftly, before turning her gaze back to the Sultan. She moved to sit then, realizing the decision had been pulled out of her hands. It was up to the Sultan to see if he’d grant her request, and his gaze lingered on Ketill in silence before a smile began to cross his face.
<“I suppose the only thing lower than a Servant is a slave. I will grant you his life, Najla, but I will grant his service to your cousin, Tahir. He will be able to put the Servant to use, and if not, he is to oversee the construction of a new palace temple. Perhaps he would appreciate a Servant as a laborer. ”>
Najla nodded at that, smiling at her uncle. It was not the result she had hoped for, but Najla supposed it could get no better than this. <“Thank you uncle.”>
The decision having been made, one of the Sultan’s advisors stepped forward to handle the formalities once more. The Sultan returned to conversing with Najla in lowered voices, while an advisor stepped forward.
<“Have him cleaned and fed. Give him new clothes and send him to Tahir.”> As the advisor was instructing the guards, Najla was standing from her seat, kissing her uncle on the cheek gently.
<“You are cruel to abandon me to my duties, Najla dear.”> Her uncle joked, smiling widely. <“Your company was appreciated.”>
<“Father wished to take me riding to practice archery soon, please abandon your duties someday so that you can join us. I have much to relearn, so long as you promise not to laugh, I would be grateful for your company.”>
The Sultan laughed at that, and nodded. <“I can make no such promise, but I hope to join you regardless.”>
Najla began to walk down the stairs, clearly in high spirits. Her uncle’s jokes and promises had left her with a smile on her face, and knowing that her will was about to be carried out, even if not to the fullest intent, had eased her conscience some. She stopped some steps before Ketill, making certain to be out of his reach, and her smile died somewhat as she looked upon him again. Perhaps he had guessed his sentence, and perhaps he hadn’t, but Najla would explain quickly before passing him.
“You’ve been granted your life, Servant. Make me regret this and I’ll make you regret it more.”
The guards would keep Ketill held down and out of her reach as she passed them on the stairs, though if he wanted to speak or spit, she’d be within a close enough range. Just after her, some of her family had stood as well, though they would wait until the savage had been cleared from their path before they began to walk.
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Dion JIHAD CHIQUE ® / NOT THE SHIT, DEFINITELY A FART
Member
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3 days ago
Ketill grinned to himself when Najla had responded to his words, as it was not hard to see her anger, much less hear it. Although she had always done a good job of hiding who she was, what she thought and what she felt, she would do no such thing now. He wondered if he had struck a nerve while she walked away. It seemed to be the case. When she was gone, he considered taking the wine – but, on the other hand, he also realized that she would likely know. And that would harm the point he was making. So, he just threw back his head and attempted to return to his uncomfortable slumber. For two weeks he had been here, but he had only managed to sleep whenever he had gotten too exhausted. Otherwise, the cold walls and floor kept him up.
But not today. A few minutes later, his eyes closed, remaining shut for the duration of the day and night.
During his sleep, he dreamt of his two homes – Broacien, and the cold harsh North. He relived his youth in mere moments, the images flashing before his very eyes. The cold white snow, the momentary lapses of the white snowscape when it melted in the summer. For those brief two months you could see the ground, which was covered in a grass which none had seen south of the mountains. It was a dark, greyish green, a sign of grass that managed to survive against the odds – no sunlight, no nutrition. It was a good metaphor for the Northern people, who lived in much the same way.
They lived in a place where man wasn’t meant to live – not for long at any rate.
But Ketill’s visions of the North soon made way for the large mountain range, and the gigantic castle that was beyond. When he had first crossed those mountains as a boy, he had done so out of desperation. His oncoming death would have been certain if he had not crossed, as no boy could survive on their own in the north. If the creatures of the night did not get you, the other tribes would. So he made that trek, alone, for two days, until he reached the other side. And no imagination could match the sight of that large castle.
When he was found, he was taken in, and tutored in the arts of warfare and religion. It seemed that the lord had seen fit to turn Ketill into his own guard, though none would have expected it to pan out so well, not even the lord himself. And with the arrival of ‘Princess Winter’, his new wife, who had an almost unhealthy obsession with the North and the people that lived there, Ketill’s education would soon expand far beyond the reach of the lord. The princess tutored him personally in matters of religion that extended beyond the scope of the local priest – she was a princess, a daughter of the Monarch on Earth after all.
The dream continued to his journey to Coedwin, but he never saw what happened beyond that. A kick in the leg woke him up, and before he could react, he was already picked up by his arms and dragged out of the cell. He did not fight back. He did not even realize it had already been the next day – though, truth be told, Ketill had lost track of time some weeks ago, during his first week in the prison. They bound his arms quickly with a rope, making sure he was properly tied by pulling the rope in a rather painful way once or twice.
He was once more dragged to the throne room, where he would be placed in front of the sultan once more – this time with noticeably more spectators. For some that might have been interesting. For Ketill, it was merely a flow of faces he did not know or recognize, people who had come here to watch as he got sentenced to death.
For Ketill, things almost seemed to slow down now, time becoming slower, movements becoming slower, as he watched the sultan converse with Najla idly while he was forced to kneel again. They had made sure he could not pull any stunts this time, and they made sure to hold onto his shoulders. Though it was not required, as Ketill had already come to terms with his fate. No, he wished merely for Najla to execute it.
His vision still slowed, Najla got up and began speaking – though he did not hear her words, could not even understand even if he had heard her. When he turned his head, left to right, all he could see were the faces of the Sawarim nobles. They had come to watch him, and some were looking at him closely. No doubt that they would cut him down if they could. But for most of them, they were paying attention to Najla. They did not seem angered. Not even annoyed at the presence of a Servant. Those that did look at him seemed to look with a look of indifference.
Though, that was worse. The look of hate could explain many things. A look of indifference could explain nothing.
Unsatisfied with the answers he found on the faces of these people, Ketill turned his attention back to Najla, whom was still holding her speech. She paraded around, in her clothes and jewelry, those fine luxuries that placed her above the rest. Oh, if only they had seen her when she stood in the chamber of the Hochmeister, pleading for her life. What they would think of their Sultana… Had not had the decency to cut her own throat, much rather lied and deceived her way through Broacien. And now, repaid the favour to her would-be protector.
Slowly Ketill’s mind caught up, waking from the haze of sleep and emotion alike. He heard more clearly, now, when he heard the voice of a man from the crowd interrupt. There was a back and forth momentarily, but Ketill did not think of this new face as important enough to remember. Perhaps he would have, had he been able to decipher what the man had said. But no such luck – after this back and forth, the Sultan took over and seemed to make the final decision.
Before Ketill knew it, he was being hoisted onto his feet again, and the bustle and talk of court indicated that they were done. Najla marched down towards him, intending to pass him by. He opened his mouth to speak, to ask her how he would die. But she was quicker. She informed him he’d keep his life – that he’d best not make her regret it. Normally he would have smiled at her, informed her that she had been scared to execute him herself. But now the realization came over him of what precisely was meant with this. He would suffer a fate far worse than execution, a fate worse than even an execution that was dragged out over the 364 days of a year. An execution that would take years upon years to occur – the life of a slave.
‘’This is not what you had promised me,’’ he said, softly, slowly, still coming to terms with his new fate. Death had been stayed, and exchanged for servitude. As the emotions grew within him, so did his strength. ‘’Tell me at least that you are the one that will take my life and command it? That you would be the one to execute this command? Do not- do not walk away from me, you…’’
With violent thrashes and turns, Ketill began resisting. His tied hands made it no easy feat, resulting in him violently trying to chase Najla to continue speaking with her. But the guards made sure he did no such thing – all Ketill could do was push against them. But the tied hands gave them a good way to control him. It was useless. Najla’s family followed her, and Ketill looked at them all. They passed him – paid him mind, but did not offer him any words. Not even an insult. Just silently… silently passed him and judged him. And Ketill stared back, slowly settling down with the realization that this battle between him and Najla had finished and that there had been no winner. As he watched her family pass by, he swore to himself an oath – an oath of survival. He had to survive this, and show the Sawarim that he was no weak-willed man that would bend and contort himself to meet their demands. Whatever he had to do, he would do it. For that one chance. That one chance of revenge.
One year had passed since, and Ketill had been placed into the clutches of one ‘Tahir’. Despite the familiarity with some of the members of the Sultan’s court, to Ketill, this name was not known. Never the less, Ketill did not see Tahir often – he found himself too important to deal with slaves and instead, had numerous slave masters on his estate that were in charge of the slaves in his name.
At first Ketill had been made into a house slave – the prestige of having a Servant serving you wine and food like a true inferior had been too much to pass up on to Tahir, but he quickly realized the mistake he had made when Ketill proved to be unreliably uncooperative, and above that, unable to speak the Sawarim language. When Ketill spent an hour holed up in a room with a dagger to the throat of a regular servant, the decision was made to relieve him of his slave duties and instead, force him to become a labourer.
Ketill was still unwilling to work, but it was hard to give the illusion of working in this situation. Besides the frequent crack of the whip when hauling stone, the guards also seemed to find it rather amusing to beat the slaves for no reason. Ketill was a frequent target, mostly due to his faith, but also because he stood up for himself and occasionally fought back, which gave them a reason to punish him even harder, and even drag him to Tahir himself, who usually opted to have him lashed. Lightly, of course, as to not harm the physique of his prize slave too much.
After three months, the palace temple had finally been constructed, and Ketill was sent back to the estate of Tahir himself, where he continued to serve. Most of the time he was merely used as a prize object – kept around for visitors, to show them how Tahir had somehow managed to keep a Servant slave in check. This was parallel to the truth, which would show you that Ketill was still rebellious as ever, but the visitors would only see Ketill briefly after all.
During this time, Ketill began seeing Tahir more often, as you’d expect given he was on his estate now. This also meant an increase in beatings and punishment, with or without reason, meant to keep the slave in check. For this reason, none of the other slaves dared to fraternize with Ketill, afraid they might get the same treatment, leaving Ketill alone throughout much of his year as a slave.
Two months before Najla’s visit, Ketill had been beaten severely – left in the open of the courtyard at night, beaten half to death, bruises all over his body. He had laid there – conscious, staring at the stars in the sky. He had wondered if the Monarch was there, looking down upon him. But rather than feel hopeful, it made him feel angered. It had been a lie. What God would offer it’s hand in times of need – or make promises to do so – but then not follow through when it was needed? Had Ketill not been a good man? Had he not served without question? Had he not followed the orders of the Hochmeister, of the Monarch himself, of the exalted daughter of the Monarch? Was he not good enough? He had endured hardships in his name. He had gone on this expedition in his name. What more was required?
And in that moment he found his answer. In the sky, the stars aligned to show the symbol of Auðrun, the God of the North. Even now in the darkest of time, Auðrun was there, watching over him. Had he been praying to the wrong God the entire time? As far as he could remember that formation of stars in his symbol had always been there – always watching over him. He knew what he had to do – finally, he knew.
<‘’What is this?’’> one of the slavemasters asked, holding up a clay pot in his hand. He and Ketill were standing in the courtyard of Tahir’s estate, near the small granary in the corner of the walled off area. Ketill had been working in the granary today, moving some of the items around per request of the household cook. Normally, they’d have a regular slave do it – but it seemed like they were all preoccupied, and Tahir had seen fit to assign Ketill to do more manual labour. ‘Show him his place’ as he had put it to his slavemasters. He’d been dressed in nothing more than a set of pants, his feet uncovered as he walked upon the scorching hot stones, his torso glistening with sweat under the sun that beamed down. Not even the decency to offer him a headscarf they had offered him.
‘’What?’’ Ketill breezed at the man, looking at him from the corner of his eyes while he lifted a box and turned around, walking to a large pile of crates and putting it on top. The chore almost seemed useless. He was just moving a set of boxes from one side of the granary to the other. What difference did it make?
With a loud crack the slavemaster threw the pot onto the ground, spilling the grain inside all over the dusty floor. <‘’Look what you did! Clean it, now, you filthy dog!’’> he yelled, pointing at the grain. The man’s face spelled anger, despite the fact that he was clearly the one to throw the pot onto the ground. It was almost like he actually believed Ketill did it.
In the back of his mind, Ketill wondered if this was why all of the other slaves had been ‘occupied’ randomly, and why Tahir had sent him to do this useless job. Did he want to hassle Ketill today, to show him his place as a Servant of the Monarch? He looked at the slavemaster angrily, not caring enough to follow the order. He had shed the mantle of a Servant some months ago now. The only remainder of that mantle were the three crimson red dots on his forehead.
The Monarch had abandoned him - ’the Monarch saves those that duly serve him and follow his word’ the princess had told him once, when he was younger. A lie, it had turned out to be. A fat lie. The Old Gods would protect him – they always did. He didn’t know how he would gain back their favour – not in this desert, anyway. But he’d do it. He’d ask for their favour, ‘lend me your strength’ he’d tell them, no, demand it, ‘that I may shed the Sawarim blood in your name; to sate your bloodlust.’
But try explaining that he was no longer a Servant to these ignorant fools.
<‘’Clean!’’> the slavemaster yelled again. Ketill ignored him and continued walking with the boxes, moving them from one side to the other. He was waiting for the inevitable. And it came – without question, it came. He felt the strong grasp of the slavemaster’s arm on his bare shoulder, pulling him back and causing him to drop the box. It shattered and the grain inside spilt even further, covering the floor entirely now.
With a wide swing the slavemaster tossed him towards the courtyard, sending Ketill to the ground, tumbling and rolling across the sand covered tiles. Normally, Ketill would’ve been able to keep standing from such a swing, but he had not been fed properly for months, and his strength was waning. His face had sunk in even further and his body was beginning to show signs of weakness.
The slavemaster reached him within moments, instantly setting upon him and beginning to beat him. His face got hit a few times before Ketill tried to defend himself, reaching for the man’s throat. He found himself unable to grab it, his eyes shut to protect them against the man’s fists. He lowered his hands momentarily to try and shield himself before he reached out again, his fingers trailing across the man’s face and finding his eyes. The nails dug into his eyes but Ketill lacked the strength to properly gouge them, and he ended up making a half attempt to do so. This only solicited more anger in the slavemaster as other guards began showing up to help. Soon enough he felt the punches of not only the slavemaster, but also the kicks in his side and his head from the guards.
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Dion JIHAD CHIQUE ® / NOT THE SHIT, DEFINITELY A FART
Member
Seen
3 days ago
It would not take a year for Najla to forget Ketill. She had a life to return to after all, and so far as she knew, she had done as her conscience and her God desired. None could have asked more of her. Thus, Najla spent the next year taking back what had been hers, beginning with her network.
It proved much easier to cultivate this time around, and Najla began with those contacts in the capital that had not disappeared or gone to others in her absence. They were few, but they were rewarded handsomely, and given every assurance that their loyalty would be continually rewarded in the future. Those that had vanished, she did not seek, for she did not have those resources yet, but those that had changed their loyalties were quietly eliminated. It did not take much for her influence to pick up once more, aided as it was by her name, her title, and now, her story. Whatever reputation she had before, it could not match that which was brought along by Ketill’s enslavement. After all, they had thought her dead, only to have her return unharmed and enslave her former master, a Servant, to the Sultan. They had not heard of her failures in Coedwin, and knew nothing of the indignities she had suffered, and so Najla had returned to a people with a new admiration for her. Those that she sought as contacts were not immune to this reputation, and Najla found that though her new network was far smaller, she would come to prefer it quickly, for when she had first started building her network the first time around, it had been through the help of her family. Now, Najla was finding that her contacts were increasingly loyal to her. Not to her cousins, or the Sultanate, but to her.
Beyond their loyalty, they came to her faster as well. Najla found she had little trouble convincing people she could protect their interests, and it did not take long before this increasingly loyal network was slowly spreading beyond the capital. Her sights were set on Coedwin now, for Najla was one of the few in the Sultan’s court who had been within the city personally and lived to reappear. In fact, she was one of the few who had been through so much of Broacien alive, and Najla was poised to spread her network throughout Broacien. While Najla had been an influential figure before, she knew a few more years of this difficult work would position her to become a key figure of the Sultan’s court now, and so Najla continued her efforts tirelessly.
While she was slowly taking back her influence, if not gaining more, Najla wanted her lover back as well. Annoyed by his initial refusal to resume their relationship, Najla had respected his wishes initially, still angry that he had taken a wife so quickly. Even still, she found she could not forget him so easily. It was no easy feat for her to watch him strut around the palace with his new wife on his arm, but these blows grew softer as her time within the court lengthened, and soon, Najla found that they did not hurt at all. Osman would invent reasons to come to her chambers, and rather than business, the pair would speak as intimately as if Najla’s head rested on his chest, even though they spoke across desks. He had no kind words for the few suitors that came to her, and was only emboldened when he saw that Najla had none either. It was a frustrating game for a couple of months, as even though Osman insisted upon keeping his promise, Najla knew it was futile. She’d take no other husband, and his wife had not been enough to keep them apart. It took only two months for her to resume her advances on her lover, and it took another before he fell to them, at some prince’s party that would be lost within the multitude of celebrations that would follow.
First, they had drank together, then danced together, and soon, had snuck off to the edges of the courtyard as they had when they were younger. Then, his wife had not been waiting for him. Then, they had clumsily filled glasses of wine and laughed as they drank too much of it while hiding among the flowers, spilling secrets before Najla would promise to return to him at night, only to sneak off to a waiting family. Tonight, they went empty-handed, and their laughter came softer, but she knew her affection for him had not lessened. They threaded their way through the gardens off of memory alone, their conversation full of old stories, occasionally brushing against each other as if they simply couldn’t help it.
<“I swear, I don’t remember you being quite so dignified. You used to be-”>
<“Brutish?”>
Najla laughed at that, shaking her head as she continued. <“No, never brutish. Rougher, certainly. You always had an instinct for the courtly intrigue, but you were still clearly a tribesman.”>
<“Mmm. Well, Elif doesn’t like them quite as rough as you did.”>
Najla let out a short laugh, reaching a hand out to push Osman’s arm lightly, at which point she saw the grin spreading across his lips. She had missed having someone who was this easy to speak to, who was so assured of her love for him that he would speak to her without apprehension. He would never dare to do so in front of her family, for his title could never match her family name, but here, he would not soften his tongue.
<“A shame. I hate to see your talents go to waste.”>
Osman’s grin widened at that reply, and he stopped walking, turning to look down at Najla. She would stop walking as well, turning to look up at him, only to see a familiar look in his eyes. It was a look that spelled victory for her, and Najla knew then that here, with his wife rejoicing in the celebrations behind them, she’d get her lover back.
<“You think they’re being wasted?”>
Najla hesitated then. There was a pause before she spoke, and though Osman was still grinning, Najla’s expression had softened somewhat, and she reached out, taking his hand softly. Osman did not pull his hand from her grasp, but gave her no other indication that he wanted his hand to be there.
<“Osman, when I laid on your chest at night, we spoke of dynasties. We said we could make kingdoms rise and fall, do you remember? I haven't forgotten, I still believe we can.”> Najla moved closer to him then, now guiding his hand carefully. Even as she spoke, she lifted her skirts with one hand, slipping Osman’s hand under it. <“If Elif speaks to you of anything less, then yes. Your talents are being wasted.”>
<“Najla-”> Osman was not given a chance to protest. She guided his hand in between her thighs, and only released it when she could feel his fingers against the wetness at her inner thigh. She felt his hands graze against her, and for a moment, she thought he might withdraw them, before she felt him enter her with a finger. The sudden pleasure felt like a victory, and Najla pulled him in tighter by the fabric of his shirt, meeting her lips to his. Osman had no defenses left, it seemed, and his other hand gripped her waist, pulling her to him and ending whatever distance was between them.
He pulled his finger out of her, and before he could do anything else with it, Najla reached down and pushed his hand away. Her skirts fell down again, and she pulled away from him, leaving the wetness on his fingers as the only evidence of their brief contact.
<“We should return.”> Najla explained breathlessly. They’d been gone for some time, and while it would be forgotten in their younger days, there was no doubt that Elif would be waiting for her husband to return. Looking up once more, she smiled slightly upon seeing Osman’s disappointed expression. He loved her. He was hers. Najla knew this now more certainly than she knew most anything, and it was a struggle to keep her excitement hidden as she felt his hands disobey her before she spoke once more, interrupting their path.
<“Will you come visit me tonight?”>
<“I-”> Osman paused, looking past the trees that blocked them and to where the lights glittered in the courtyard, the pulsing of the music becoming more apparent now that their embrace had been broken. <“Najla, I don’t know.”> Elif was likely waiting for him to return so that she could retire to her chambers, but Najla’s sense of victory could not be broken by this. With a grin, she began to walk away, knowing Osman would exit the gardens some minutes after her.
<“Whatever you decide, I’ll be waiting for you.”>
He came to her that night. He came to her the next night as well, and likely would have come the night after if she had not asked him to stop. It would get too suspicious. Instead, he came to her with business during the day, and this time, she would not need to pretend it was real to keep him there. They continued like this for some time, sneaking as they had before Najla ever left, and the longer they managed to keep it a secret, the more Najla understood why Osman would always return to her over Elif. She was a sweet girl, who was thrilled to have a husband in such a high position, and did everything she could to keep him happy. Najla wanted nothing from Osman beyond his affections, and had made it clear just how far she’d go to keep them. And for some time, Najla was satisfied with this knowledge.
While it seemed as if both Najla and Osman would have been satisfied with their relationship continuing in the shadows of the Sultan’s court, it could not last. Soon, Najla would get word from one of the midwives at the court that Elif had come to them when she thought she was pregnant, hoping to get a confirmation before telling her husband. Osman would not hear this news from Elif, who would wait only to find out it was not true, but from Najla, who worried as to what it meant for them. Osman simply offered her the same solution he had before, one Najla had hesitated at when she believed she could have him without it. Yet now that there was a chance Elif could be placed above her, Najla was willing. She’d have the match recommended to her uncle somehow, and accept a place as a second wife to a man she loved.
It was no disgrace among the Sawarim to be the second or third wife of any man, especially among the Sultan’s court, but it was not the match Najla had dreamed of. She had initially refused Osman’s suggestions for many reasons, the foremost being that she would be a remarkable political asset to her family, especially with her newfound reputation, and it would be a waste to hand her off as a second wife to someone who could offer nothing more to the Sultan in return for a new wife. It seemed to her that pursuing this marriage would mean that she was not serving her family and the Sawarim as best as she could, but the realization that she’d lose Osman, and that this ‘service’ meant she’d rot in some caliph’s tent for the rest of her days, meant that Najla finally had enough reasons to pursue such a selfish endeavor.
It was for Osman that Najla piled together a small escort to visit her cousin. Tahir’s estate was not too far from the palace, and so she traveled with only a few guards to ensure her safety. Upon her arrival, she’d be greeted at the entrance by Tahir. Najla dismounted, allowing a slave to take her horse, and embraced Tahir, kissing him on the cheek softly before she released him. For a moment, they exchanged their pleasantries, their delight at seeing each other once more, before Tahir would escort her into his estate.
<“I think the last time you came to visit was just before your capture, wasn’t it?”>
Najla nodded at that, smiling slightly as she recalled the visit. Tahir was a son of the Sultan, one of many and with no way to reach the throne, but his princely status meant they had been raised within the same walls. Though he was at least ten years older than Najla, they grew close quickly when she began to expand her network, and Tahir had seen a potential in her, and quickly became key in fueling her influence. The Sultan placed a great deal of trust in him, as did Najla, and thus he had been one of the few who knew why she had entered Broacien at all. The last time she had visited him had been just before she was to be sent out, and Tahir had tried to soothe her nerves, telling her that all she did was in the name of the Sawarim, and whether she would succeed or fail, she’d be blessed in the eyes of God and the Sultan. His words had strengthened her then, and pushed her to carry out her task without indulging doubts, but they had brought little comfort in her time at Barren Flats. Regardless, Najla had survived without such comfort, and if it had not been for the memory of her brother, she was certain her time there would have become a bare memory.
<“You’ve only ever come to me when you need something.”>
Najla laughed at that, still walking alongside Tahir as they moved across the halls. <“Why do I need to visit, when you come to the palace so frequently?”>
<“I thought you’d come more frequently ever since father gave me the Servant, you aren’t curious as to how your former master fares?”>
Najla wasn’t curious. In fact, she had known that she’d likely see Ketill again upon her visit here, and it had been a deterrent more than anything. It had taken some time, but Najla was gaining back all that she had lost, and more, and felt as if her life could finally continue. Ketill was a reminder of a time when all that had been taken from her. She had given him his life, and though Tahir admitted he had been a difficult slave to handle, Najla assumed he was being treated fairly regardless. She had asked for mercy after all, and had done all that she could to make sure it was given to him, and as such, Najla cared little as to the rest of Ketill’s fate.
Still, it seemed she’d see it regardless. Tahir guided her through the halls and she followed him through a door to the courtyard, as he explained quickly that he’d assigned Ketill here today. For a moment, Najla wanted to ask him to wait, at least until she’d shaken off the dust of travel, but it seemed Tahir thought she’d be eager to gloat, and pulled her along into the courtyard, where she halted.
At first, Najla couldn’t understand what she was seeing, though Tahir’s words had left her with a sinking feeling as to who it was. She could only see a body under three others, desperately fighting back amidst far too many blows. However, all it took was a shout from Tahir, and the slavemaster and the guards fell back, revealing the figure in the center.
<“You shouldn’t have seen this Najla-”>
Tahir continued to apologize formally, as if Najla hadn’t seen worse, followed with an explanation as to how unruly the Servant could be. Najla did not hear him. She could only see the figure of a man she had once feared, which had been beaten into something near unrecognizable. It was not as if the tattoos on his forehead had changed, or that his chest had not been covered with scars before, but he was no longer a figure that would intimidate her. Not that he was suddenly weaker than her, not even in this condition, but he looked like a shadow of the man she had met. Whatever mercy Najla had called for, it had not been this.
She stared upon him in horror for the briefest of moments, but perhaps that expression would be wiped from her face by the time Ketill would look up to see her. Najla could not have imagined what had happened to him in the year that he had been year, but whatever it was, she knew she had sentenced him to it, thinking it would be a mercy. It made her uneasy to consider it, and that sensation would settle into a pit at her stomach.
<“It’s quite alright Tahir.”> It seemed Najla had recovered from her surprise some, and dragged her gaze back up to her cousin. Reaching out, she took his arm, a signal that she was done here. She would not spare Ketill another gaze just yet, but she would not forget his face now. <“I have no desire to speak to the Servant, only you. Come, we have much to discuss.”>
After she was given a chance to change after her journey, Najla joined her cousin and his first wife, as well as her nieces and nephews, where she spoke to them as if Ketill’s image had fled her memory. Yet even as she leaned back among the cushions, holding her young niece as the girl tried to peel some fruit, Najla had not forgotten. She felt slightly foolish for believing that Ketill would be treated mercifully, though Najla wondered just how much of it was his fault. Tahir had spoken of how difficult Ketill was to control (only to her, for he wished to save face in front of visitors), which was hardly surprising to Najla. She had seen it for herself, after all.
But to set three men on one? And for what purpose? He was weak, clearly underfed, it was simply excessive. Perhaps his mouth had gotten him into trouble after all, but Najla did not want to imagine what worse could have happened to him. She would ask Tahir later, when his children and wife were no longer among them, but not here. They spoke of pleasantries here, and it was only after dinner that Tahir and Najla opted to speak privately once more. There, Najla told him first of her plans with Osman, immediately preparing to soften his doubts.
<“Najla- Is this truly what you want? What of your other suitors, you do know we can arrange far better matches for you?”>
<“Yes, you’ll use my story to impress some irritating warlord and you’ll remove a nasty thorn in your side while I rot in his tent.”>
<“Are you angry with me?”>
<“Not with you cousin, but I’m no fool, I know this is what happens. I would do it if you asked, Tahir. I’m just asking you not to.”>
<“Najla, I’m not going to force you to do anything you don’t want to. It’s not a bad match- He is an advisor to the Sultan after all, it’s not as if you’re asking to marry a slaver. But to be his second wife? Would you be happy?”>
<“Why Tahir, is Aisha miserable?”> Najla spoke this with a smile, making it clear to Tahir that she was not trying to be harsh. While some of her anger had been difficult to control before, she was asking him for a favor, and remembered that rather swiftly. <“I love him, Tahir. Just as Aisha loves you. Please, at least consider it.”>
He would consider it, and Najla and Tahir would continue to speak for some time. The conversation did not remain quite as heavy as when it started, for Tahir soon brought out all the luxuries that occupied the time of the Sultan’s court, and Najla indulged with her cousin. They drank wine that had been gifted from one tribe, and smoked charas from another, and as Tahir had shed his doubts rather early, they found they had plenty of time for lighter talk, until Najla found an opportunity to ask for yet another favor.
<“I suppose I should set about getting you a wedding gift then. You’ve never been shy about what you want, why not just tell me? If I got you a new horse, would you visit more?”>
Najla laughed at that, shaking her head. <“Cousin, after you have done me such a favor, I doubt I shall ever leave your house again.”> She took a brief pause then, before meeting Tahir’s gaze. While her state of mind was definitely hazy, Najla had thought about this since she had seen his face, and knew full well what she was asking. <“But if you must, why don’t you give me the Servant?”>
<“You want him?”>
Najla shrugged at that. They would speak on the matter for some time after, but Najla was quickly surprised to see how easily Tahir would be convinced. She had thought that he’d want to keep a prized slave, but apparently the thought of presenting her with a newly tamed Servant before the court was a tantalizing notion for him. He spoke to her thoroughly of how unruly the Servant was, worried for her safety apparently, but Najla assured him that Ketill was mostly intended as a boost to her reputation, and that she would not be in danger. Najla would never chastise Tahir for his mistreatment of Ketill, though the notion had never left her mind. It would be of little help if she did so, yet Najla felt as if her promise of mercy had been broken by another, and it was not a pleasant notion.
Finally, Tahir would agree. While Najla was surprised at how quickly he had warmed up to the idea, the surprise faded whenever he asked for something in return. All she had to do was recommend to her father that one of Tahir’s brother-in-law’s be moved up the ranks of the guard a little faster. It was a matter that the Sultan could have handled easily, but Tahir would not be able to ask his father for such a proposition. Her father was typically a man beyond corruption, which Najla had always found amusing given how his daughter had turned out, but she knew that Harith would be able to persuade her father, and that she’d be able to persuade Harith. Without hesitation, she agreed, and in the span of one night, she’d taken control of Ketill’s life once more.
She would see him again the next morning. After taking breakfast with Tahir and his family, Tahir would escort her to the slave quarters, where Ketill was being kept. Najla was relieved to see that his decision had held up in his sobriety as well, though this relief would not last. She knew she was upset at Tahir for how he had treated Ketill during his time here, and what her cousin had told her the night before had been enough to make her want to make sure her promise was being fulfilled. Still, Najla had been doing a good job of keeping her emotions in line. Within one night, she’d gotten Tahir to promise to recommend the match to his father, and been granted her former master back to her. It seemed to her that Tahir would not mind so long as she kept up that Tahir was the one who’d broken a Servant, and Najla had no intentions of claiming otherwise.
The consequences of her actions had not been lost on her, but Najla knew she was willing to endure them. Her uncle would be easily sated, for he’d believe that Tahir had tamed him. Her family would not care too much, but Najla had not considered what Osman would think. It hardly mattered, it wasn’t as if she was about to change her mind yet. Najla only knew that she had asked for the mercy he gave her, and that promise had been broken by her dearest cousin.
When they approached, Najla asked her cousin for a moment alone, though the slavemasters and guards who were already there would remain. It wasn’t as if they’d be able to understand a word she said regardless. As Tahir allowed them a small moment, Najla eyed Ketill up and down briefly. She knew she was likely one of the last people he’d want to see, and probably blamed her for the state of his life as of now, but Najla intended to carry out her promise.
“This is not the mercy I wanted for you.” After a year, it was the closest she’d ever spoken to an apology, and perhaps would be the closest she ever got. Her accent was far thicker, and though she still used the words formally, it was obvious that she had not found much use for the Broacien tongue in the year she'd been apart from Ketill.
Najla was quiet for a moment then, likely to give Ketill time to reply. It wasn’t as if he had much of a choice now, for she was offering him no bargain. No matter what his response, or his actions, he’d be brought back to the palace with her as an early engagement present. Her quick explanation was the only warning he’d receive, much as it had been when she was first offered to Ketill.
“I asked for your life a year ago, but it has just now been granted to me. These will be your last few days here. Since you are mine now, I want you to recover from your injuries, so you will be given no duties just yet- I don't know what I’m going to do with you, but I have no interest in causing you harm.” Najla found herself smiling slightly, with little humor in her expression. Ketill would likely grow even more upset at the circumstances of how she came to get ahold of him, as his ‘rescue’ would come from her happiness. “You are an early wedding gift, after all.”
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Dion JIHAD CHIQUE ® / NOT THE SHIT, DEFINITELY A FART
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3 days ago
“You fucking rat, I’ll fu- AGH.” Ketill’s words were echoed out by the shouts of the three men beating up on him. He didn’t stand a chance in all honesty, barely being able to defend himself against the slave master, let alone the guards that had ran in to help him. The kicks in his side meant that he couldn’t even lift his hands to punch back or try to wrestle with the man on top of him. The continuous beating in his face was enough to make him spit blood, and slowly his sight became hazy. The beating seemed to last forever, but ultimately was cut short. The shout of a familiar voice stopped the men, and they quickly got off of Ketill, leaving him in the sand covered tiling of the courtyard.
He laid there, momentarily, looking up at the sky. He waited. One second… two seconds… three seconds… the men did not return, and he was not spoken to. The only sounds he heard were the faint talking in the distance – a female voice speaking to a male. Tahir and… someone.
He rolled over onto his stomach and placed down his hands onto the tiles, stumbling to get up, but not quite managing. As his attempt to get up failed, he merely looked up at Tahir, only to see who had accompanied him. It explained so much – no, everything. The reason he was beaten had to be to show her just how subservient he had become. So that she could sate herself – her own lust for his blood. But not take the blame for it, nor the moral questioning inside her own head.
The thoughts filled his head and he began trying to get up again, stumbling at first before finally managing to do so. The dust from the tiles kicked up as he did, and even more so when he set his first steps towards her. He had barely taken his second step before she had walked away with Tahir, seemingly not interested in Ketill at all. As would befit you, Sultana, Ketill thought to himself, stopping in his tracks there. There was no reason nor rationale behind chasing her into the home. What would he do there – draw a blade and stab her? No, that would be too easy. It’d be too simple to think he could do that.
As she left, he simply stood there momentarily, before letting himself fall backwards, barely catching himself with his hands, though it offered him no more comfort. His back hit the ground hard and he only just managed to stop his head from hitting the tiles. And so he laid there, watching the burning sky for some time before his eyes closed. Not out of free will, nor because he was tired – because his wounds had made him weary, rather.
Over the course of the day he was dragged back to the slave quarters by the slavemasters, who found him to be a nuisance more than anything at that point. He slept until next morning, his face beginning to get swollen and the new cuts and bruises on his sides clearly being visible on his bare chest.
When she entered the quarters, she’d find that the masters had awakened Ketill earlier, who was now sitting in the corner against the wall – a similar posture he had had in the cell, but yet different. No longer with that brazen look in his eyes, the one that spelled he’d get back at Najla no matter what the cost. This look was renewed – revengeful for certain, but no longer yearning for death. He’d long surpassed that feeling of wanting to die. For the moment, he felt like an empty shell that lived day to day, not quite knowing what he did every day.
He remembered building a palace with other workers, and being whipped every day. But he only remembered because the scars on his back had healed poorly and he could feel them when he tried to sleep. If it were not for that, he’d have forgotten that too.
But Najla’s face he could not forget, so when she stood there with Tahir first, and then alone with only the guards, he slowly got up. Seeing her face gave him that strength. It took him some willpower not to charge forwards like a wild beast, to rip her throat out.
The guards were far too close for that – her sole protection. Coincidentally, it also made sure that they thought he was tamed. In retrospect, perhaps they had merely taught him how to pretend he was tamed. But he no longer believed in the Monarch – the one thing that gave him some respect for his enemies. He was a heathen again, true to himself and his heritage. The Gods above did not speak of respect for your enemies, only to kill them, after all. So he only had to pretend to be tamed, make them feel comfortable in their fake feelings of being safe within their own homes. Then he would take the chance, one day, and burn down the estate, slit their throats in their sleep.
His rather vengeful thoughts were interrupted by Najla, who spoke of mercy. He spat at the ground when she spoke of that. ‘Mercy’. He was certain she did not understand the kind of ‘mercy’ she had given him.
“You were too scared to swing the sword, or to whip me for a year. Your brother would have done it, I am sure. You – no, not you. Instead, you surrendered me to this ‘Tahir’. You knew full well he was a brute, that he would beat me for days on end. But this way the decision and the actions were out of your hands – no need to blame yourself now, is there?”
She paid little mind to his words it seemed as she continued to speak to him, explaining what is what. She said she had no interest in causing him harm – as if she had not done that already. Her next words however, betrayed what was going to happen. Harmless to her, surely. To Ketill it only served to further his desire for revenge – he was not in his right mind, to be having these thoughts, but they were there none the less. His next words would thus surely surprise Najla.
“I see. That you may have many children then, o Sultana…”
That I may hold them down and slit their throats while you watch, he added in his mind. He spoke his wishes for her with a smile, though not one out of kindness or happiness. Or, perhaps not happiness or kindness meant for her, more so for himself.
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Dion JIHAD CHIQUE ® / NOT THE SHIT, DEFINITELY A FART
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3 days ago
Najla would not defend herself against the accusations Ketill put forward. Perhaps he would see her surprise when he mentioned how Tahir beat him for days, but besides this, Najla gave no indication that she had been unaware of her cousin’s nature. Even if his opinion had mattered to her, Ketill would not think better of her for it, this she knew. He had disliked her the moment she had first been given to him, for little reason besides the God she worshipped. She had given him many more reasons since then, which was precisely why his next words were received with a confused frown. She folded her arms across her chest, studying the smile on his face, as if trying to determine if he was mocking her.
He had to be mocking her. Had he been another man, Najla might have assumed that he was simply grateful to be free of this estate, but she knew him and that cursed smile all too well. The last time she had seen it, he had been willing to throw away his life for her pain, and Najla was not convinced that a year had lessened that desire. Still, there was little she could do for it. Whether it was due to pity or a broken promise, she had made Ketill hers. She would not renege on her promise of mercy for a perceived slight, and so she felt her arms unfold and her frown lighten somewhat.
“May God will it as you do.”
The phrase was spoken almost thoughtlessly, a formal acceptance of his wishes that she would have to recite many times over after this day. The more sincere well-wishers would see this spoken with a smile, gracious nods of the head, or gratitude, but she would offer none to Ketill. There was simply nothing else to offer him. Instead, she would give him his first command, and nothing more, before turning to leave.
“Rest. We’ll leave once you’ve healed.”
Perhaps she had found herself eager to leave Tahir’s estate, or perhaps it was meant as an incentive for Ketill to keep quiet for as long as he could. They would not beat him unnecessarily now, but her name could not keep him safe from everything, especially not himself. Najla turned then, rejoining her cousin where he had been waiting for her, the confusion entirely lifted off her expression once she had reached him. She took Tahir’s arm again, forcing a smile onto her face as she did so.
<“Could you spare someone to look at his wounds? I’m afraid if I return him like this, he’ll frighten all the children in the capital.”>
<“I would, but I have few here. They refuse to touch him, and I would order none to betray their God by aiding an infidel.”>
Yet he would look upon their beating with pride? Is our God not the mercy of all mankind, even if Ketill seems more beast than man?
Najla would not speak her concerns, and her growing distaste for her cousins actions would not be noticeable to him as they left Ketill alone once more, but these concerns remained. Tahir had always preached service to the Sawarim, and while Najla had always shared his distaste for those that did not serve her God, she could not see the service he sought in beating slaves. She knew it was considered a service to capture and convert the infidels, but would that not be better reached through other, gentler, means? Would it not be a greater disservice to act in this service cruelly and thoughtlessly, which drove one even further from the will of God? That was an answer she’d have to seek in temples, pouring over holy writings, and speaking to those who devoted their lives to preaching their understandings of Gods words. Whether Tahir had unknowingly betrayed his God, she would not yet, if ever, know. However, Najla had called for the same mercy she had received, and by refusing to deliver her promise, Tahir had knowingly betrayed her.
<“Then a salve at least. None need to aid him, but allow him the means to do it himself.”>
Her voice was slightly softer here, for a part of her knew Tahir was lying. Even if he had far fewer healers on his estate than in the palace, he had wives and children, and thus midwives available. Najla could picture no woman willing to deliver a child but too afraid to touch a Servant’s chest. Tahir only knew that the Servant would heal regardless, and likely did not care to ensure his recovery was pleasant or swift, and now Najla knew he was willing to lie to her to ensure that it wasn’t. <“I will order them myself, if you would not. I’m simply worried my wedding gift will not make it to the wedding itself.”>
<“No, that is reasonable, I will have them find him a salve of sorts. After all, if he were to die, I would have to be the one to buy you another gift.”>
Najla laughed at that, gripping her cousin’s arm tighter as they continued to walk through the halls together. It would be easier to ignore his actions when Ketill was not around to remind her of them, and she hoped that one day it might be forgotten altogether. Her next words were the lightest she had spoken since she had seen Ketill again, clearly joking and spoken with a grin on her lips. <“Of course cousin, I know your pockets could not take such a strain.”>
It would only be a few days before Najla left Tahir’s estate, her old company of guards and a new slave in tow. The way she treated Ketill would be rather telling, for Najla had not visited him again in her time at Tahir’s estate, relying on the words of the slavemasters to determine when they could leave. She would hardly look upon Ketill when they travelled, let alone speak to him. It would seem that she was preoccupied with other matters, excited by the thought of her coming wedding, but above all, Najla worried she was bringing a violent slave to the court. She was already disobeying her Sultan, and if Ketill was to prove that she had been wrong to do so, she’d have no choice but to end his life, or send him back to her cousin.
Her mind was preoccupied with this notion even as they returned to the palace, and Najla allowed the palace servants to handle Ketill, as she immediately set about arranging a meeting with her uncle. This would be nothing like their previous encounters regarding Ketill, for none of the court would be sitting around, to be impressed by their display of control over the Servant’s fate. This would be behind closed doors, only a few family and advisors present, as Najla would try to convince her uncle that she did not disobey him.
This proved to be a far more pressing matter for Najla than Ketill’s adjustment into the palace, and so he would be turned over to the palace servants to be settled in. She’d given them orders to make him presentable enough to work in the Sultan’s palace, and so he’d be fed, allowed to clean himself, and given a new set of clothes, similar to what the house slaves wore, though he was clearly not intended to become one. In fact, Najla had not bothered to give Ketill a task at all, leaving it to be decided by those that controlled the palace slaves. They would likely use him as a labor force, the blacksmiths within the palace could surely use his help, but it was unlikely they’d allow Ketill near there. Najla had assumed he’d be put to work in the gardens, where he would not be hidden from palace guests, but so long as he wasn’t being beaten, she did not care where he worked. If his treatment upon his arrival was meant to be any indication of his future at the palace, it would certainly be easier, and rather free of Najla’s presence. He would be denied no necessity, and as he was a Sultana’s property now, none would lay a hand on him, at least not without reason.
She would call upon him the second day after their arrival, when her uncle had read his sons letter, and set aside time to meet with her regarding its contents. Ketill would be escorted to her room by a palace servant, only for the pair to be joined by a guard by the entrance to the wing. Whether this had been at Najla’s command or an unspoken precaution was unclear, but all three would be allowed in after Najla’s voice answered the servants knock with a quick command. Ketill had been paraded around some of the most splendid sights of the palace, and while his first glimpse of Najla’s true life at court would certainly not be comparable, it was still full of comforts most never dreamed of leaving. Her room was situated in a wing meant for the Sultan’s family, and though Najla lived closeby to the male members of her family, her living quarters were only surrounded by other unmarried women, namely her cousins and younger sister. Though not a stated law, men were typically only allowed here if they were family, or by invitation, and Najla could only hope that Ketill’s presence would not make her family uncomfortable. Even if it did, she doubted any would speak on it, for most of the women were far worse at hiding their personal affairs than Najla had been.
Najla’s room would look similar to many of her families, far too large for a single person, with large arched windows thrown open to the view of a lush courtyard a floor below. Her room was colored in warm reds, browns, and golds, and meticulously kept, though clearly not by Najla’s doing, all but for her desk. That was strewn with papers Najla did not deem important enough to hide, candles ready to be burnt, and books she’d searched through once and thrown aside. She kept a few religious works in her room, all hidden away on shelves but for a small gilded book of complied teachings of the Sawarim beside her bed, a gift from her brother Jalil years before. It was a far cry from the illiterate slave she’d been for so long, though Najla seemed quite at home as she sat behind her desk, thumbing through the pages of some randomly retrieved work aimlessly. It was obvious she wasn’t reading it, but she was too anxious to sit still and needed something to occupy her hands, if not her thoughts.
When Ketill entered, Najla would dismiss the servant with a quick word, though the guard would remain, before looking back up at Ketill. The servant seemed worried to leave Ketill here, likely believing he’d be the one to blame if Ketill slit her throat, but Najla did not share his fear. At least, not with the guard present.
“You look better.” She commented, closing the book softly in her hands. Najla stood as she spoke, for they would not linger in her room. She was not dressed as finely as she had been to meet the Sultan the last time she had asked for Ketill’s life, and the only gold on her body was that thin circlet that wrapped around her head. “If you feel that your wounds still ache, you may see a healer. The servants have been instructed to deny you nothing within reason.” At least, if I haven’t brought you here to die. Najla paused speaking just long enough to move out from behind her desk, but resumed as she walked slowly towards Ketill.
“I hope you’re not going to see the Sultan today, but I am bringing you regardless, so as not to make my uncle wait if he desires to see you. If he does, kneel.” She stopped at this, looking up at Ketill as she did. Though her words were a command, she did not speak it harshly, but as if she was offering him advice. Indeed, it would have been obvious advice to any other man, but not this one. “Don’t try to get your revenge by humiliating me. If you do, I will return here, and sleep as easily as if you had never lived. You will die.” Najla continued to speak as she walked past him then, swinging the door to her room open as she finished her words, clearly intending for Ketill to follow.
“I may be the only person in Al-Tirazi who does not want that for you, despite whatever you may believe. You do not have to pretend you are loyal to me, just do not act without sense.” With that, Najla walked out of her bedroom and down the hallway, Ketill and the guard in tow.
She would lead Ketill to the Sultan’s private council chambers, only to leave him standing outside with the guards. Still, Najla would have preferred to come alone, and it was alone that she entered the council chambers, to see her uncle, father, and brother Harith around a table with several of the Sultan’s advisors. Osman was notably absent from this session, as Najla’s family wished to speak to her regarding the match before they could offer it. If Tahir had suggested her marriage be used for some noticeable political advantage, she would not be granted such a courtesy but expected to agree without question. Perhaps she would have, yet Najla found herself grateful that she’d never need to know.
The large wooden doors of the chambers shut behind her, and Najla bowed her head to those seated at the table. Depending on their family names, the men either stood or bowed their heads towards her, but her uncle remained motionless, staring at her from his seat at the head of the table, though he did offer her a smile. She could see a letter in his hand, the same she had watched Tahir sign at his estate, and as she sat down to the left of her brother Harith, her uncle’s smile gave her some sense of relief.
<“So you know of Tahir’s proposal?”>
<“Yes, Great Sultan. He discussed it with me upon my visit, to make sure I held no concerns.”>
<“Do you?”>
<“No, none. He is a good man, and has served you well, Sultan. I will be able to remain with my family, and raise my sons alongside those of my cousins and brothers. I could ask for nothing else from a match.”>
They would discuss it further, but only briefly. Najla’s own input mattered little now, she knew that since Tahir had recommended it, the Sultan’s counselors had already discussed the matter, and were likely in favor of it. Perhaps the few lower-born advisors hoped that by granting Osman a Sultana, they’d be offered the same in turn. Najla knew that Osman had been prepared to be called by the Sultan today, and so they had likely decided that this match should occur, even without her input, but Najla did not care. She was getting what she wanted regardless, her perceived powerlessness in the situation was of little concern to her.
The discussion quickly turned to the celebrations. While Osman would still need to complete the more formal proposal, which simply meant she’d sit around while he presented gift after gift to her parents, they were already moving on to the thought of a large engagement party. After all, the Sultan’s niece and brother-in-law were to be married, and they would need to match the celebrations to their stature. It was during this discussion that the Sultan would send a slave to fetch Osman. Najla had assumed this meant the discussions would be nearly over, but it seemed her cousin had left something for her to clarify.
<“Tahir wrote here that he has already given you your gift so-”> The Sultan smiled slightly at this, clearly amused by his sons words as he reread them <“so that you cannot lie to claim another. What is this gift he has given you?”>
Najla paused for a moment, glancing around the table of advisors before she gathered the words to reply. She had been hoping Tahir would have explained his gift in greater detail, but it seemed he had been rather focused on the marriage itself. Now, she’d have to be the one to do it.
<“The same you granted him a year ago, uncle, and only under the condition of your approval.”>
Their discussion had been light before, but the tension around the table grew at her words, though none spoke. The advisors eyed each other nervously, and though Najla did not look up at her brother, she could feel his body tense beside her. Instead, her eyes were firmly on her uncle, who glanced over at her father before speaking, his words harsher than all those he had spoken before.
<“You asked once Najla, and I refused for the sake of your safety. Does my son wish to cause you harm by offering you the Servant again, or were my words unwise?”>
<“Neither, Sultan. You were correct to refuse me his life then, just as you were right to grant it to Tahir. He was a brute, he still is, but now he is a tamed beast. Your son took a Servant and gifted me a slave.”>
<“Upon my approval.”>
<“Yes uncle, only upon your approval.”>
<“Why do you want him, Najla?”> The question came from her father, his tone softer than his brothers, though just as confused. He seemed to speak almost entirely out of worry for her well-being, rather than anger at the sense that he’d been slighted. <“What use is he to you?”>
<“I admit, he is of little use to me, but to the Sawarim, he means a great deal. I have contacts in the Redsand I owe entirely to the reputation Ketill’s presence has brought. Now that Tahir has tamed him, he is of no threat to me or the Sultanate, and I want our people to see that.”>
Their discussion of the Servant would have been completed far sooner if it hadn’t been for the Sultan’s advisors. While her father and brother had eased up to the idea, especially after her uncle had been convinced that it was never intended as disobedience from his niece or son, some of the advisors continually spouted doubts. They would not relent until Najla grew tired of their carefully spoken words and boringly cautious doubts, and asked if they doubted their Princes word or his inability to best a Servant. Faced with the notion that they were insulting their Prince, their objections were quickly hushed, and they would find few more as the discussion continued.
As their talk stretched on, it seemed Ketill was to be left to wait, accompanied only by the guards that waited by the doorways, their eyes trained cautiously on him. There were many present in this hallway, as was to be expected when the Sultan sat behind the doorway, but it still seemed that Ketill’s presence made them uneasy. None would speak to him even if they could, their talk remained among themselves. It came in hushed whispers or louder words to some of the slaves or servants that passed by, until the longer silence was finally broken by the sound of footsteps from down the hall, followed by a figure approaching. He was dressed finely in a dark tunic and turban, not as splendidly as those of the Sultan’s family, but it was clear from his appearance and walk that he was ranked far higher than most of the others that had scurried through the hall while Ketill waited. Once he caught sight of Ketill, the figure halted some ways before him, a deep frown appearing on his face even as he spoke to one of the guards.
<“They have not finished speaking?”>
<“No, my lord. I believe they will call you in when they have finished.”>
<“And the dog?”> Osman gestured at Ketill, to which the guard only glanced at the Servant before turning his gaze back to Osman.
<“It came with Sultana Najla. She has asked him to wait here.”>
At this, Osman nodded in thanks and walked away from the guard, his eyes firmly on Ketill. It was no surprise to him that Ketill had been brought to the court, for Najla had mentioned the wedding gift to Osman when she notified him of Tahir’s approval. She knew her lover well, and did not wish to anger him by keeping a secret from him. However, it seemed that while he had been easily sated, or at least distracted, with the prospect of their marriage when they spoke before, Osman would not try to hide his hatred of the situation, and the Servant, now.
“You are grateful, Servant?”
His voice was low, his eyes burning as his gaze bore into Ketills. His accent was far thicker than Najla’s, for whatever he had learned of Ketill’s tongue had been through his own efforts in the court, without the aid of tutors or a year in captivity.
“At my home, we skin beasts, not tame.” He stepped forward as he continued to speak, stopping before Ketill as he spoke his next sentence. Osman’s hand rested on the hilt of the curved sword at his hip, one he had used for little other than decoration since his arrival in Al-Tirazi. “And we do not enslave rapists, not until we make eunuchs.”
“You are grateful then, that you are in Najla’s home so she can forbid it? I do not know why she has, or why she disobeyed the Sultan to bring you back here. Tell me. Did you bargain with her? Did you cast a sorcerer’s trick?” Osman’s eyes glinted, and he smiled cruelly at Ketill before speaking his next words, clearly amused by the thought. “Did you beg, Servant?”
The large doors of the council chamber would swing open, only to reveal a far smaller figure between them. Those within the chamber had not asked to see the newly ‘tamed’ Ketill, for Najla had not mentioned he was waiting just behind the doors, and they would be eager to finish their business. Najla was grateful for this, but above that, she had been granted her husband. When Najla exited alone, this notion kept a wide, careless smile on her face, one that would quickly drop to a frown as a guard shut the door behind her and she looked up to see her betrothed standing before the Servant. Before she could get close enough to hear their words, Osman would have turned to see who exited, and upon catching sight of Najla, his frown only deepened. He turned away from the Servant then, closing the distance between Najla and him in a few angry strides. Osman stopped before her, leaning down and speaking in an angered whisper, just hushed enough so neither the guards nor Ketill could hear his words.
<“Did you leave me to wait beside the Servant so that I would feel like a dog waiting for its mistress as well?”>
<“No.”> Najla crossed her arms across her chest, not even sparing a glance at Ketill as she locked her gaze onto that of her lovers, unflinching though she could see the rage that had built up in his gaze. <“I left the Servant here to wait. You were called upon by the Sultan himself, to be granted a Sultana, but you were early. Are those comparable?”>
<“Najla, do not think that I-”> <”Enough, please.”>
Her words were spoken through clenched teeth, interrupting his swiftly. Though Osman seemed angered by the interruption, at her plea he straightened up, looking down at his betrothed without another word. Najla took a breath then, finally breaking the tension by reaching out to take his hand. She did not seem to care that her back was to the guards at the door, that the others only had to turn their heads to see, or that her family could open those doors behind her at any moment. Her gaze did not leave Osman’s as she raised his hand to her lips, kissing his fingers softly.
<“You know I would never insult you. You will be my husband soon, I hold no one higher.”> Najla clasped his hand tightly to her chest for a moment, hoping to ease his anger, before she lowered his hand and released it. <“I would have given all that I have for this. We have a future together, finally. All you have to do is say yes and all that I am will be yours.”>
Though angry, Osman was not a fool. He was being promised a Sultana now, even if he did not love her, Osman would never allow his anger to cloud his judgement today. He had always been an ambitious man, Najla knew this well, for it was a fact that had only ever brought him closer to her. His anger would surface one more tonight, but Najla believed that in private he would be easily convinced to forget whatever slight he felt he’d faced. She watched calmly as he finally drew his gaze from her, glancing at the doors behind her.
<“Later, then. I should not keep the Sultan waiting. Sultana.”> At her title, he bowed his head to her, but Najla would not have a chance to react before he headed past her, pausing just enough to allow the guards to open the door for him to move through. Najla would not see this, for she had already turned back, motioning for Ketill to follow her as she moved through the hallway again. Najla had seen enough of her new slave for the day it seemed, and was eager to send him off under the watchful eye of the palace servants again. It would be obvious by her attitude that she believed Ketill to be the sole cause of Osman’s anger, and her words would confirm this instantly.
“Why is it so hard for you to stay quiet? What did you say to him?”
It would only be a couple of weeks before Osman and Najla were officially betrothed. For that to happen, Osman had to formally propose before her parents and other members of her family. In Sawarim tradition, he'd offer a series of gifts to her family, and it would be Najla’s father, not her, who agreed to the match. All the while, Najla sat between her sisters and was forced to listen their cursed teasing, thanking God for the thick veil that hid her childish giggles. Her family had questioned why she did not bring Ketill to this ceremony, but Najla left him to sleep that night, insisting she did not have a use for him. Indeed, all those present were family, either hers or Osman’s, for his family had left for the capital immediately after receiving the news. There was no one to impress with his presence, but above all, Najla did not trust placing Ketill and Osman so close together.
She could not keep them apart forever, as she knew that Ketill would have to be present at the engagement celebrations the following day. Najla had seen him sparingly during the two weeks leading up to the party. She would not call on him for her own use, for she had no such use for Ketill, not while she was busy planning her engagement. Otherwise, Najla did make sure to check in a few times, though she was far more distracted as her engagement drew nearer. The visits were brief, conducted whenever she had a moment in the day, regardless of what Ketill would be doing at the moment. She would always ask what he felt he needed, though she would not listen to his answer but rather studied his body to see whether there was any new damage. It seemed she would trust nothing but her own eyes regarding Ketill’s treatment. In this way, perhaps his greatest help to her had been to soothe her conscious, though that was not worth much to her, not even enough for the trouble he had already caused her. Still, this would be the greatest kindness Najla would show him, though it rarely amounted to more than a few minutes of her time.
She would not see him the day of the engagement, but allow the servants to relay that he’d be expected at the celebrations. The reason for his presence would be easy to understand, he was meant to stand below the Sultana and her family, and thus act as little but a trophy. His presence was merely for the Sawarim to gawk at, at least when they were not gaping at the splendor of the Sultan’s court.
The Sultan would give them much to gape at. They held the celebrations in the center courtyard as always, where the harsh desert wind was blocked off by decorated white walls. Inside, the gardens had been threaded with lights, and slaves had released candles into the pools and fountains as well, so that all of the courtyard would be illuminated until dawn. Guests were plentiful throughout the extensive length of the grounds, reclining on couches and cushions, all dressed in the finest their means would allow. However, most chose to gather in the front of the courtyard, below where the guests were separated from the Sultan and his family by large tiled stairs that led to the balconies above the courtyard. It was hardly a true barrier, for well-wishers were allowed to climb the stairs without being hassled by the guards, just as drunken princes and princesses scurried down to join the guests when they pleased. Regardless, it provided a clear sense of image to their guests, especially when the Sultan’s children inevitably got drunk and emptied their purses on the crowd below them.
Before this night, Osman would have to climb this divide to join Najla, but tonight they were presented to the crowd from the high reaches of the balconies. Though the pair had been officially betrothed upon her father’s approval, a priest still burned a mixture of herbs above their head before the crowd, blessing the pair with a prayer before it could be announced. The smoke cleared, but the announcement itself was drowned out by the ululations of the crowd below. The Sawarim released this noise in celebrations, funerals, and before charging into battle, so that it would likely be a familiar, if unpleasant sound to Ketill. The trill quivering howl rang up to the balcony she stood on, so that Najla herself could not hear the priest’s words among the noise. It did not matter to her, and she was laughing even as Osman offered her his hand. She took it for the first time as his betrothed, allowing him to lead her before the Sultan.
They were meant to receive his blessing, only to have their status made strikingly clear as the couple greeted their families. Before the Sultan, Osman fell to one knee, lifting the hem of his robe and bringing it to his forehead as was custom. Najla would lean down to kiss his rings again, but even this would last briefly before the Sultan gripped her shoulder and kissed her forehead before releasing her. They greeted their new in laws immediately afterwards, and Osman would kneel before her father as well, even as Najla stopped Osman’s mother from bowing before her son could see. It took some time to move through the cluster of wellwishers on the balcony, but Najla’s smile would never fade during this time, not even when she greeted Elif, who stood beside Osman’s family, waiting to give her blessing.
Some three years younger than Najla, Elif was the daughter of a minor sheikh Osman had been sent to negotiate with, who had only been thrilled to send his daughter out of the desert and into a life filled with such luxuries. Najla watched this kind-featured tribal girl bow before her, before embracing her and kissing her cheek gently. Although, custom normally dictated deference to the first wife, deference to the Sultan and Sawarim was all Elif had ever been taught and Najla would not tell her otherwise. Even if she had not allowed her to bow, their appearance left no opportunity for confusion; while Elif’s only jewelry were those gifted to her by Osman, besides a thick ring forced through her nose, Najla was dripping in gold.
Thin gold bands circled her wrists, neck and ankles, some with various jewels set in them, others with inscriptions, and some plain. Now that she no longer wore a veil, even Najla’s hair had thin golden chains braided into it and was allowed to fall past her shoulders. Her dress had been dyed a deep crimson, quite similar to the color Servants bore, but even this had been embroidered intricately with gold. Only her fingers were free of any tangle of gold, and that had only been to show off ink the color of rust, drawn in delicate patterns across her skin. When they would finally be able to sit with her family and eat, Najla would keep Osman’s hand grasped tightly in hers, uncaring as to the effort and time spent drawing the ink onto her skin, and would only release him to accept her favorite luxuries.
At least they were meant to be luxuries, but in the Sultan’s court, they were passed about on trays as the food was. Slaves darted between the cushions with small pots of various substances laid across their trays, filling guest’s pipes at any request. Still more slaves held pitchers, darting to keep cups full of wine or a cloudy-looking alcohol Najla had not seen outside the Sultanate borders. There was a reason for that, for the bitter drink was derived of a desert plant and seemed to coat the tongue in a rather unpleasant manner. Najla had never enjoyed the drink, but its popularity with the tribes of the Sultanate ensured that she would take a few cups with Osman’s family. Najla spent the first part of the night on the balcony with her family, accepting blessings and gifts from any that climbed the large white stairs to greet her. However, it would only be a few drinks before Najla was eager to join the fray below her. It would take little more than a word before Osman took her hand and the two rushed down the stairs.
Musicians had been placed across the courtyard, even atop balconies, so that music filtered throughout the courtyard from every direction. Though dancers, contortionists, and other entertainment were always present throughout the celebrations, Najla had seen their acts before, and would not care to look. Instead, she found herself hidden among the center of a crowd with Osman, dancing to the beating of the darbouka above. Though engaged, custom would not allow them to touch more than hands while dancing, but they had not been following custom for some years now. They would press against each other in brief moments, and Najla could feel how he wanted to reach out and grab her gyrating hips when the beat forced them apart once more. In her haze, Najla could not recall how long they had been dancing, but Osman finally led her out of the crowd, and Najla took a goblet of wine off a slave’s tray even as he spoke to her.
<“I should speak to Elif. I have not spoken to her since her blessing, I’m-”>
Najla raised her hand, pausing just long enough to finish swallowing her wine before she resumed speaking. <“I understand, my love, no need. So long as you return to me tonight.”> Her eyes scanned the crowd, finally resting on where Ketill was to be stationed, or rather displayed, that night. He’d be placed under the Sultan, watched over by guards just beside the white tiled stairs, where the Sultan’s guests could see all they wanted of the Servant from a safe distance. Najla dragged her gaze back up to Osman, for even through the haze of intoxication, the notion that her lover was joining his wife seemed enough to dampen their engagement. Still, she smiled up at him kindly, apparently not worried by such a notion. <“Go, before she realizes how much time you’ve spent with me tonight.”>
Osman left her then, and Najla would not look upon Ketill again until far later. Her night was a blur, surrounded by a steady stream of wellwishers and family and an endless supply of anything she needed to intoxicate herself with. In the midst of this hazy happiness, Najla would see Osman standing on the balcony above the Servant, and watched as he threw a full purse down below. It landed between a group of lovely girls brought from the Sultan’s harem, both Sawarim and Broacien, though Osman’s taunting would be in his native tongue.
<“50 gold pieces to whoever makes the Servant break his vows!”> His call was answered by raucous laughter from the balcony above, and Najla could even hear her brother among the voices. A stream of gold pieces would follow this laughter, as would jeers. Even in her drunkenness, Najla realized that she knew of no vow that kept Servants from women, but would not correct him. Instead, she would try to forget the incident and Ketill altogether, and returned to her room as the break of morning threatened to creep closer. Osman put his young wife to bed and followed soon after, his hands full with a pitcher of wine and a pipe.
Osman had given orders to bring Ketill to Najla’s room as soon as the celebrations were over, and so it would not be until most of the Sultan’s family had returned to their rooms before Ketill would be allowed to leave the courtyard. Instead of finally allowing him to sleep, he would be led to Najla’s room without warning or explanation. As Ketill had likely seen Najla’s giddy intoxication, being led to her room at such an hour would certainly give cause for suspicion. It would not be aided when the guard was allowed in, for Osman and Najla were tangled together on her bed, laying back as they passed a pipe between them. Their nonchalance made it clear that, for whatever reason, they were certain this guard was not a man who spilled their secrets.
Osman was leaning on his side across Najla’s bed, but when Ketill was brought in, Osman moved to stand. His hand had been resting on Najla’s bare leg, and she felt his fingers brush against her as his warmth left her. She would only prop herself up enough to see Ketill when she felt Osman’s weight lift off the bed. He was bare-chested, his body stripped of any adornments, and though his chest did not bear the sheer number of scars Ketill’s did, he did sport a few small ones, remnants of his time defending his home from raiders years ago. Najla however, remained reclined on the bed. She had stripped the gold from her wrists and ankles, and they lay in a careless heap atop her fine clothes, which had been left on the floor before her bed. Now, all she wore was a short-cut white dress, so sheer it hid little of her figure underneath. The gold chains remained in her hair still, and Najla toyed with one of these as she lifted the pipe to her mouth, inhaling deeply, her eyes never straying from Ketill. Osman took a few steps towards him, then turned back to Najla, the cruel smile returning to his face.
<“You brought the Sultan back a true beast, does that make you proud?”>
Najla released a thick puff of smoke, finally tearing her gaze off of Ketill and onto Osman. She hazily recalled a mention that he wanted to bring the Servant to her room during the celebrations, and she had not questioned him as to the purpose then, nor when he repeated this desire in her room. Najla knew he was likely going to taunt Ketill some more before he was sated, and only hoped he would be done soon. She did not like seeing the Servant as it was, bringing him in to be taunted was a strain on her conscience that she did not wish to understand. Najla would not fight with Osman on this however, for she did not care enough about Ketill’s emotions to upset her betrothed on the night of their engagement.
<“Should it? I didn’t capture him.”>
<“Well clearly, look how fucking massive he is. He scared mother when she saw him. She even thinks he is cursed, because of his eyes.”>
Najla smiled slightly at that, sitting up on the bed as she spoke. <“She has never seen eyes like his? There were many like him in the north. I do not believe they are cursed, but perhaps your mother is right.”> She held the pipe out to Osman, only to set it down beside her gilded holy book when he refused, replacing it with a cup of wine instead. Osman began to step forward, and Najla reclined back onto the cushions, not bothering to cover herself. Her thoughts on the situation would be difficult to read, likely due to the mist of intoxication that had settled on her expression, and she would only watch as he circled Ketill, sizing up the Servant.
<“Worthless. See what he’s good for when he’s not killing our people? He’s a rat, a stupid, savage beast. His life wasn’t worth saving.”>
<“I don’t doubt it, but it was mine to save.”> Najla spoke softly before she took a sip of her wine, studying Ketill from her rather comfortable position. She was not enjoying Osman’s antics, as she had known that placing them so close together was bound to cause an issue. Her previous efforts did not seem to matter, for Osman was obviously intent on creating a problem regardless. Najla would not focus her attention on him, but instead upon Ketill, as she tried to read his expression. He had to know he was being taunted, there was simply no other reason to be brought here, but she was curious to know what he understood. Soon, Najla found herself grateful that Ketill had not learned their tongue.
<“Fuck his life and fuck the dog-raped cunt that birthed him.”> He spat his words out as he felt his anger grow, a process Najla watched with a growing sense of dread. <“Dirty fucking savage.”>
She could see Osman bristling now, and as she watched his fists clench, she interrupted him from the bed, her voice soft despite the situation.
<“Osman, come-”>
Osman stopped just before Ketill, leaving Najla to watch his back while his glare focused on the Servant. <“In a moment.”>
OP
Dion JIHAD CHIQUE ® / NOT THE SHIT, DEFINITELY A FART
Member
Seen
3 days ago
Ketill did not reply to her words after she spoke them – he found little use in it, and besides, she ‘’agreed’’ with him. Even though she had not been genuine, he knew that if he continued the argument, he’d be seen as the person that wanted to argue. As much as he wanted to tell her what he really thought, how much he wished her dead, how he’d like to rip her stomach open and trail her entrails from one end of the palace to the other – he did not tell her that. While the ‘old’ Ketill might have done such a thing in much more knight-fitting words, the new Ketill realized his position. He’d become more sharp, using his experiences with the slavemasters as a whetting stone to sharpen himself upon. His body was weak, surely, but his mind was that much stronger. It had to be.
He was left alone once she left – only some midwives showed up, talking among themselves in their language. They mentioned nothing he could understand except the word ‘dog’ which he had heard a few times too many in his brief stay in the Sultanate. Other favorite swearwords he had heard were mostly related to animals, as it seemed that the Sawarim did not particularly like most animals. The midwives pushed some salve towards him, and then left immediately.
He did not touch the salve.
The Gods’ wills would help him.
During whatever days he spent in the estate of this Tahir, he was left alone. Occasionally he would be fed, which was a welcome change at least, but besides that, nothing really changed. Despite that this change of master would appear to be a positive thing, Ketill himself was not convinced. He would rather spend whatever was left of his days in a quick manner, finding his death soon at the hands of these brutal slavemasters. Instead, he would be left a real slave, a man with no shred of own determination, instead bowing to every will and whim of the same woman he once protected from death. … he’d be dead, before that. The Gods would will that, too.
They left not too long after that, seemingly headed for the palace. While they moved, Ketill’s eyes bore into the back of Najla’s head, his mind occupying him with creative ways in which he would end her life now. A recurring theme in this was the regret he felt for defending her in Redsand, in the Coedwin castle.
When they arrived, he was taken away rapidly, and immediately sent to the entry hall for new slaves. He was measured, top to toe. They took most of his sizes, chest, legs, length and width, everything, and then put him in a bath. It smelled okay – not as glamorous as the baths of the Sultan and his relatives, but better than no bath at all. Which was something he had had to deal with ever since their expedition began. The other slaves, whom were most likely considered very trustworthy, and were therefore designated as the managers of the other slaves, bathed him rapidly. He was given barely a minute to soak before he had to get out and was given new clothes. They looked nice, perhaps. Useless splendour for people that did not require it, Ketill found himself thinking, but he had little input in the matter.
As it was yet early in the morning, closing in on the afternoon, he was brought to the gardens for work. Here he joined a group of some four other slaves, who were busy pulling and cutting weeds from the garden and from between the tiles. He was handed a small knife, too dull to cut with, and was made to kneel and spend the entire day in the burning head, doing useless labour. It was made worse upon the realization that the weeds would likely have grown back next week, and he’d most likely be made to repeat the process then.
The very next day already, he was called to Najla’s room, escorted there by a servant. He was taken through the largest and most gold-decorated halls of the palace. How the Sawarim had managed to get all this fine ore out of the ground remained a mystery, and Ketill mused that perhaps they had a set of mines far away, in the stone-heavy areas of the desert.
In these two days, he had cleared up immensely. He had been fed properly and while his body still looked malnourished, you could already see the effects a gentler treatment was having on him. His cheeks were no longer fallen in, his eyes were clear, and they had even made sure to trim his beard and hair while he was bathing.
He looked like he fit in – if he had been granted an olive skin at birth rather than his pale Northern appearance, he’d be a Sawarim, that much he could be sure of. Instead, his tall stature, blue eyes and skin color merely made him stand out in this golden hall. But this love of gold, of splendour and wealth, it’d be their ultimate downfall, Ketill knew. It had to be.
When he was brought before Najla, now accompanied by a guard instead, he did not bow or kneel. She would forgive him – he knew that, because she had taken him as her slave, knowing that he was not a meek sheep that would follow orders like a timid child. He was more akin to a trapped bear – prod him with a stick and he would not be ‘tamed.’ He was merely biding his time. He expected Najla knew this, too. “You look better too,” he replied. It would sound strange, as Najla had not looked ‘bad’ in years now. She had spent her time here clad in gold and silk, and so it was not quite possible for her to look ‘better.’ He was referencing her time spent in rags of a slave, or the simple Broacienien dresses that didn’t equate to Sawarimic dresses. But he knew she did not remember that time – did not care to remember it.
She mentioned his wounds, and despite the fact that he hadn’t used the salve he’d been granted, nor had he ever sought aid of healers in the palace, and despite the fact that the wounds on his chest that were earned from the slavemasters were still in the process of healing rather openly, she could not see that. While she might have believed that the salve and healers had done their work, Ketill had merely offered sacrifices to his Gods, the Old Gods, in the privacy of his small quarters that he shared with other slaves. He had kept it hidden, in the dark of the night, mumbling chants to himself while he pushed meat onto the small opening in the wall that lead outside, and in return for his sacrifice, the Gods had healed him. The Gods would grant him what he needed to do what he needed to do.
“I require nothing you can offer me,” he answered. In his mind he added, ‘except for your own death.’ She continued to talk and lead him, but he did not really listen to her words. The mention of the Sultan immediately made him form plans, but none were formed well enough for him to act on them quite yet. When she arrived at her destination, Ketill was made to wait outside. He felt the awkward stares of the guard that would disappear whenever he looked back at the man.
While he had been beaten and cussed out before, he had also earned a reputation for fighting back – even being as bold as to talk back to the Sultan. Most guards knew better than to target him by now. No, instead he was seen as little more than a chained beast. By everyone.
Bar that one person – the fool that would later prod him with sticks time and time again. He approached down the hallway and his eyes immediately were trained on Ketill, who did not look back but instead busied himself with looking at the other people around him. This man was Osman, who would later reveal himself to Ketill as Najla’s new husband. For now, however, he was unaware of the man’s position, and did not think to connect Najla’s visit to the Sultan with his arrival quite yet.
Thus, when the man spoke to the guard, and mentioned the word ‘dog,’ Ketill did not feel pressured to defend himself. He had learned to pick his battles, and had learned long ago that fighting against everyone that called him a dog was a war he’d never finish. The rest of the conversation between the guard and Osman was unclear to Ketill. His lack of being called anything other than swearwords meant he did not quite grasp the meaning of most Sawarim words.
But Osman meant to correct that, to make clear just what he thought of the Servant. When he stepped closer he asked if the Servant was grateful, and while Ketill did not think of himself as a Servant in any form or capacity of that word much longer due to his change of faith, he knew that the Sawarim did think of him like that. He remained quiet, however. Even the mention of skinning beasts did not cause Ketill to do much other than to look up at Osman with his cold eyes, wondering just what kind of idiocy this man could spew.
The mention of rape however, caused Ketill to smile. It was not a smile filled with humour – or rather, not the funny kind. Rather, it was filled with venom – the kind of smile that betrayed that Ketill would be prepared to slit this man’s throat in his sleep if need be. He waited for the man to finish his little ‘speech’ before retorting. “In my countries we do not marry off princesses if they have been raped or otherwise dirtied. If I am a rapist, then that means that whoever is getting to marry your prized Sultana is getting a beggars left-overs. I feel bad for him, this dishonour he’s been set up with.” He turned his head slightly, looking back at the door, hearing footsteps approach. Before the door opened he looked back at Osman, turning his head sideways a bit like a dog does at times. “I did not beg, no. She requested my presence. Perhaps it was not rape after all, and she wishes to see me again at night.”
Of course there had never been a rape, but Osman would not know that, as he had just insinuated that Ketill was a rapist after all. But had Ketill known that Osman was her betrothed-to-be, he might have held his tongue. Regardless, when Ketill finished speaking, the doors swung open, and Osman was not given a chance to retort. Perhaps for the best – Ketill’s words would have been enough to cause any man to slit Ketill’s throat. When Osman approached Najla, Ketill followed him with his eyes, and watched as the two engaged in their conversation. Their interactions made it quite clear that the two were lovers and, in fact, that Osman was her betrothed. While any man in Ketill’s position would’ve feared Osman’s retaliation for his words…
Ketill merely laughed, loudly, until the guard pushed him in his back to force him to shut up. It seemed like Ketill was rather amused to have insulted Osman to his face, as this amount of joy had not been seen in Ketill for many years. When Osman left to speak to the Sultan, Najla took Ketill with her again and asked about what Ketill had done to anger Osman. Ketill did not defend himself, even if Osman had been the one that sought out the argument. “He told me I was a rapist. I told him that that meant whoever got to marry you was buying used goods.”
The night of the party, Ketill was prepared by other slaves. He was dressed differently – he was not given a tunic or shirt, and instead was sent out bare chested. Apparently this was to show off his stature, to make the ‘taming’ of this beast even more impressive. Over the time spent in the palace, he had gotten back much of his physique and had become quite hulking again. He was even given a set of two bracelets made of gold, with golden chains running between them. He was given a set of silk pants and shoes with long, pointy ends. It looked ridiculous, but expensive and extravagant, which seemed to be the recurring theme in the party of that night.
He had been bathed again and his hair and beard trimmed once more. He could not tell the time from inside but he felt like he had spent two hours, maybe more, just getting dressed for the party. When he was finally brought out, he was brought in through the stream of guests that had arrived early, and put down beneath the balcony of the Sultan’s seating, and that of his family. When he was put down below the balcony, he was made aware promptly that there were guards on each side of him, preventing him from doing much other than stand there and ‘engage’ with whomever decided to stand close to the brute and mock him.
But not many people dared stand that close to this ‘Broacien dog’ and most opted to look at him from a distance, gawking at his stature, size and scars, as well as look at the three dots. Most people would then immediately forget about him and return to conversing with the other guests. Perhaps this was a boring way to spend time, but Ketill imagined it was better than sitting in the heat in Tahir’s estate, being beaten for no reason. Time passed and more people dared to get closer to him once they realized he was not dangerous purely by distance. The two guards standing next to him perhaps also added feelings of safety.
Most noticeable were the harem girls, however, who seemed not to care too much. They might have assumed that Ketill was a man, Monarchist or not, and they knew better than anyone that men were weak-willed when it came to beautiful women. They came quite close, and seemed to amuse themselves by looking at him and talking about him. The few that were from Broacien made a point out of it to talk about him in his own language, seemingly trying to see if he’d reciprocate their talk. But he didn’t – not yet.
After a while, they got bored, and when the time came for Najla and Osman to be blessed, they left the area and made place for more important people. It was then that they began making their god-awful sounds, that Ketill likened only to a battle. His fists trembled as he closed his eyes, and began seeing a desert in front of him.
It reminded him of the first battle he ever fought against the Sawarim. He had been sent out on patrol with four other Servants, four veterans that were meant to take him as a recruit and teach him a few things. They had expected to go over some basics – finding water, dealing with Sawarim villages, and finding your way back through the desert. Instead, they had gotten trapped in a sandstorm, and throughout the storm they heard the Sawarim scouts shouting these very same sounds, sounds that he couldn’t even place in his mind as having any meaning at all. During the storm they were attacked and, from seemingly nowhere, arrows came flying at them. One by one his companions fell and it was only when the sandstorm died down that the last remaining Servant grabbed Ketill by the shoulder and dragged him out of there that they did escape. Three of them died that day.
For a moment he felt like he was going to pass out but then they stopped, and instead he heard the talks return. He slowly opened his eyes and found himself staring into the same room he had just been standing in too – not a sand storm, not with the blood of dead comrades on his hand. Instead, he was still a slave. He did not see anything that was going on above him near the Sultan, but he was made aware of the exotic drinks and drugs when the harem girls returned. They talked among themselves for a while, holding cups in their hands. Continuously they pointed at him and talked, until one of them worked up the courage to go talk to the man that they had dubbed ‘Bear of Broacien.’ A fitting name perhaps, and a name that he only knew he’d been given because the woman that approached him was from Broacien herself – had it been in Sawarim, he would not have understood that name.
“Here, this is for you, from me and the girls, oh Bear of Broacien,” she said, batting her eyes at him seductively while handing off a cup with a grey swirling drink inside. Ketill thought about it for a moment and his pride demanded he did not take it, but he quickly realized that if he didn’t take any of the drink or food he was offered, he’d likely go to bed parched and dead from hunger and thirst. He grabbed the cup, nodding at the woman as a form of thanks, before raising the cup to his mouth and taking a sip.
Without realizing it, the eyes of the court were upon him, and when he drank down a whole sip of the drink, the whole court seemingly gasped. It wasn’t until he tasted the foul drink that he reacted, looking down and spitting out the drink onto the floor. An insult in any other scenario, but it seemed like the court could see the humour of it, and had entirely expected him to dislike the drink. The harem girl covered her mouth as she laughed, taking back the cup quickly and walking back to her group of harem friends, her hips shaking left to right and back out of habit, perhaps intended to seduce Ketill, but he was not paying attention anymore. Ketill continued to spit out whatever was left of the drink, but the taste remained and would likely remain the rest of the night.
The harem girls continued to hang around him, though did not engage with him anymore besides the obvious glares and words they spoke about him. It was quite some time before someone else approached him, or rather.. a group of people. Some of the nobles had taken an interest in him, and three men and two women approached then. One of the men wore ceremonial weaponry, the others wearing only a gold-clad dagger on one hip. The women were dressed in finery, though not as fine as Najla or anyone of her stature.
<“Tell me, guard, have you fought his kind before?”> one of them asked one of the guards at his side, while the others admired his stature. The guard nodded, indicating that he had indeed fought Broacieniens.
<“He’s massive, not like our soldiers. Are they all like this?”>
<“The Servants at Coedwin, yes. The regular Broacieniens, no.”>
<“I see, I see. I take it that they are good fighters, then?”>
<“The Servants, yes. They understand warfare. Worthy enemies of the Sultan.”>
<“Infidel, none the less.”>
<“Yes, sir,”> the guard answered. He wouldn’t wish to infer that he had any compassion for the Servants.
By now, the women had started prodding at Ketill’s body, before one of them dared turn to the guard to ask for a favour. <“Show us how strong he is, please.”>
The guard complied without a counterword, turning himself towards Ketill and attempting to push him off his spot. Ketill moved slightly, changing his foot position slightly, but ultimately remaining more or less where he was. He didn’t understand what was going on, but the women seemed amused, clapping softly and talking among themselves, giggling happily. The men stroked their beard while looking at him, enthralled by the fact that a man could be so strong as to withstand a Sawarim royal guard so easily. The one with the weaponry turned around and called for a slave, and then reached for some food and a glass of wine.
<“For the slave,”> he said when he handed it off to the guard on the other side, who promptly handed it to Ketill. <“Tell him we are pleased.”>
The guard handed Ketill the food and the cup of wine and let him know that the guests were pleased with whatever they had wanted out of the Servant. Ketill was confused and offered a slight nod, before he ate and drank quickly. When he was done, the nobles walked off and when he followed them with his eyes, he noticed Najla dancing with Osman, her betrothed. Well, he thought, at least someone is having fun.
He watched them for some time before Osman spoke to Najla and disappeared, walking up the stairs to his side. Najla remained. Ketill watched her closely, following her movements. What moron married a woman and then left her alone the night of the betrothal? Najla seemed very out of it, too, and Ketill had no doubt in his mind that it was from the alcohol and other dubious substances they took here. While she walked to and fro, he could not help but feel pity for her, though it was clearly misplaced.
Not a second later, gold coins rained down around him. The harem girls immediately jumped on them, picking them up, and when Osman informed them of the chance to earn more, they jumped on that chance too, immediately circling around Ketill. He ignored them. Instead, he searched the crowd again, looking for Najla. When he found her, he stared her directly in the eyes as she seemed to look at him being swarmed by the girls. Perhaps she would feel his anger then, though undoubtedly she had felt it before and had not cared then. But it was all Ketill could do.
After countless hours the party had died out and most people had returned to their rooms. Finally, Ketill was guided out of the room by guards, who lead him through the courtyard through the countless halls. At first he seemed to be getting brought back to the slaves quarters, but after a right where they should’ve taken a left, he was faced with the fact that they were bringing him to Najla’s quarters. Why? She hadn’t showed interest in him before.
Above that, she was drunk and clearly intoxicated. What could she want out of him at this hour? To explain to him how useless he was, or something of that calibre? But when he was brought in he quickly realized the truth, when he saw Osman there. It was undoubtedly the case that he had called him in here, or made Najla do that.
For a moment Ketill’s eyes crossed Najla, scanning her body involuntarily. She was barely clothed, and he did not have a hard time making out what she looked like underneath what little she wore. When Osman approached his eyes peeled off of the woman for which he held such contempt, and instead he looked at the man that hated him for no reason at all. He stood there as Osman drew closer, before he walked around him, clearly taunting him.
It was not hard to see that Najla was still intoxicated as she blew the smoke from the pipe. The regular sharpness in her eyes and body were gone, replaced by complacent laziness. Osman was much the same, though instead of complacent laziness, he had found idiotic and misplaced bravery. Something that was perhaps much more dangerous.
Ketill understood little of what the man said – he lacked the courage to speak in Ketill’s own language now it seemed, though he had done so earlier. This indicated to Ketill that he was scared where as in reality, it was probably more so the case that he was merely trying to impress Najla, or take out his anger. The first word that caught his attention was ‘rat’ and though he felt himself angry at the mans audacity, he did not reacted, only turning his cheek to the man, looking to the right so as to not have to look this ugly runt in the face. The man continued his rant, and again Ketill understood merely one word. ‘Dog.’ Again he didn’t react, letting Najla attempt to soothe her husband to be.
When Ketill looked however, the man was balling his fists and his face was turning red with anger. It was quite clear why Ketill was called in here – a repeat of what Tahir had done to him, except this time seemingly Najla had wanted to see for herself. Well, she’d see just what would happen. When Osman replied to his betrothed, Ketill reacted even swifter and caught him mid-sentence, his fist catching Osman right in the jaw. The man stumbled backwards and nearly fell over, but before he could even get that far Ketill had swung at him again, this time hitting him straight in the eye, which was sure to leave a blue spot.
Ketill was about to lunge forwards and reach for Osman’s blade when the guard jumped in and grabbed Ketill’s neck and forcibly pulled him back, then grabbed his arm with one hand and holding him close in a locked grip. Osman was laying on the ground now, breathing heavily, though Ketill was unsure if the man was still conscious or not. His eyes were closed, but perhaps he was just catching his breath. <“Sultana, what do you want me to do?”> the guard asked, but before she would be able to reply, Ketill spoke up.
“This is why you called me? To beat me? Had Tahir not done a good enough job? You’re marrying a coward. If he comes close to me again, I promise you, I will jam whatever knife I can find so far up his crotch that you will never bear his children.”
OP
Dion JIHAD CHIQUE ® / NOT THE SHIT, DEFINITELY A FART
Member
Seen
3 days ago
Najla watched the scene unfold before her as if in a dream. She did not hear the swings, nor Osman falling, all Najla heard was the deafening pounding of her own heart. Perhaps it was lucky that she was intoxicated, for she did not scream, not even as Ketill nearly reached her betrothed’s sword. It was only when the guard pulled Ketill back that the reality of the situation finally pierced through her haze, and Najla rushed off the bed. She stood quickly, intending to set the wine back on the table, but in her haste it would miss and clang to the floor. The stench of wine began to fill the room even as Najla rushed to Osman’s side. The guard would yank Ketill back, farther away from the Sultana even as she kneeled down beside Osman.
Both Ketill’s words and those of her guard rang distantly, nearly silent behind the heavy breathing of her lover. She rested one hand on Osman’s chest, as if comforting herself with the fact that it still moved, before turning to look up at Ketill. As she did, whatever fear was in her expression slowly faded, leaving it clear that it had not been meant for Ketill. For her slave, she held only anger and would spit this out harshly, even as she stroked her lover’s cheek gently.
“You fucking savage! What have you done?!”
She looked down at Osman again, stroking the hair out of his face as gently as she could. There was nothing she could do to help him, but worry would not allow her to leave his side. She considered calling for a healer, but a glance back up at Ketill and the guard was enough to allow Najla to realize it would be a bad idea. Right now, only the people in this room knew what had happened. She could allow the guard to drag Ketill to the dungeons, tell the world of what happened here, and Ketill would be punished heavily. It would not be too difficult to lie, to claim that Ketill and Osman met in a hallway, rather than her room, and perhaps she would be rid of a madman.
It seemed the easiest solution now, but even through the mist of drugs, drink, and worry, Najla knew better. She had vouched for the Servant. She had been the one to claim that he was tamed, that Tahir had done his job, she had even gone so far as to bring him to court before seeking the Sultan’s approval. It would be her name that suffered when they found out his crimes. Even worse, Osman was no royal. He was betrothed to a Sultana, but she would have to be the one to call for his death. Najla could not do so, not after she had given it to him before, though whether her conscious or court politics forbade her from this was unclear even to her. She sincerely doubted he’d die during any other punishment she could give, no matter how harsh it was. Letting this incident grow would be a mistake, Najla had realized this within moments, for while Ketill seemed beyond her control, Osman was not.
“Senseless ass, you think you’ll get anything better than a beating now? I could have stopped a beating, not this!”
Najla did not look at Ketill as she spoke these words, for her gaze and touch were still upon her lover. Though her touch was gentle, her words and expression remained harsh when she finally looked back up at Ketill. She spoke through clenched teeth, and though her eyes were dulled and red, there was nothing but fury behind them.
“You are the only reason you’re here. I did not want you here. You told a man that you raped his betrothed, did you expect he would congratulate you? And to claim I wanted you again? He should have taken your useless cock for that insult, just like I should rip out your ugly barbarian tongue for lying.”
She looked down at Osman for a brief moment, satisfied that his breathing was steadying, before looking up at the guard. In her anger, she had ignored his question, but Najla wanted Ketill out of her sight. She had wanted to spend her engagement night with her betrothed and watch Osman sneak off as the sun rose, but now she would be praying he was not unconscious, at least not long enough to get them caught. Despite her threats, her command insinuated that Ketill’s fate would not be quite so harsh, though he would not understand just yet.
<“Take him to the dungeons. Do not speak a word of this to anyone. If they should ask, tell them that I have ordered it, nothing more.”>
Najla could see the guard’s surprise, and had expected this, but Najla knew he would follow her orders. He was a man loyal to her, who not only respected her father immensely, but had learned that Najla was generous with those who kept her secrets. Careful not to jostle Osman, she reached towards where her dress lay on the floor, snatching two golden bracelets out of the fold. One was plain, while another held a detailed inscription, likely a blessing or protection of sorts, though Najla had never read it. While one hand returned to stroke Osman’s hair softly, she held the bracelets tightly in the other, resting them against her lover’s chest.
<“For your silence. Go now, and return quickly.”>
She would need help lifting Osman into the bed, and had no intentions of leaving him on the floor the night of their engagement. Najla could not tell if he was unconscious, but she knew that when he rose, regardless of how many minutes had passed, he would be furious. Perhaps the drink would take his memory, but Najla did not dare to ask from such a far-fetched blessing from her God, especially not when it was partially to save the skin of a Servant. Though Osman’s temper would cause her grief later, the way Najla touched him now left no question as to how deeply she cared for him. To many men, that might have meant a worse punishment, but Najla knew her pain was likely causing Ketill some happiness.
<“Should I return with a salve, Sultana?”>
Though Najla did not look up at the guard when she answered, his words caused her to reach out and pluck yet another bracelet from the pile. Something would have to be given to Osman in order to ease his wounds, but in her worry and anger, Najla had forgotten. It seemed that the guard would be rewarded for her forgetfulness, though Najla felt she would have thrown all her gold at him simply to get Ketill out before Osman rose.
<“Yes, discreetly. Now go, I can’t stand to see his face any longer.”>
Even as the guard was dragging him out, Najla leaned down, resting her lips on Osman’s forehead for a moment. She would not look back on Ketill again as the guard began to pull him out, but her anger would fade as soon as she looked upon Osman again, replaced only by worry. Even her voice grew softer, though she did not doubt that they’d be able to hear still, her words a mixture of chastising and soft pleading for Osman to hurry and open his eyes.
<“You foolish, proud drunk, hurry. Ya Sawarim, hurry. Please, my love.”>
Osman would wake just before the guard arrived, leaving Najla to help him sit up and return to the bed on her own. When the guard finally returned, she took the salve and passed him the gold bracelets as payment just before ordering him to return to his duties, or bed, if he had none. The interaction itself was swift and painless, but the explanation would not be, and Najla braced herself for this as she turned to Osman.
<“You intend to keep this quiet? You’re not going to punish him?”> He spat the words from the bed, and moved to stand towards her, though Najla was quick to stop him.
<“My love, sit. Don’t get angry, you need to-”>
<“You protect a savage over your husband, am I not allowed to be angry?! He struck me!”>
<“I know, Osman.”> Najla’s voice was soothing as she returned to the bed, stepping over the puddle of wine she had left to settle beside Osman again. <“I sent him to the dungeons. I intend to punish him, I do. I would never let such a slight go unanswered. But if you must speak, do so softly.”> She reached out and took his hand then, trying to calm him as always. <“You will only cause yourself pain if you yell.”>
Suddenly, she felt the warmth of his hand leave hers as Osman snatched his hand back. Still, Najla would not give up so easily, for she could see that morning was near, and she would have little time to settle this with Osman and send him back to his wife. She scooted closer to him on the bed, her eyes tracing where Ketill’s fists had landed.
<“I am thinking only of you. You know what would happen if they found you in my bed tonight.”>
<“You have been willing to risk it before.”>
Najla frowned then, and reached out to take his unbruised cheek in her hand. While her touch was soft, she would not allow Osman to pull out of her grasp this time. <“Yes, to have you, not to punish a Servant. But we cannot act in anger, not now. I do not want to tell the court of how a Monarchist knocked my husband to the ground.”>
While Najla had smiled at this, clearly not intending to insult her husband, she could sense Osman tense under her grasp. He reached up and grabbed her wrist, forcing her hand away from his cheek. He did not let go now, and continued to grip it tightly, though it was not enough to hurt her, and so Najla would not react.
<“I will tell the truth, if you wish. I will tell any truth you want me to. But you will not be able to hide that bruise, and people will ask. What would you have me tell them?”> She could feel his grip tightening, and his gaze was nothing short of furious when he looked upon her, but she would continue to speak regardless. <“I could tell them you were drunk, that you slipped-”>
<“Yes, go tell the court your betrothed is a drunken fool.”>
<“You were. I warned you.”> It was a mistake, Najla knew, and she could feel his grip crushing her wrist now. Releasing the salve, she reached her free hand towards him, digging her nails into the skin of his wrist. <“I told you what kind of beast he was-”> Her words were interrupted again when his other hand reached up to pull her hand away. Though both of her wrists were trapped in his hands now, Najla would not fight back any longer, and her words would not stop. <“He lied to you, he taunted you, all for this. Did you not hear his laughter when he first saw us? Do you think he didn’t want this? I want him punished for this, not you.”>
<“I will not allow you to tell the court I am a worthless drunk. Not for a dog.”>
The weight of his hands on her wrists was unrelenting, and though Najla let out a small whimper, he would not release her. She had always been able to convince Osman before, despite his temper, and it worried her that she could not do so now. Had his pride been wounded so deeply? Najla could see that it had, though she knew it was not the blows that had done so. Whatever Ketill had said to him before had nestled in Osman’s mind.
<“Osman, the Sultan will take him, he will return him to Tahir, after all I have said to bring him here. After all that Tahir has done for us, you would-?”>
<“Enough. You think I don’t know you better than that? You’ll keep talking until I can no longer remember wanting anything else. The dog will be punished for what he has done, and I will not be made the fool to see it happen.”>
<“Fine.”> When Najla finally yielded, so did Osman. The tight grip of his hands eased at this, though Najla was not worried about the marks it was sure to leave behind. She was thinking only of the situation before her. When his grip had eased enough, Najla was quick to slip her hands out of his grasp, though she felt as if she could still feel their grip, and picked up the salve she had dropped. With an aggressive motion, she thrust it at Osman, pushing herself off the bed and out of his reach. <“I told you, I’d tell whatever truth you wanted. Tell them he attacked you in the halls, that you fought the savage off valiantly, I don’t care. But you will not sully my reputation before the Sultan, for both of our sakes.”>
<“Then what are you suggesting?”> Osman had pushed himself to sit on the edge of the bed, suddenly far less aggressive than before. Najla wondered if it was simply because she had acquiesced to his demands, but she could see the way his eyes rested on her wrists, almost as if he was remorseful now. This would not soften her heart however, for Najla quickly walked over to where Osman had stripped his clothes off before crawling into bed with her. She picked up his tunic with a hand, and flung it at him, watching Osman catch it before it fell into the wine on the floor.
<“My uncle must know the truth, at least. I will tell him the truth, that you allowed your anger to override your judgement. And you will apologize to him.”> Osman moved to interrupt her then, but Najla would continue speaking, not allowing him to do so. <“I know how my serpent’s tongue will confuse you, so I will not convince you. You know as well as I do that the Great Sultan holds my words in high regard, even if you do not. If you allow a slave to jeopardize the Sultan’s trust in me, you will have convinced me that you are an irredeemable fool.”> Osman began to pull his tunic on as he stood. He walked towards Najla even as he did so, though she would turn her gaze away from him in anger.
<“You command me as if I am your slave. Should you not be speaking to me as gently as a wife to her husband?”> His words were slightly teasing, a notion which irritated Najla more than if had been angry with her. Crossing her arms over her chest, she turned her glare back to him, spitting out yet another command.
<“I will be too busy fixing your errors to watch my words. If you want someone to coo over your wounds, return to Elif. Go. Before she wakes, your absence will be much harder to explain than your bruises.”>
With Osman sent away, Najla fell asleep and would not rise until noon the next day. Sleeping in the stench of wine had given her a headache, as if the awful cocktail of drink and drugs had not done enough the night before. Combined with the events after her engagement, it was enough to leave Najla in an awful mood, though she would not allow herself to linger in this. Rather than head down to the luxurious baths she normally used, Najla called for a slave to draw one in her room, as well as finally clean up the mess from the night before. Thus, when she finally emerged from her room, there were no traces of the previous night in her demeanor or face, though it could not leave her thoughts.
She immediately set about meeting with her uncle, hoping that her voice would be the first he heard of the incident, but it would not be long before this hope was tainted. Apparently, Elif had awoken early to see the bruises, and Osman had told her the story of how the Servant attacked him in the hallway. It would not stay quiet for long, and Najla was nearly at the Sultan’s quarters before she was approached by one of the Sultan’s advisors, a cousin of hers, who kissed her cheek even as his slave bowed to her behind him.
<“Congratulations again on your engagement, may your union be blessed.”> Once Najla had thanked him, any joyous talk of the celebrations the night before were cut short. She could only sigh at her cousin’s words now, for she knew what they were before he could even speak them.
<“I would go visit uncle, he wants to speak with you.”>
Najla obeyed the Sultan’s wishes. She was allowed into his chambers without hassle, and was greeted with the sight of the Sultan reclining on some cushions, a couple of his wives around him. Some of his children played around him, either taunting the guards or each other. A girl about seven sat on the Sultan’s lap, but she would stand up instantly at the sight of Najla. She bowed to her uncle, and as she lifted her head, she was startled to see the young girl sprinting towards her. Najla reacted quickly, sweeping the young girl up in her arms with a grin.
<“Su’da, you frightened me!”> The young girl giggled, and Najla set her down quickly, kneeling down so she was eye level with her. <“Aren’t you supposed to be at your lessons? What are you doing here?”>
<“I was bored.”> Najla grinned even wider at the girls answer, though her eyes went to the Sultan. He motioned for her to join him, and Najla straightened, taking the young girls hand in hers. She sat facing her uncle, and moved Su’da so that the young girl was sitting in front of her. Softly, she took the girls long black hair in hers, braiding it aimlessly even as her uncle spoke to her.
<“You came quickly.”>
<“Truthfully uncle, I was heading here before your command. I wanted to be the one to tell you the truth.”>
<“I see. I heard that the Servant violently attacked your betrothed on the night of your engagement. Is this not the truth?”>
<“Yes uncle, some of it.”>
With that, Najla launched into some more of the truth. Not all of it of course, for she would not tell her uncle of how they had invited the Servant into her chambers, nor how she had begged Osman to hide this incident altogether. Instead, she told him that Osman had been drunk and let his anger get the best of him. Somehow, Najla managed to speak as if his endless harassment had only been out of devotion, both to his God and his wife-to-be, though she could not tell if her uncle believed her. They would dance around the topic of the beating itself, both well aware of the children scurrying around them, though the Sultan’s wives were trying to distract themselves from the conversation by tending to these children. Once the Sultan had been convinced that Najla truly wouldn’t be in danger, and they had discussed an appropriate punishment, Najla moved to ensure that Osman would do as she asked the night before.
<“I did not bring the Servant here to cause you trouble, uncle, and I sincerely apologize for all that he has brought with him. Osman will come to you as well, I believe, I know he regrets his actions.”>
The Sultan laughed at that, and Najla could not help but grin as well. Though they were talking of her betrothed, Najla could hardly take insult to her uncle’s laughter, for she knew he was right. He’d punish Ketill today with a few lashes, perhaps spit another insult out at him as he did, but hopefully that would be it for some time. If the bruises had not taught him otherwise, surely the ordeal of apologizing and humbling himself before the Sultan would, especially now that he’d have no choice.
<“Will you punish him today?”>
<“Yes, I am tired of dealing with the Servant so often. I wish to return to my other business as soon as I can.”>
<“You must be excited, then.”>
Najla frowned for a moment, confused, before she realized what her uncle was saying. She had meant returning to her network, to the whispers she’d been hearing from tribes across the Sultanate, and the endless fight to have a solid contact in Coedwin. Her uncle had meant the wedding. Perhaps she would have corrected him, but Najla had far too much on her mind, and besides, she was just grateful her uncle trusted her judgement on this matter.
<“Yes uncle, very. I only hope my husband will not find another black eye at the wedding”>
The Sultan smiled widely at that, raising a glass in the air as if toasting lazily to her words. <“May God will it so.”>
It would be well into the afternoon when Ketill was finally brought out of the dungeons. This would be a blessing for some time, as the heat of the day had already passed. He’d be given a large ladle of water, but no more, just enough to keep up his strength for the ordeal ahead. No one would inform him of his sentence, but as he was dragged out of the dungeons and brought to the surface, there would be no question about what was to come.
It would likely be a familiar sight to Ketill. Situated somewhere between the guards barracks and where the palace laborers slept, there was an ugly, empty patch of sand with only a few posts set up. There was no question left as to their purpose, and though they were empty now, this was not always the case. Ketill would be dragged here, his arms tied up over his head, and left to wait under the blazing sun. It would not be long however, before the guards were joined by others.
First, a small crowd of slaves had gathered, curious about what was going to happen to the Servant, but most would disperse once more important people began to gather. First came Najla, and though her father was not present, her brothers were. Harith was an imposing figure, taller than the average Sawarim, with flashing eyes, an easy smile, and a curved sword against his hip. It was not ceremonial as many others were, and his scarred figure and crooked nose left little question as to how often he used it. He came with his wife Adina upon his arm, who did not look as if she wanted to be there. Najla was escorted by her younger brother Basim, a boy just edging out of his teens. He was nowhere near as imposing as his older brother, for he had nowhere near enough muscle to fill out his lanky frame. He carried no weapons besides a ceremonial dagger, for while he struggled to follow in the footsteps of his brothers and father, Basim was not a boy who understood or took to violence.
They were followed by a few curious cousins, and finally, Osman would appear. The bruises on his face had been made far worse by the few hours that had passed. His eye was swollen and blue, his jaw now decorated with a growing green spot. It was a sight that would likely bring pleasure to Ketill, but Elif hung on his arm, watching these bruises with worried eyes. If Ketill had not understood why Najla had been left alone on the night of her engagement, Osman’s interactions with Elif would clear that up quickly. He would leave his young wife where the others stood, on a small platform that raised slightly above the sands. It was meant for the slavemasters to watch the punishments, and was too small for even this tiny portion of the royal family, but it seemed that Ketill had drawn a curious crowd. Osman and Harith walked off to speak to a couple of the guards, likely discussing the coming punishment. Meanwhile, Najla and her younger brother walked towards Ketill, ready to inform him of what was to come.
Najla walked across the sands slowly, lifting the hem of her dress so that the silk would not drag in blood-stained sands. Basim was far more eager than her to reach Ketill, and darted across the sands excitedly, nearly forgetting who he was meant to escort. Najla could only smile when he remembered and turned back, reaching his hand out to her. She took this gently, though she had to speed up her pace some to match her brothers before they reached Ketill.
<“Ya Sawarim, would you look at him? No wonder Osman looks like such shit.”>
Najla reached out and slapped her brother's arm, causing him to grab it as if she had hurt him. Still, the wonder did not die out from his expression as he turned to look back up at Ketill, and Najla did not seem angry, only amused. Still, Basim would have to learn to speak more respectfully about his brother-in-law, though Najla doubted he would ever learn to bite his tongue.
<“Hush, you’re not here to gawk. You’re not supposed to be here at all.”>
<“Yes I am, father told me to.”> He could not tear his eyes off of Ketill, looking up at him as if he’d never seen a man before. <“Does he speak our tongue? I want to ask him some questions.”>
The amusement did not die off Najla’s face at that, though likely this was because she had barely looked at Ketill, despite the fact that he was only a few feet in front of her. Still, she could see Basim edging closer, and reached out to grip his elbow, pulling him back towards her.
<“If you studied like you were supposed to, you could speak to him in his tongue. Now shut up for a minute, they’re nearly ready.”>
Basim made a face at her words, but would not approach Ketill again. He merely stood beside Najla, eyeing the Servant as she finally moved to look up at Ketill. The amusement had died off her expression quickly, for Osman would be approaching to deal out the punishment soon, and Najla did not want to be standing between him and the Servant again. It did not matter how incapacitated Ketill was, Najla still did not trust him.
“You’ve been sentenced to twenty-five lashes. Ten for each blow, five for threatening the Sultan’s advisor. It is fair, no?” She studied his reaction curiously at that, but she would not speak with him for long before Osman began walking up. When Basim turned his head to see Osman approaching, Najla glanced back as well, only to look back at Ketill and speak to him quickly before her betrothed approached. She tucked a piece of hair behind her ear as she spoke, and the thick bracelets that circled her wrist fell towards her elbow for a brief moment as she did. Thankfully, Basim could not seem to look away from Ketill, and would miss the brief, unwitting glimpse of Osman’s anger upon her wrists.
“I cannot protect you from everything, Ketill. If you cause any more trouble for me, I doubt I will be able to stop anything.”
She doubted the warning would be enough to keep him quiet, but it was partially true. She could continue to invoke her title and position for some time after this, if she wished, but Najla was running out of reasons to try. Najla took Basim’s hand then, forcing him to escort her away from Ketill before they were briefly stopped by Osman. He bowed to Najla and Basim, and from his interactions with Najla, it would seem that she held no anger towards him. He had apologized to the Sultan, though he had not wanted to. She had allowed him to punish her slave, though she had not wanted to. It would seem that this was enough, though Osman would not speak to Ketill as he passed by him, a long whip coiled in his hand.
Najla allowed Basim to lead her back to the platform again, where she stood between her brother and Elif. The sounds of a prayer would come from behind Ketill, at which those before him would bow their heads, some mumbling along, others remaining silent. Seconds of silence followed this prayer, broken by the crack of a whip against skin.
She felt her brother flinch beside her, and Najla glanced over at him, though she would look back at Ketill just in time to see the whip strike his flesh for the second time. Again, she felt Basim flinch, and Najla reached out to take his hand, whispering in his ear even as her eyes were trained on Ketill.
<“You must not react. They will notice.”> It was unclear who this ‘they’ was, but as part of the royal family, one had to assume this ‘they’ was everyone and everywhere. The crowd along the platform seemed to reflect this. Elif’s horror was apparent on her face, and even Harith’s wife Adina looked unhappy to be there, but beside them, Najla’s face was free of emotion. So was Harith’s, who had been used to this, but Basim had not yet seen his senses dulled to this violence. She felt his grip dig into her hand at another crack of the whip, but he did not flinch, and she looked up to see that his face was not reflecting his horror any longer. <“Good. It will get easier.”>
OP
Dion JIHAD CHIQUE ® / NOT THE SHIT, DEFINITELY A FART
Member
Seen
3 days ago
After the altercation, Najla spoke to him but he didn’t answer nor listen, truthfully. She spoke words that she could not possibly comprehend from his perspective, not realizing that she was only making it so that he distrusted her more. Had she not seen how Osman had curled his fists, his cocky walk around Ketill, ‘the savage’, or how he had needlessly called him in merely to insult him? Ketill did not know much about Sawarim culture, that much was true, but he knew that if the roles had been reversed, Osman would have done the same. That he saw himself invincible due to his status was not Ketill’s concern but his own.
But of course, Najla could not understand this – she too thought herself invincible due to her status, as she had said and shown multiple times before. So, Ketill merely retorted to her when she accused him of telling Osman he raped her. “No, ‘my lady’, he told me I was a rapist. A good slave does not disagree with their superior, is it not?” Besides that, not much was said, and the guard promptly took Ketill away to the dungeons. He was thrown in without much of a word, the clank of the heavy dungeon door indicating that he had been sentenced – to spend time in the dungeons until they had found a suitable punishment.
It wasn’t until some days later that they retrieved him, seemingly having found a punishment that would let Osman get some satisfaction. Two guards appeared, and together they pulled Ketill upright from his sleep and forced him through the small sidepassages of the dungeons – not giving Ketill even the pleasure of walking through the palace. Instead, he was forced to a small side door that lead more or less directly to the area where he’d be punished. Ketill was familiar with it – had been there once before when they made him pick weeds there.
Before they left the tunnels, they reached the door. There was a chair there, with a bucket of water on it. They let go of him and pointed at the water, which Ketill had learned by now meant that he was supposed to drink. Greedily he reached for the bucket, foregoing even the ladle, and pushed his entire head into the water. He knew this would anger the guards, but he was thirsty, and that was a bigger concern to him than a few angry guards that would be forceful with him regardless. While his head was underwater he drank vicariously, before he felt the rough hands of the guards on his shoulder and back, pulling him back out of the bucket. Their angry shouts would be enough to let Ketill know that they were pissed indeed, but they didn’t have much time to beat him into submission as they were expected outside. With a wide swing they swung open the door, leading into a small courtyard with a raised platform of wood, and several wooden poles sticking out of the ground.
They dragged him to one of the poles and, while one held his arms up against the pole, the other tied him tightly to it. They would then step back some distance away and talk among eachother, waiting for everyone to arrive. It took longer than expected, Ketill found, and by the time the first crowd showed up, Ketill’s hair had already dried up. Instead of water, sweat now shone on his forehead. The presence of them did not really have much impact on Ketill, and in fact he seemed to find it rather amusing that he was drawing such a crowd. Osman might’ve been of some status, but he was most certainly not the most important man of the entire sultanate. Yet, so many people came. But when Ketill saw Osman he had to try hard to contain his smile as he looked upon the bruising. He had earned every pore of those bruises. He had a hard time containing his laugh until he saw Najla, which quickly stifled any desire to smile. Now, Ketill looked more angry than anything. She had brought some runt with her – a meagre boy, not soldier material, a scholar perhaps.
The boy spoke to Najla first, and the way they interacted made it quite clear that they were related – Najla had only ever been this kind when she was with people she was related to as far as Ketill knew. While they talked, Ketill merely stared at Najla, though she was likely too preoccupied with Basim at that point. Then, she turned to him, informing him about his punishment. Twenty-five lashes, she said, which merely caused Ketill to look away from her towards Osman. “It should be more. I didn’t threaten him-” he said, and then looked back to Najla. “Threats are not intended to harm. They are warnings. I did not warn him – I intended to take his life. If I let him do what he did without repercussions, the Gods would be angry with me. Very angry.” This would be the first time he mentioned a multitude of gods, not a singular god, to Najla. Perhaps it’d give her reason to pause, but perhaps she wouldn’t notice or blame a mistake in his wording. Regardless, he merely looked at her, not giving her much else in terms of speech. The expression on his face and his eyes would give her more information than he could ever speak to her, however, and she would not have a single doubt about Ketill’s lack of care for the punishment. He had been punished with beatings almost every day when he was Tahir’s slave – this was nothing, now. Perhaps he would have found it objectionable or bothersome during his first year as a slave. But not anymore.
She spoke to him again about not being able to stop much more, but Ketill didn’t reply to anything she said, more so than taking it as a chance to speak in generalities. “You still think you’re in control?” Momentarily he looked up at the sky, where two ravens flew. They were uncommon in the desert as there was little food for them here, and their presence would most certainly be strange. Perhaps she thought nothing of it, but to Ketill it was an omen – much like a night-owl crossing your path in the day, or a wolf walking past you without seeming alerted or angry, or a bear running away from you. All these things indicated greater things to the Northerners, and to Ketill too. “But it seems greater things have been set in motion today. We will see, Saina, how much you truly control, and how much is beyond your control.”
Thinking about the omen, he began thinking about what it meant. A single raven was typically a good omen – ravens were smart creatures, gatherers of information and crafty, they were the spies of the Gods, seeing and seeking information for them and being rewarded with intelligence. So if a single raven was present, watching you or circling your position, then typically that meant that they were watching you closely. The reasons for this were plenty, but it was mostly warriors and hunters that took this as a good sign – signs that the gods wanted to see your prowess in battle and in the hunt.
But two ravens were a bad omen. An omen that spelled only death and disaster – a disaster so big that the gods required two ravens to keep an eye on things, to see all that was to be seen, and even those things that remained hidden, past the understanding of mortal men. But even then, these omens were typically meant for certain people. Ketill was not a diviner – he could not see or sense who this omen was meant for, but his precarious position meant that he would be satisfied with whomever the omen was destined for. He looked back down at Najla, a twisted grin on his face.
Even as she walked away when Osman approached, the whip coiled around his hand as he bowed to Najla and Basim, he continued to look at her, his grin making it seem as if he was insane – and perhaps he was. When Osman walked past, he looked him in the eyes too, studying the mans facial expression and his wounds. Only those paying utmost attention would notice that Ketill’s right eye twitched slightly at the sight of Osman, but once Osman had passed him and stood behind him, Ketill looked forwards again. His eyes passed over those in front of him on the platform – Harith, whom he didn’t recognize, and his wife. A myriad of others, whom he also didn’t recognize. Then, the boy that was seemingly related to Najla. Ketill stared at him momentarily, but promptly looked further. His eyes rested on Najla then, and the grin returned to his face as he saw her standing next to Elif – a second wife, thus in second place.
It was silent for a moment, not even the sound of dust and sand being swept up in this quiet corner of the courtyard. Although in reality this moment lasted mere seconds, in Ketill’s minds it lasted several minutes. He looked the spectators over a few more times, but always came back to Najla, and every time he saw her, he’d feel something burning in his chest.
The crack of the whip ultimately broke the silence. When the whip hit his skin, Ketill whinced slightly, closing his eyes but opening them immediately again. No, he thought, tolerate it. The Gods will reward you more than they already have. The whip cracked again, and when it hit him, he whinced even less than before. His lips remained straight and he refused to scream in pain, merely staring down Najla. Once again the whip cracked. And again, and again. Blood was slowly beginning to stream down his back, trickling down and dripping onto the sand. It had been so clean and yellow before, but with his blood now staining it, it turned a deep red, the color resembling that of only the most precious velvet.
It seemed that the further along the punishment they got, the harder Osman would strike, and the more rapid his strikes became too. The silence of Ketill only made it seem like he wasn’t trying hard enough, even though Osman was certainly trying harder and harder. Perhaps Ketill had gone mad, as it seemed like the pain didn’t bother him anymore. During the entirety of his punishment, he looked at the spectators – at first he’d merely looked at Najla, but soon enough his eyes had wandered as the pain dulled his senses. No scream, squirm or whine left his mouth, and although he had closed his eyes at first with every hit of the whip, by now he had blocked out the pain physically, not even reacting to it beyond the motions of his body that were beyond his control. His eyes found Elif. Perhaps she would have wished for him to feel pain so that he would show remorse. Perhaps she would’ve liked to see the regret in his eyes for what he had done to her poor husband. She would find none. Instead, she only found indifference.
When he saw Basim, he noticed that the boy was uneasy with the violence – though he did good at suppressing it well enough that anyone who was paying attention to the whipping wouldn’t see it. Perhaps the boy had found him interesting at first, it was without a doubt that he’d consider Ketill a freak of nature now. He was merely ‘Bear of Broacien’ before, a nickname given to him by harem girls that only saw his muscular stature and handsome features as well as his ‘exoticness.’ Surely, many people had thought the nickname to be more humorous. Perhaps Basim had learned, now, that there was more to it than that, even if those that called him Bear of Broacien didn’t realize it. A man that did not feel pain was not a man at all.
When the last crack of the whip came, Ketill’s back was so bloody that you could not tell skin from wound. Osman seemed unsatisfied with himself, or with Ketill, but there would be nobody that would say he didn’t get what he wanted. He walked away from the post to the wooden platform, where Elif was waiting for him. Not even a single glance was given to Ketill, and Ketill was unable to tell if this was because Osman feigned disinterest in Ketill, or because he was angry for the punishment not having the effect he wanted to. Regardless, the guards left Ketill hanging there until everyone left. It would not take long, but every minute seemed to last an hour to Ketill, whose back was beyond reparation. He’d be scarred forever – markings of not just battle but also punishment alike would litter his body.
When everyone had finally left, Ketill was slowly taken down. Even now, when nobody was watching, he didn’t allow himself to collapse. He stood hunched but, still, stood on his own feet. The guards tried to lead him to the healers, but they found that he finally collapsed after merely five steps. It seemed that even a bear that knew no pain could be overexerted.
Things would have been different if he had been able to defend himself against the strikes of the whip.
When he awoke, he awoke in a bed that wasn’t his own. The air was different, too, and smelled of incense and other smells that Ketill didn’t recognize from the slave quarters. When he slowly opened his eyes he found himself laying on his stomach, in a room that was brightly lit. He was able to look out of a nearby balcony, seeing a variety of plants. Contrary to the other plants in the palace, however, these were placed in small pots, and resembled herbs more than plants.
As he tried to move, he quickly realized where he was and why he was there. From the corner of his eyes he spotted an older man with a long beard, but before he could speak, move or do anything at all, he was forced back into the bed by the excruciating pain on his back. He didn’t have time to remind himself not to give in to the pain, and groaned loudly. This however, did alert the old man, who slowly got up and shuffled towards Ketill, speaking in Sawarimic. The gist of the message was lost on Ketill, who only shut his eyes in pain.
The old man immediately reached for a needle and some wire, but before he could continue sewing up Ketill’s back, Ketill reached out with his hand and stopped the man. “What are you…” he said, his voice dull and sleepy from the pain. The man interrupted him and began talking in Sawarimic again, but once he realized that Ketill didn’t understand a word he said, merely showed the needle and thread, and made sewing motions with it. Ketill still didn’t really understand what was going on, but decided it wasn’t worth the effort to try and figure out and simply let go of the mans hand. When the man continued again, the sharp pain of the needle puncturing his skin and sewing him back up where necessary was enough to dull the concerns about where he was and who this man was. After some time, the man was done, and left Ketill alone again, who simply fell asleep again.
He was woken a few hours later, not by the old man but by a guard. For a moment, Ketill thought he’d be put back to work already, so he slowly got up on the bed and sat up, but then a young man walked in. It was the man he’d seen alongside Najla the day before – her relative. What did this guy want from him, he wondered? Before he could ask, the boy stood next to his guard, who was an imposing man with an unfriendly face. No doubt he was here to dissuade Ketill from harming the boy. “I am Basim al-ibn-Wahad,” he spoke in Broacienien, with a rather thick accent, while trying to keep his head high. The boy spoke with formal tones, which obviously marked him out as a scholarly speaker of Broacienien, not someone that spoke the language often. Much like Najla had been, perhaps, when she first entered Broacien. Ketill didn’t answer, merely looked at the boy with an unimpressed glance, which seemed to make the boy slightly uncomfortable. He was certainly used to people always looking up to him and respecting him, so for a man like Ketill, an infidel no less, to be so uninterested and uncaring, was perhaps slightly new to him.
“I… you will not bow your head to me?”
“No.”
“… I see. You are not afraid I will tell my guard to force you to do so?”
Ketill shrugged – it wouldn’t be the first time, and it wasn’t like Ketill could resist it like he normally would given the wounds on his back. He didn’t answer, still looking at the boy with a confused, unimpressed glare.
“And you are not surprised I speak your language?”
Again, Ketill shrugged. “You are one of the few that speak it, but even Najla speaks it. Actually, even her new husband speaks it. Broken, barely understandable, and like a peasant, but he speaks it.” Now, Ketill reached for the flask of water standing besides the bed, and raised it to his mouth, drinking from it while maintaining eye contact. When he set it down again he continued. “You sound less like a peasant.”
“Thank you- I, I mean.. you shouldn’t call your Sultana by her name. And you shouldn’t insult Osman like that, do you want to get whipped again?”
Ketill grinned then, because the boy asked a question that he couldn’t understand himself. He merely saw the whipping as a punishment – saw it like Ketill was a regular slave who had done something wrong. It seemed like Basim didn’t understand the underlying feelings and grievances that were contained within it. Perhaps that is why he dared to speak to Ketill – even though Osman might have very well seen that as in insult or offensive thing, since Basim was effectively talking to the enemy. “Do you want to get whipped for speaking to me?”
“They’d never do such a thing. I’m a prince.” Again Basim raised his head, although it was clearly visible from the hesitation that he did this not because of arrogance but because he had been raised to do so – proper etiquette for a prince. “Besides, they are telling stories about you in court, so I wanted to see if they were true,” he quickly added. “Najla says there’s a lot of power in knowledge. So I’m here to gain knowledge.”
Ketill raised an eyebrow now, both at the notion that Najla said that, and at the notion that people are talking about him. “Well, Najla says and promises a lot of things. Just ask your question, boy, and then get out of here.” It was quite a daring way to speak to a prince, but who would’ve expected anything other than that from Ketill at this point. He had insulted the sultan to his face, after all, so it seemed already that none would be spared from his words.
“They say Servants eat children, is that true?”
“They say Sawarim eat cockroaches, is that true?”
“C-cockroaches? No! No that is not true at all!”
“So do you think Servants eat babies?”
“I, well, …”
“They do not.”
“I.. I knew that.”
“Of course.”
“So… did it hurt?”
Now, Ketill raised his eyebrow again, much less at confusion than at stupidity. “If you’re just going to bother me with questions that answer themselves, then you should get back to playing with your brothers and sisters.” The intonation was clearly one of annoyance, and the guard stepped forwards, putting his hand forwards to ‘put a stop to the conversation’ momentarily.
<“Is he being abrasive, my prince?”> the guard asked, as he obviously could not understand Broacienien.
The prince shook his head, although he had had every reason to answer that Ketill was indeed being slightly rude. <“He’s not from the Sultanate. We cannot expect him to follow our etiquette, can we. Besides… you saw what he did to Osman, you wouldn’t want to try that for yourself, right?”>
Frowning slightly, the guard lowered his hand and stepped back, returning to his position at the side of the prince. <“No, my lord,”> he added, before becoming quiet again.
“Why did you beat Osman?”
For a moment now, Ketill paused, looking the boy up and down. Although Najla and Osman had told a lie to avoid having to tell people about their precarious situation when Osman got his face beat in, Ketill was not aware of this. Never the less he was aware that they probably hadn’t told the truth. “He wanted to beat me.”
“That’s his right as your superior,” Basim answered. Despite his attempts at hiding it, it was evident that he might not have agreed to this sentiment entirely.
“A caged bear does not sit peacefully while they prod him with sticks, does it?”
“We do not keep bears here,” the boy replied, though he knew in his mind that he was wrong, for he was looking at one right this moment.
Ketill grinned, his eyebrows furrowing slightly. The boy was fast, though it was also quite clear that he was trying very hard to appear formal, serious and royal. He was clearly repressing his childlike urges to ask question after question, though he still managed to ask quite a few of them. “To answer your question, Osman wanted to beat me, that is why he called me into his room late at night, after the feast. He was drunk and kept circling me while insulting me. I simply hit him before he could hit me. That is what a warrior does.”
“A warrior like Harith?”
“I don’t know him, but if he is a soldier, then yes. Not like Osman – he parades around like a soldier, sure, but he’s not as strong as he likes to make himself look. If he was, he would’ve demanded to duel me for his honour.”
“He is a man of status, and you are a slave. If he duelled you, he would’ve lost honour even if he won, because that would mean he acknowledged you as someone with honour. You’re an infidel – you don’t have honour in the Sultanate.”
“That sounds like something weak people with status have to tell themselves in order to avoid having to take responsibility for their actions.”
Basim squinted slightly now, looking at Ketill curiously, thinking about what he said. Ketill couldn’t tell if the boy agreed or disagreed, but it didn’t really matter – he didn’t expect the boy to understand anything involving honour or the respect of a warrior. Finally the boy answered, “I’m tired now. Perhaps we will speak later, Daab-al-Broacien.”
“I doubt it,” Ketill answered, figuring that as soon as Najla figured out that Basim had visited him, she’d be furious at Ketill and Basim. The boy didn’t reply and walked away, followed by the guard, who shot Ketill an angry look before disappearing around the corner. Not quite sure what to do with the thoughts about the conversation, Ketill merely laid back down in bed again, squirming slightly as the sewed up wounds were still painful, before going back to sleep.
Najla would probably wake him when she needed him - if she needed him at all.
OP
Dion JIHAD CHIQUE ® / NOT THE SHIT, DEFINITELY A FART
Member
Seen
3 days ago
It had been some time since she’d heard her former name, and Najla had not expected that the sound would anger her this greatly. Ketill would see this anger when he spoke, though it was present in nothing but her expression, and would vanish instantly once the pair left him. She was not given any longer to be angry about his defiance, his refusal to use her true name, for it was nearly impossible to feel anger towards a man as his back was being split open.
Yet she would not show him pity either. Instead, Najla looked upon Ketill with a fascination that nearly bordered on awe. She had only ever seen a few lashings quite this silent, and those had always been light and brief, quick punishments for disobedient slaves. This was neither light nor brief, and yet Ketill focused his gaze upon her as if he could not feel the crack of the whip. Najla would return his gaze, her hand still grasping her brothers, though she was thinking only of the words he had spoken before.
His mention of the Gods would not occupy her thoughts for long. She had only ever known Ketill as a devout man, and in her time traveling with him, she had never heard anything to dispute it. It must have been a slip of the tongue, surely this was expected seeing as his Broacienian was starting to fall out of use. The mention of his God’s anger had interested her, but even in her time in Broacien, Najla had not learned enough of the Monarchist religion to know if their God would truly be angry. Not even the ravens had interested her for long, regardless of how odd their presence was.
It was the use of her name that had interested her, the way Ketill had made it obvious he was beyond her control. At least, that’s what Najla had assumed he meant. She did not know of the omens he mentioned, all she saw was a slave that she could not command. She could punish him, rip his tongue out as she had promised to do if he spoke the name Saina again, but it would not stop him from thinking it. She had no use for a slave like that, especially not one that wished to ‘set greater things in motion’, a notion that Najla could only see as a threat. It couldn’t be anything else.
Thus, even though Ketill’s gaze would move over the crowd of spectators, Najla settled her eyes on him. She knew that if she could just feed his motivations, she’d have an asset beyond compare, a Servant loyal to a Sultana. She had never been able to feed these motivations as Saina, and it frustrated her to consider that even now, as a Sultana, she still had nothing to bargain with. Who could bargain with a beast? Without his loyalty, he remained something between a nuisance and a threat, and yet, Najla watched him with this same fascination.
She would not tear her eyes off of him until Osman approached the platform. He bowed his head towards her, but would not say a word as he reached out to take Elif’s hand, leading her away from the horror she had been forced to witness. Though Najla could see that he was unhappy, she gave little care as to her betrothed’s emotions now. She had warned him of the beast Ketill was, Osman had been the one to prove it twice now. As she nudged Basim, motioning for him to hurry and escort her away from the scene, Najla could only hope that her lover would not seek to prove it again.
Najla would not come for Ketill for some time. Perhaps it was best for him that way, as it would allow him more time to heal from his wounds, but this had not been her intention. In fact, Najla had no intention. She had no plan for Ketill, no clue as to what to do with her slave. His worth as a trophy did not outweigh his risk as a threat, and yet, Najla hesitated to kill him. Perhaps it was political, or perhaps it was a weight in her conscious that kept her from ridding herself of him for good, but Najla simply assumed it was the former and went on about her life. Punishing Ketill had been a mere diversion from her day to day business, and so she would allow him to recover while she returned to it.
She had brought this business to her cousin Zahira, the daughter of another of the Sultan’s older brothers, a clever girl only a few years older than Najla. They shared similar features, such as the long dark hair and honey-colored eyes, but Zahira’s skin was a few shades lighter than Najla’s. Beyond that, the girl had a thin black tattoo, a simple line that led from the center of her bottom lip down her chin. It was a symbol of a married woman from the tribe she had married into, and Najla had been with her when she received it, wincing as the women pricked her cousin’s skin with needles and rubbed soot into it. Najla would likely mark herself as well, for Osman’s tribe participated in a similar custom. However, she was grateful that the women of Osman’s tribe did not do so on the sensitive skin of their face.
They had brought their talk to the hammam, which would seem a strange place to bring such discussions to, considering it was hardly a private place to talk. It was a rare sight to see the bathhouse empty, for there were usually naked noblewomen and royals lounging in the pools, or scurrying across the tiles, all while clothed slaves tended to their every need. The smell of scented oils and soap, cultivated from the oils of various desert plants, filled every inch of the bathhouse. Najla was always amazed that the slaves were not perpetually dizzy, but they had never failed in tending to her needs. Najla chatted aimlessly with her cousin as a slave scrubbed her down, clearly used to the process and the luxuries involved, though she would dismiss the girl as the conversation turned.
Most of the secrets of the Sultanate could be heard in this bathhouse, Najla was sure of it, but they would be hard to distinguish from each other. The slaves that tended to these women were well taken care of by the spymasters of the palace, for gossip flitted around nearly every corner of the bathhouse. Some of it echoed loudly throughout the hammam, while the rest was whispered in the corners of the luxurious pools, unheard by any that were not meant to hear.
This was where Najla lounged with her cousin, the shallow waters of the pool ebbing around their waists, though none seemed to care how much was exposed. Though her cousin was still as she spoke, resting her head back against the tiles of the wall, Najla kicked her feet lazily through the water, her eyes always shifting towards any woman that walked too close.
<“You trust me then? You have heard the rumors as well? He attacked the village, this is not spoken out of greed, dear cousin.”>
<“I never assumed it was.”>
<“Your betrothed does.”>
Najla would not argue with her cousin on that. Zahira’s husband was of the Al-Uba’yd clan, a second son to his aging father. The first son was a man named Thamud ibn Khaldun Al-Uba’yd, a skilled warrior and a charismatic man, who had been slowly taking over his father’s duties as the man aged. There were no doubts as to his abilities to lead, and so this transfer of power would not have been an issue, until whispers of recent events began to find their way to Najla. She trusted these whispers, even if Osman did not.
<“It doesn’t matter what Osman believes. I’ve confirmed the reports that he allowed his men to conduct a raid on the Banu Dunya village, it is as you say. His men stole nearly two dozen horses. He broke their pact in the night, like a coward.”>
<“Not his pact. His father’s. He does not want to be as his father was.”>
<“A pity. His father was a loyal man.”>
Zahira had opened her mouth to reply, but at that moment, a pair of laughing noblewomen darted past them. As they waited for them to pass, Najla submerged her head under the water, rising only to brush the hair out of her face. While Zahira spoke, Najla would continue to swim around her as if she was playing in the pools with Mehmet, though their talk was far more serious.
<“Then you understand why I tell you there is no sense in renegotiating their pact for them. Thamud will only break it again. He’ll probably take a Sultana, give back the horses, and keep quiet for a year or two, but not forever.”>
<“He’s not being offered a Sultana. He’s not being offered anything. I don’t want to bribe a coward into keeping his promises.”>
<“He’s not going to give the spoils back, not without something better. And the Banu Dunya people will not agree to a pact unless he does.”
<“Fuck.”> Najla cursed, halting in her relentless swimming. Regardless of a horse’s value to her people, their pride would always matter more. <“These tribesmen and their egos, they are always such a pain.”>
The pair were silent for a moment, and Najla sat beside her cousin, leaning her head against the tiles as she thought through the matter. It was not long before they’d inform the Sultan of the events that had transpired, and Najla would have to present a solution alongside it. It would be easiest to arrange a marriage, but it would only make the situation more difficult when it arose again. Zahira had suggested an alternative, to eliminate Thamud entirely. Osman had viewed the suggestion with suspicion, but Najla saw little issue with allowing Zahira’s husband, or more truthfully, Zahira herself, to lead the Al-Uba’yd clan.
<“We will have to go renegotiate nonetheless. If Thamud will not give back their damned horses, someone else will. I’ll make sure Osman sees it similarly.”> Najla sat up as she spoke, motioning a slave to come. Though her intention was spoken ambiguously, it seemed she did not need to say more. Zahira knew what she meant. If Thamud was not persuaded by the Sultan’s power, they’d have to put in someone who was.
Zahira smiled as Najla spoke to the slave girl, quickly requesting some scented oils for her hair. As the girl fetched them quickly, Zahira continued to speak, no longer worried about who could hear.
<“Then you are bringing the Servant with you?”> It was a seemingly innocent question, but they had spoken on the possibilities at length already. Ketill would instill some awe of the Sultan’s power, surely, but it seemed Najla had greater intentions for him.
<“Yes, let Thamud see how far the Sultan’s power truly reaches. Besides, if Ketill wants to slit Sawarim throats so badly, I suppose it should be to my benefit.”> The slave girl returned now, and Najla allowed her to comb through her wet hair softly, closing her eyes as she continued to speak. <“Perhaps I should leave him in the desert afterwards, just as Osman suggested years ago, to let God decide his fate.”>
<“If you do that, the harem will decide yours.”>
Najla let out a soft laugh at that, opening her eyes to see her cousins grin. <“If they wanted him so badly, they should have tried harder at the party, don’t you think? Especially for the price Osman put on him”>
<“Why should they try? It takes no effort to seduce a man, only a cunt.”>
Najla smiled widely at that, though she closed her eyes once more, allowing the slave girl to comb the oils through her hair carefully. <“Ketill is no man. If he was, perhaps they wouldn’t want him.”>
<“A bear still fucks, no?”>
She let out another laugh, splashing her cousin softly at that. <“Ya Sawarim, you have been in the desert too long. You’re starting to sound like a tribesman.”>
Najla would not come see Ketill. Not to see if he’d healed, not to yell at him for speaking to Basim, not even to inform him of her intentions for him. Likely, he would not be surprised by her actions, for as a Sultana, Najla had only acted as if she were indifferent towards him.
Indeed, Najla was not entirely indifferent. She had argued with Osman for some time after the lashing, for he was still angry at the lack of impact it seemed to have had, and Najla had to be the one to convince him he could do no more. Even Elif had come to speak to her in private, worried about what would happen if the Servant was allowed to remain. Najla had a suspicion that Osman had sent her, but she could not prove it. Instead, she merely fed the girl a few glasses of wine and sent her back to her husband with the same answer she’d given him before. Ketill would endure no more punishment for his violence, and Osman would not provoke him into causing more.
Whatever kindness she had done Ketill in keeping her husband away from him, Najla would not do more. She had not kept Osman away as a kindness to Ketill, though she believed he had already suffered enough. She had done so for the sake of her husband, her proud foolish husband, who seemed eager to take another beating from a slave. It had taken Najla some time to convince Osman that this was truly the case. The notion that he’d gotten a beggar’s leftovers had nestled into his mind, Najla could tell from every word he spat regarding the Servant. He had eased some when Najla told him of her intentions for the Servant, likely hoping there was a chance that Ketill would not return. Najla held no such hope, but she would not shatter that of her husbands.
Ketill would be brought to Najla once the healer deemed he was well enough to fight. It would seem that Najla did not trust him enough to bring him to her chambers again, for Ketill would instead be brought out into the sun once more. He was led past the guard’s barracks, into a small arena clearly designed for training, already populated with guards and recruits despite the early hour. Their eyes followed him as he was led past these men, making sure not to bring Ketill close to any weapons, though it would be pointless soon. The man who greeted him would be a familiar face, and though it would likely not be from a pleasant memory, it did not seem like Harith knew that, for he greeted him quickly with a nod and a grin.
<“I’ve never been excited to see a Servant fight.”>
These words were clearly not directed to Ketill or the guards, but to the man standing beside him. This one would not be a familiar face to Ketill, yet another cousin that had found his place in the Sultan’s royal army. While this cousin stood straight, his hand resting on the hilt of his curved sword lazily, Harith was leaning against the wall. He was a man who held little interest in the appearances they were meant to keep, for his status and reputation had long since insulated him from any criticisms it would bring. It was reflected in far more than his posture, for he studied Ketill with a smile, pushing himself off the wall as his cousin spoke.
<“Won’t be much of a fight. Look at the group that they gathered.”>
This was the first time Harith would take his eyes off Ketill, only to rest them on a small group of men, lined up in wait. They were all dressed in the uniforms of the guards, but they were all new recruits, eager for the chance to fight a Servant. The sight of them caused Harith to let out a soft laugh, and he glanced back up at Ketill before walking back to his cousin.
<“They gathered themselves. Apparently, killing a few raiders makes you capable of fighting a Servant. Stupid on their part, but Najla wanted it this way.”>
Najla had not asked for new recruits, or volunteers, or any particular sort of man for Ketill to begin fighting again. She had used merely one word: dispensable. It seemed they had managed to fit her expectations.
<“Where is she? Why ask to meet at an hour she’s not even going to be awake for?”>
As if on cue, the sound of a child’s voice pulled Harith’s attention to someone approaching from the side. Flanked by two guards, Najla walked towards the pair, still dressed as finely as always, though a thin blue fabric was draped elegantly over her head and body, blocking out the dust and heat of the sun. She carried a child on her hip, a boy with skin even darker than the aunt who carried him, and a voice that did not seem to stop. Najla was smiling widely at his words, responding to his curious statements even as they approached her brother, at which point the child would suddenly be distracted once more.
<“Baba!”> Najla set Mehmet down at his cry, allowing him to run off towards his father. Harith bent down and scooped up his son with ease, kissing his head before he turned to his sister. Najla kissed her brother on the cheek in greeting, and moved to do the same to her cousin even as Harith spoke.
<“I said he could come so long as he didn’t come down here.”>
<“He’s fearless. He slipped away again, the poor girl thought she was done for.”> By ‘girl’, it was obvious to Harith who Najla meant. Mehmet was a common cause for grief among the slaves that were meant to watch him, as he was eager and capable of dodging every slave that meant to keep him still. The girl that had let Mehmet slip this time had been on the verge of tears when she came to find Najla already holding her charge, but Najla had dismissed her without punishment. It was Mehmet’s fault after all, not hers.
<“She could not withstand the will of a five year old?”>
<“Not your son’s, no.”>
<“Basim is not coming?”>
At the mention of Basim, Najla finally turned towards Ketill. Though he would not understand most of the words that had been said, surely he would understand this name. Thus, Najla’s first real look at Ketill since the lashing was done with angered eyes, and she quickly switched to Broacienian to answer. It was unclear whether she had done so for Ketill’s sake or so that the guards would not hear, but regardless, she kept her words simple for her brother to understand.
“No. Basim will not come.”
Najla had been furious at her brother when she found out. She had been furious at Ketill as well, but she could not have expected any differently from him. She had known that Ketill would not lie about the incident, but Najla had not expected that her brother would go chasing after the truth. She had been so angry that Basim had never had a chance to ask how she found out, for Najla had made him field question after question, pulling every bit of the conversation from her brother in a difficult, and rather loud, conversation. When it was all over, Najla had confessed most of the truth to her brother, and had warned him to stay away from Ketill. Thus, while Basim had been eager to see him fight, Najla had enforced this warning for her teenage brother, though not for the child she had brought on her hip.
<“Pity. It might have done him some good to see a Servant fight.”> Even as Harith spoke, Mehmet reached a curious hand out towards Ketill. He had seen the marks on his forehead it seemed, and stretched his arm out towards the man who bore them, as if expecting to be allowed to touch them. Seeing this, Harith quickly pulled his son’s arm down. <“Ya Sawarim, you’ve got bigger balls than half this lot.”>
<“Why did he draw those?”> The child’s question went ignored for now, and Harith would only nod at Ketill before moving to walk past him. It seemed that while Najla was much more indifferent towards Ketill besides when she had a use for him, Harith had a far greater respect for his sister’s slave. Though Mehmet would continue to ask questions, clearly intrigued by this new figure, Harith was not quite as eager to introduce his son to Servants quite yet. Surely, he would have a lifetime to get to know these men, just as Harith had. Her cousin followed her brother, and the pair left Najla alone to explain this curious new situation to her slave.
“I didn’t bring you out here to punish you again, even if you’ve given me plenty of reason. You’ve suffered enough.”
As always, there was little remorse in her voice. It was simply a statement, which would do little to express her true feelings on the matter. Osman should not have called him in or taunted him, and the lashing had been far more severe than what she’d wanted, even if Ketill himself did not agree. Yet she would never speak these words or show remorse for her actions. In every word, even those spoken to Ketill, Najla had played the part of the dutiful wife-to-be, angered and worried by her husband’s wounds.
“But if you are truly so insistent on killing my betrothed, I don’t see any reason to keep you here. It’s not as if I need you to cut weeds forever. I need a soldier, but only a fool would put a weapon in your hands now.”
At that, Najla let out a soft sigh, reaching up to smooth her hair under the fabric that covered it from the sun. It was a motion born out of unease, an acknowledgement that she was the very fool she had just chastised in her words.
“I’ve never met a man like you.” At this admission, she frowned slightly, pausing just long enough to study Ketill’s expression. “You never wanted anything from me. You still don’t, not even now. I could offer you the world, but all you want is blood. Perhaps they were right to call you Daab.”
She paused again here, though her gaze flicked behind Ketill to where her brother was waiting. It seemed he had found someone to pass his son off to, and was waiting restlessly for his sister. Seeing this, she turned her gaze to Ketill once more, finally explaining her purpose in bringing him here.
“If you want blood, you can have it. Not here, mind you. We will be traveling soon, to the Al-Uba’yd people, to reassure them of the Sultan’s power. I’m sure you still remember how to take a tribesman’s head off, don’t you?” She smiled slightly at that, though there was no trace of humor in her eyes. “You’ll have some time to train before we go. Until then, no other task will be asked of you, and your every desire will be met. If you can ever imagine wanting something, of course.”
With that, Najla simply lifted the hem of her skirts out of the sand. She would not wait around to hear Ketill’s opinion on the matter. She knew he wanted her blood, Osman’s blood, more than he’d ever want the head of a tribesman, but it would have to sate him. He would have to fight regardless, and if he lived, she would find some use in his presence. If not, she’d likely be grateful for his absence. Najla and her guards moved past Ketill and out of the training area altogether, though she would reappear soon in the wooden platforms a floor above. There, she was joined by Zahira and Adina, who was now holding her restless son to watch the guards below.
As soon as Najla would leave however, Harith would approach Ketill, motioning the guards to bring him over in front of the line of guards. Though the men looked at Ketill angrily, Harith had only a smile on his face as he ordered one of the guards to fetch the Servant a weapon, before turning to Ketill. He spoke slowly, with a heavy accent, for Harith had only ever made efforts to learn Broacienian at the end of a sword.
“This will be easy. Do not kill them.”
He turned then, looking over the line of men once before motioning forward one that was looking at Ketill with an intense anger, though he would look little different than the rest.
<“You want to fight a Servant, come on. Now’s probably the only chance you’ll ever have.”> As the man bowed his head and walked forward, Harith nodded at Ketill and stepped back. He was nearly as restless as his son watching from above, likely knowing that this was not going to be much of a competition. Najla could tell even as she looked down onto her brother that he would want to jump in soon, not to fight out of hatred as the others did, but simply to test his skills against a Servant once more. She had asked him not to, and Harith had obliged, though she knew this promise would only last until he felt the Servant needed a real challenge.
OP
Dion JIHAD CHIQUE ® / NOT THE SHIT, DEFINITELY A FART
Member
Seen
3 days ago
Ketill had rested, mostly, after his talk with Basim. The boys presence alone had surprised him more than enough to last the rest of his stay at the healer, and his wound had not left him with space to occupy the mind with labour, so he was forced to rethink the conversation quite a few times. He wondered, had he perhaps told the boy too much? Had his pride prevented him from shutting his mouth like a good slave would’ve? Perhaps. But Basim seemed to already distrust the ‘truth’ spread by Najla and Osman. Perhaps the boy was used to the discrepancies between Najla’s stories and the truth. Had that been why he chased Ketill’s answer?
These thoughts lingered in his head for the next period, and he lost track of the days as he, somewhat lazily, hung around the healer’s quarters. Most of the patients were other slaves, that had been beaten a bit too hard or dealt with some qualm that was easily solvable. Most of the royals, obviously, would not visit the healer but would rather have them come to their quarters. Ketill was one of the few that stayed for more than a single day, seemingly a privilege earned him both by his master being Najla, as well as him being somewhat infamous. Perhaps none had dared tell him to leave the healers rooms?
Regardless, one day he was finally called. Two guards appeared in the healers office, and enquired about his ability to go on and work. <“He’s been well for a few days now, but none came to retrieve him, and he did not return himself, so I figured…”> He wasn’t able to finish his sentence as the guards grabbed Ketill by the arms and guided him out of the quarters again. It seemed to be a reoccurring theme at this point, what with Ketill being dragged out into the sun numerous times previously. At first, he had been dragged out to the sun to be beaten by Najla’s cousin, then to be whipped by her fiancé, so it would be natural that Ketill assumed he was to be punished for another imagined transgression he committed. He braced himself already, but to his surprise he was brought out to the training grounds of the local soldiers and guards. It hadn’t been used much whenever Ketill was around, but he had seen them practice once or twice. They were good – for regulars – but obviously not good enough to fight the Servants.
He was brought before a familiar face – one he recognized from his lashings. It was a strange sight to see this man before him suddenly, smiling and nodding at him as if nothing had ever happened. He spoke, but not to Ketill, but to a man dressed in similar fashion standing next to him. Ketill felt the piercing of their eyes upon him, their eyes attempting to bore through his face and physique. When they talked, Ketill followed their motions with his eyes, before his eyes followed the stare of Harith, and he found himself looking upon the group of guards and recruits.
Nothing that Ketill would understand was said between the men, and Ketill just awkwardly stood there. The first time he’d been forced to wait for something he’d felt quite uncomfortable, but by now it was second nature and he simply stood there in the sun, soaking in its warmth. The wound on his back was still quite clearly visible – he did not wear a tunic yet, for fear of the wound reopening and soaking the tunic in blood that would be nigh unwashable. Now that the blood had been cleaned off, it was visible that the whip had left behind some grotesque scars, but due to the skill of the healer, they had healed very well, and left little more than a few straight scars criss-cross across his back. They were merely water in the pond at this point, however.
The cry of a child was somewhat strange given the place they were in, but Ketill had learned that the Sawarim did more strange things than not, and had also learned to stop pondering about those things. Instead, he merely turned his head, looking at Najla. She spoke with the man that Ketill had recognized briefly, but caught Ketill by surprise when she suddenly spoke in Broacienien – she had apparently heard that Basim had visited him. She earned merely a grin from Ketill. Perhaps she had tried to assert that he was in her control, but it was not so. Moreover, Basim was his own man, surely he had a right to do as he pleased. It had been her fault for not spreading the lies convincingly enough, perhaps. Still, Basim did not seem the type of person to spread the truth merely to bother Najla. He seemed like someone that wanted wisdom, and Ketill knew from experience within Broacien that these types of people were often more dangerous than they seemed if they were tutored to be ruthless, as opposed to friendly.
Harith stood closely with, what Ketill presumed to be his child, and when the child extended his reach to Ketill and nearly touched him, did not move. His father moved swiftly to stop the child, but had the child touched Ketill, he would’ve been safe all the same. Ketill might have been a brute, but he was not a murderer of children merely because they were curious. Besides, it wasn’t like the dots were a holy symbol anymore. Little would be lost by a child’s touch. Where as the old Ketill would’ve politely asked the child not to do that, the ‘new’ Ketill merely looked at the child with the same glance he shot at all the people around him – that of the Bear. Not very friendly, but not overly angry either. A permanent frown, more or less.
Harith left soon after, taking his child and the other man with him, leaving Najla alone with him. Ketill stared her down, though he knew from experience she did not care about that as much as the others. Osman might’ve been insulted – Najla seemed to be used to Ketill by now. Despite the situation, she still insisted on bossing him around, showing off her supposed superiority. He ignored her attempts at talking him into believing he had earned a punishment, instead looking directly past her at the child she had brought. “Why bring a child to an execution?” She had yet to explain why he was here, and the large amount of soldiers indicated that he was to be executed. She could not fault him for thinking so, perhaps, but knowing Najla she’d find a way to do so regardless. “And why bring a full garrison to cleave my head?”
She continued regardless, explaining that she did not need him if he was insistent on killing her husband. Ketill grinned but did not answer. In truth, that was not his intention. Osman was merely a sidepiece to him. An annoying, overly confident man with no skills in Ketill’s eyes, but a man that seemed to hold some importance and therefore found himself thinking rather highly of himself. If anything, Osman was an obstacle. A log on the road, blocking the passage. Apparently the attack had scared him, and Najla, more than enough to warrant a punishment and an attempt to keep the two apart. Ketill did not doubt that he’d not see Osman for some time. She continued and made a confession, that she had never met anyone like him. Perhaps Ketill would’ve been moved, but the wounds on his back reminded him that Najla’s words were always empty.
Her mention of giving him the world merely caused him to look away from her. “What good is the world in the hands of a slave?” he asked her, seemingly asking a question but already knowing the answer. ‘Nothing’ was the answer. “When I was your master, did I not give you plentiful? Yet you always desired for more. You, above anyone else, should understand my position. There is nothing I want, except blood. Keep your world – if I want it, I will take it from your hands. But do not fear – I have no need of a world. Merely a sword.”
The words were not said aggressively but the intent behind them, Ketill was sure, Najla would be able to tell what they were. Regardless of her impressions of the world, she would tell Ketill about what was to occur in the coming weeks and that was that. She turned, and lifted her dress, before marching off. Harith took her place, and stood in front of him with a shit-eating grin. He motioned for the guards to bring Ketill forwards, who guided him a few steps forwards. Another motion ordered a guard to fetch a weapon, while Harith explained to him what was to happen. Surprisingly, the man spoke Broacienien. For a moment, Ketill was confused about the man. He had assumed the man was like Osman – boastful, full of himself, pompous.
But his attitude said otherwise. Perhaps Harith was a man of the sword after all. Before Ketill could give any reaction, he was handed a hand-axe. It was a simple weapon, nothing fancy, but as Ketill watched the guardsmen and decided that they didn’t have any fancy equipment either. He spun the axe in his hand a few times, figuring out the weight distribution of the weapon rather quickly. The Sawarim axe was slightly different than what he was used to, but it worked. Whatever weapon he was handed, if it cut, it could kill.
Harith addressed one of the men and told them to come forward, which the man did. A quick glance indicated that the man had a kite shield, not as large as the Broacienien cavalry variant, but large enough to cover from neck to knee. In his other hand he held a famous Sawarim curved blade – the trademark weapon of the more advanced Sawarim soldier. Where the tribesmen and conscripts usually used cheaper weapons, like spears, clubs and shortswords or even knives and farming tools, the regulars used curved blades like these. These scimitars, Ketill knew from experience, were deadly. Extremely fast above all. They did not cut deep like a Broacien blade – they were far too light to have that kind of impact, but the cuts they made were deep enough to cause problems if they were placed in important places like the neck. That wouldn’t be as dangerous if the blades were slower, but the speed at which you could swing this light blade meant that you had to be on your toes at all times.
Had Ketill been given a shield, the fight would’ve been simple – block the sword a few times and then counter attack, but now Ketill had to be even more careful.
As the two stepped closer to each other the tension was clear. Ketill was calm and collected, didn’t even seem to break a sweat at the thought of the fight. The guard however was clearly tense, and had a focused and angry look on his face. Anger was good, in a fight, but when it was combined with fear, that was when it became dangerous. The guard stopped in his tracks and raised his shield once he was comfortable, raising his sword slightly to prepare for an attack. Ketill did not stop, and simply walked on, didn’t even raise his axe to attack.
The moment he was in reach he raised his axe, and sent it down onto the mans shield. The axe connected with a heavy thud, and it didn’t even seem to do any damage, but before the man could even counter attack, the axe already crushed down on the mans shield again, and again, and again. The shield slowly splintered, a testimony to Ketill’s strength perhaps. When the man finally found an opening to swing the sword, Ketill merely ducked underneath it and moved his feet rapidly – to the trained eye, you could see the similar movements to how a dancer would move her feet. The movements were more rudimentary and rough, but they were very similar. In the same movement, he lowered his axe down to the mans foot, and with a rapid movement hooked the edge of the blade around his ankle. With a swift pull of the axe, he tore the mans foot from the ground and caused him to fall facefirst into the sand.
The guard attempted to roll over and was quickly met with the sight of Ketill jumping on top of him. He raised his axe high, before yelling out; “AUDRUN!” As he cried out the name of the Allfather, he sent his axe down to the mans head before heaving it up and sending it down again and again. He kept chopping until he was done, and for a moment it would’ve seemed in the flurry of attacks like the man had completely lost his face. But Ketill had controlled himself, and when he got up, it was visible that the man was fine. Visibly afraid, but fine. The axe stood in the sand next to his face, which was apparently where he had chopped.
Though he lusted for blood, it seemed he was still capable of at the very least listening to orders. As he got off the man he extended his hand for the man to grab, after which he helped him up. He slowly backed off back to the line of soldiers, whom all seemed somewhat impressed with the fight, especially since it had lasted merely fifty seconds or so. Harith slowly walked back, looking at the group of guards. <“Was there anyone else that wanted to test their strength?”> he asked loudly, though none of the men seemed interested in fighting Ketill now that they had seen first hand what he would do if he was unleashed. It almost seemed like they suddenly realized how Osman had gotten himself into such a predicament. It even made the capture of a Servant that much more wondrous. Harith then turned to Ketill. “Not many understand the meaning of Servant. They thought you were a man.”
Ketill replied without looking back at him, merely staring down the group in front of him. “Perhaps they were wrong.”
“In their eyes, they were. I think you are a man. I will show them.”
Ketill glanced over at Harith briefly now, as he had not expected a challenge; Basim told him that a royalty fighting a slave was humiliating no matter what. Apparently, Basim had been wrong. Either that, or Harith did not care for appearances. Maybe he was not like Osman after all – maybe he was a warrior.
“What if I’m no man?”
“There is no shame in losing to a beast.”
Ketill looked at the man with a confused expression, and after a few seconds he nodded. The two stepped away from each other then, creating some distance, before a new guard came running at Ketill to hand him a weapon. He bore a new axe as well as a sword, offering either of the two, though to his surprise Ketill waved him away. Perhaps to the surprise of the onlookers and Harith alike too, but Ketill was not worried about that right now. He simply figured that, against a sword, it was best to stay close so that it could not swing at all. What better way to stay close than to fight with your hands.
Harith and Ketill stared at each other momentarily, before they both gave each other the ‘okay’ by nodding at each other. Harith did not wield a shield, instead simply brandishing his curved sword. So, rather than charging at Harith, Ketill slowly advanced much like Harith did. He merely waited for an opening now, the two of them circling each other like vultures with a prey, until Harith got bored of waiting and stepped forwards. His sword swung horizontally, and Ketill rapidly stepped back, avoiding the swish of the blade narrowly. For a moment Ketill thought about stepping forward but the shimmer of the sun on the blade alarmed him that the blade was coming back. Again he stepped back, the swoosh of the blade audible when it passed. Again Harith swung his blade, but this time Ketill didn’t step backwards.
Instead, he stepped forwards with his right foot and placed his hip against Harith, and with a single movement grabbed a hold of Harith’s sword arm with his left hand, blocking it and the attack with the sword. Using his hip for leverage now, he turned his entire body and swung Harith over his back, sending Harith tumbling over Ketill’s body towards the ground, where he landed with a soft thud and a cloud of sand poofing out from under him. Although Harith had the wind knocked out of him from the throw, he realized what had happened and quickly let go of the sword, preparing to defend himself while catching his breath.
Ketill quickly swung around, sitting down on top of Harith with his knees on either side of him, his right fist in the air while his left held on to Harith’s arm. His fist moved down and almost hit Harith in the face, but was blocked just in time by Harith moving his free arm up and swooping the fist out of its’ trajectory. His coughing and pained expression were enough to give away that he was having a hard time catching his breath with Ketill sitting on top of him, but somehow he managed to reach for Ketill’s neck. His hand grasped at his chest first, slowly clawing its way to his neck before grabbing Ketill by the throat. Pooling all his strength, Harith turned over and rolled over onto Ketill, who was now held down by Harith in turn. Loud cheering erupted from the sideline as the guards cheered their ‘hero’ on, not realizing that with one hand still captured in Ketills’ bear-claw hands and the other wrapped around his throat loosely, he couldn’t do much. Harith did seem to realize this and started attempting to free his other hand, but this only distracted him from Ketill’s other hand, which was hurled at Hariths face while curled up into a fist.
As Ketill hit the man in the face, some spit flew out of the mans mouth as he reared back, letting go of Ketill’s throat as he rolled over again. Almost immediately Ketill got back on top of him, grabbing him by his tunic and pulling him up, before delivering a final blow. He headbutted him on the bridge of his nose, which luckily for Harith wouldn’t hurt quite as much as on the nose itself. Ketill felt the mans body loosen up then, and let go of him, before getting off. Harith moaned lightly under the pain of the headbut, his hand immediately reaching up to his nose – there’d be no cause for his son, wife or Najla to get worried immediately. But knowing the Sawarim, they would do so immediately regardless.
Despite the fact that they had just fought, again Ketill extended a hand to the man, and Harith slowly reached out with his other hand, holding onto his nose with the other. With a single tug, Ketill pulled the man up and guided him towards a nearby chair that would – assumedly – been reserved for whoever was guiding the young recruits during practice usually. Almost immediately some of the guards rushed to Harith with water and salves, while the two escorts grabbed Ketill’s arms to prepare to move him out of there. Before they could do so, however, Harith instructed them; <“Hold on, take him back to some private quarters for a slave – he should be kept fit for the next few weeks. Give him what he asks for, and send one of the harem girls his way afterwards.”>
Although the guards likely disagreed with these demands, they would comply none the less and nodded at Harith, before taking Ketill away again. As they walked away, Ketill caught a glance of some onlookers that weren’t there when they started, among which some of the harem girls. They stood further away however, and watched from a distance, not daring to get closer to the stands.
Ketill was taken to private quarters, outfitted with nothing too extravagant. It was certainly an improvement over the barracks, however, where he slept with many other slaves. Instead, he had a bed of his own, and a window that overlooked the desert, on the backside of the city. It was much too high to jump out of and escape, and the outlook into the desert made it clear that even if one managed to escape, there was nothing there for them. Perhaps that was done on purpose. The guards shoved him inside and then closed the door, leaving Ketill alone to look around the room.
Compared to Najla’s room it wasn’t much, certainly. It wasn’t even half as big, and the space that was there was taken up by the furniture. He had a desk, a chair, but nothing to put on the desk. Then there was a wardrobe, but he had no clothes to put in it. The bed was probably the best feature, he supposed. He sat down on it, finding it to be its’ fair share more comfortable than the barebones beds in the barracks. He supposed the room had been a guestroom at some point, but had become obsolete when new ones had been built. Instead, they now kept them for the slaves that were more valued than others. Even among slaves there was a hierarchy it seemed. The harem girls were technically slaves too, though they were their entire own class on its’ own it seemed at times.
He swung his legs up on the bed and closed his eyes momentarily, and before he knew it he fell fast asleep. An hour later, knocking on the door woke him. He considered ignoring it and going back to sleep, but a second later more knocks followed. He groaned as he got up, mumbling something to himself while approaching the door. He grabbed the door handle and pulled it open viciously, shaking the door in its’ hinges. “What?” he hissed. He was forced to look down slightly, as his large stature compared to that of his guest meant that he was looking straight over them.
In front of him stood a woman standing at no larger than 5’6”, with skin slightly tanned. She was not quite as dark as some Sawarim were, but she was not exactly the same color as Broacienien people either. Her eyes, too, were ambiguous as to where she came from, as the brown color was not a real indicator as opposed to Ketill’s blue eyes, and her almond shaped eyes could be from anywhere. If anything, her brown hair gave away even less. But when she spoke, it became quite clear. “I was sent here by the guards to entertain you,” she said, in near perfect Broacienien. She looked up at him questioningly, fluttering her long eyelashes as if to appear more innocent. Perhaps she intended to persuade him this way, but she would find Ketill was more resilient than that.
“I don’t need you,” he answered, before he attempted to shut the door on her.
Moving quick, she planted her foot in front of the door, using a hand to press against it. Despite Ketill’s brute strength, she held her own quite well, well enough to keep the door open, although Ketill felt her arm and foot move ever so slightly. “You do not understand – I was gifted to you by his lordship Harith, to deny me would be to insult him.”
“He will understand.”
“Yes, but Najla would not – nor would the Sultan.”
The girl would feel that Ketill slowly stopped pushing the door. After a moment, he opened it again and beckoned her inside. “Fine.” She smiled at him graciously before stepping inside, moving gently. It reminded Ketill of Najla, which was perhaps not a good thing for the girl. Her hips swayed lightly, not as obvious as some of the other girls, though it had a certain subtle grace to it. She walked all the way into the room, taking a moment to take in the contents of it, before walking to the window and looking out of it, leaning on the windowsill. Perhaps she had intended to stick out her behind, enticing Ketill to look at it, but Ketill had already returned to his bed, and sat down. “Why do you speak Broacienien?” he asked without skipping a beat.
“Hm? Oh, I suppose they picked me because I sp-”
“That’s not what I meant. Stop pretending you’re dumb.”
His interruption earned him a silent smile from behind her hair, as she looked back at him ever so slightly from the corner of her eyes, though her face was hidden from Ketill by her hair. “My father was a Servant, my mother a Sawarim woman in Coedwin. I lived there all my life, until my father died when I was eight. We tried to move back to the Sultanate, to live with family.”
“What makes you think your family would take you back after your mother married a Servant?”
“Who said they married?”
Ketill groaned at the woman, already annoyed at her attempts at playing games. The woman only giggled, seeming to find herself quite amused with Ketill already. “We got separated in a sandstorm. When it died down, she was gone, and I was found by some guards. They took me with them, to the palace, and the Sultan decided he liked me. I was a servant for a Sultana for a while, until I was 16, then the harem girls politely asked the Sultan if they could have me.”
“How interesting. I was sleeping when you came, so you’ll forgive me for going back to sleep.”
“How dull-”
“Indeed. You can sit there at the desk until you think Harith will be satisfied, and then you can leave.”
“So it is true what they say about the Servants? That you make oaths of celibacy?”
“Your father sired a child did he not?”
“He also loved a Sawarim woman, so he wasn’t much for oaths, I assumed.”
“There are no such oaths. Why do you ask about oaths? The only one that believes we have such oaths is Osman. Did he send you?”
“Hmm.. no, he isn’t interested in us like that. He prefers to get beaten by slaves, last I heard.”
Now she earned a chuckle from Ketill, who put his arms under his head as he closed his eyes, preparing to take a nap regardless of the woman sitting in his room. “I doubt he planned to do that.”
“Did Harith plan to take a beating from you?”
“That is different – Harith is a man, Osman is…”
The girl pivoted in her position now, turning to Ketill, her hands on the windowsill as she rested against it, looking Ketill up and down now. “I do not care what he is, Bear of Broacien, I care what you are.”
Ketill opened an eye, grinning at her before answering. “A slave,” he answered, knowing she was looking for something else. His eye fell upon her more closely now, however. Her midriff was exposed, as she wore nothing more than a cropped top, which was riddled with golden accessories that jingled whenever she moved. Her skirt was long and had similar accessories, which made it so that whenever she made as much as a movement with her hips, the sound would pull Ketill back out of his attempt at a nap.
Slowly she drew closer, before sitting down at the edge of the bed. She folded her hands in her lap for now, still trying to figure out how to talk to this man. “Then we have something in common,” she said, looking at Ketill as he tried to go back to sleep. “Do you… still believe?”
The annoyance was growing within Ketill at this point, bothered by her many questions – which unlike Basim’s questions were not based in curiosity, but a burning desire to get to her ultimate goal. Thinly veiled as it was, he had no doubts it worked on other man. He opened his eyes now, looking at the girl sitting at the edge of the bed, wondering what she wanted specifically. “Yes.” He avoided telling her that he had converted, as she likely wouldn’t understand anyway. “You’re Sawarim?”
The girl smiled now, looking down at her own hands. She begun twirling her fingers then, as if the question made her uneasy. “I am whatever the Sultan wants me to be,” she answered. Before Ketill answered, she placed her right hand on his chest. Slowly her hand went down to his stomach, before reaching for the hem of his pants.
Before she could continue, however, Ketill grabbed her arm, and looked her in the eyes – a different look from before. “I told you I don’t need you – whatever you are here for, you won’t get it. I let you in to avoid getting you into trouble with Harith or Najla. Don’t push the boundaries. I am not some royal prince that you need to please to earn your keep.”
Slowly he’d let go of her arm, after which she’d put them in her lap again. She seemed a bit confused – naturally, this was just about all she knew how to do. It was very strange for her to meet this Bear of Broacien that was not interested in it at all. As Ketill laid there, the girl finally seemed silent and he closed his eyes again. At least, until she spoke up again. “If you sleep, do you mind if I lay with you? When the guards come to get me later, it would seem strange if I’m sitting here like this while you sleep.”
Grumbling, Ketill answered her; “you demand a lot for a harem girl,” his words seeming rather annoyed at that point.
“Any other harem girl would’ve walked out of here the moment you denied them,” she answered. As he didn’t say ‘no’ explicitly, she proceeded to turn onto her back and lay next to him. It was done awkwardly at first, as she didn’t know how to handle herself when she wasn’t able to perform services for her clients, but soon enough she put her arm on Ketill’s chest and put her head against him, before putting a leg over his.
“I had hoped you’d walked out too, but it seems you’re still here,” Ketill replied. “You never told me your name either,” he added promptly.
“Call me what you want to,” she answered.
“That’s not much of a name.”
OP
Dion JIHAD CHIQUE ® / NOT THE SHIT, DEFINITELY A FART
Member
Seen
3 days ago
The heat and dust did not filter up to where Najla stood now, for she sat in luxury as always. A few chairs had been brought out for them, though the only one who sat in them was Adina, holding a squirming Mehmet tightly on her lap. Najla and Zahira chose instead to stand, leaning against the edge of the balcony as they watched the men below. Najla was far more anxious than her cousin, her fingers toying relentlessly with the thin gold rings that always seemed to be on her wrists. Zahira stood as a sharp contrast to her nervousness, leaning over the balcony eagerly as if it would help her get a better glimpse.
<“What are you so worried about? You’ve seen him fight before.”>
Najla finally stopped toying with her jewelry, looking up at her cousin with a raised brow. She did not need to say anything, for it seemed her cousin realized what she had said, giggling and turning her gaze back to the men below.
<“At least you know he won’t die and embarrass you.”>
<“Yes, thank God that the Servant lives.”>
Najla’s sarcastic tone only caused her cousins smile to widen, though Najla had returned to fiddling with her bracelets, and therefore would not see it. Truthfully, Najla cared little for her pride in this moment. She only hoped that she had not made a mistake by giving Ketill the sword he’d asked for. His words had managed to nestle in her mind as they had in Osman’s before, and she found she could not shake them. Despite all the gold and silk that wrapped her body now, Najla found herself remembering what it was to be Saina, and she knew that Ketill was right.
She had always wanted more. Fear had prevented her from asking for it, but Najla had never been satisfied with what Ketill provided her. She could have taken Ghalid’s offer long before, and returned to her luxuries if she had wished, despite the price, but she had not wanted those luxuries. Najla had only ever wanted to be here. Her ‘world’ was comprised solely of those who shared her blood or name, it had always been. If Ketill truly intended to take her world, he would do well to start there. However, Najla did not know how much Ketill knew of her. Perhaps she was worrying too much, perhaps he thought her world was the wine and hash she ingested, or the gold and silk she donned. Najla hoped that was the truth, for he would have to tear down the Sultanate to take those away from her. In reality, her world could be taken with the swing of a blade, even if he did not want it.
It took a conscious effort to quit worrying as she looked down at Ketill once more. It made no sense to wonder about what mattered to her, that answer was easy. Najla could not understand what Ketill wanted. He had no wife or children to return to, no family that she knew of, so what was truly waiting for him outside the Sultanate? Did he wish to return to Coedwin that badly, to continue shedding Sawarim blood there?
Freedom in itself was a goal worth pursuing, Najla knew, but it told her nothing of who this man was. She had wanted freedom as well, especially when she had been handed off to the Servant as if she were a horse. Even then, freedom had meant she’d return to her family, not that she’d be allowed to return to a lifelong quest to spill Sawarim blood. She would ask Harith later, or perhaps her father, both people who could understand the Servant far better than she ever would. She could prod at his motives forever, but so long as Najla didn’t understand the need for blood, she would never know what to offer him beyond that. She was abruptly shaken from her thoughts when Zahira reached out and grabbed her hand, exclaiming loudly.
<“They’re starting!”>
Najla returned the tight grip on her hand briefly, only to be interrupted by Mehmet pulling at her skirt, as he seemed to have heard Zahira’s cry. She lifted her nephew back onto her hip, settling him as they watched Ketill approach the guard. There seemed to be no age at which the Sawarim saw fit to hide the violence of their society from children, unless they happened to be girls. Even then, it was no easy task to shield their eyes from it completly. When Ketill began smashing down upon the man’s shield, Najla would only hold Mehmet tighter, ignoring his excited words. In contrast to her nephew’s excitement, Najla could only watch in horror as Ketill jumped on top of the man, calling out a word she’d never heard, and would quickly turn Mehmet’s face away. Regardless of what other violence Mehmet had seen at his young age, Najla did not want him to see this. Though he struggled against the hand that blocked his vision, eager to see, Najla kept her hand in place, not allowing him to watch as the axe continued to pound away at the man below.
When Ketill finally got off the man, Najla let out a sigh of relief as she finally allowed her hand to drop. Mehmet’s complaints went ignored again, and Najla set him down, turning to instruct him to return to his mother. He would not move, and so she took his arm and led him over, listening as Zahira spoke behind her.
<“He’s so violent.”> She spoke breathlessly, never tearing her gaze off the men below. <“I can see that you were not exaggerating. None of the Al-Uba’yd could face him.”>
<“Not even your husband?”> Najla teased as she tried to help settle Mehmet beside his mother, smiling at the boy’s pleading to be allowed to see. She heard Zahira scoff behind her and turned her head back to glance at her briefly as she spoke.
<“My husband is a man. He has only ever fought men. How could he face that which he has never seen?”>
<“He stills bleeds. Bear or man, if he bleeds, he can be killed.”>
<“I suppose we’re about to see.”> Zahira’s tone had shifted, and Najla could hear her cousin’s smile in her voice. It was a tone she recalled from their days together before Zahira’s marriage, and one that had only ever caused her worry before. Najla looked back at her cousin, confused, though Zahira’s gaze was still on the ground below.
<“What do you-”> She wasn’t even able to finish her sentence before the realization caught up to her. The men she had chosen would never be a threat to Ketill, for even if she had not asked for these men to be disposable, she had seen how the quickly the last fight had ended. There were likely only a few exceptions on the training grounds, none of whom had volunteered earlier, though one in particular had been all too eager to test his strength. Najla rushed over to the balcony then, cursing loudly as she looked over only to have her fears confirmed. The string of words drew Adina beside her as well, who would let out a gasp at the sight.
<“Najla, you can’t let him.”>
There was no sense in responding. It had not been her choice from the beginning, Najla knew. If Harith had wanted to heed her request, he would have. He had chosen to be a warrior, but he had still been born a prince, and had learned to do as he pleased. Though Najla could hear Mehmet chirping behind her, begging his mother to be allowed to see, she ignored both him and his mother and continued to curse as if Harith could hear her.
It was to no avail, and the three of them were forced to watch as Ketill tackled Harith to the ground. For a brief moment, Najla felt some sense of excitement as Harith rolled on top of the Servant, but this was quickly cut short as she watched Ketill’s fist strike her brother in the face. As soon as Ketill had struck the final blow, Najla and Adina were already rushing down the stairs.
Najla would not even glance at Ketill as she rushed past the guards escorting him, though she knew Adina well enough to feel her angry gaze behind her. Najla was focused entirely on her brother, who was holding his nose in his hand still, and she rushed to his side quickly.
<“Tell me you’re okay.”>
<“I’m fine, I’m fine.”> He brushed off her words, just as he shooed away the guards that approached him now. He repeated these words to Adina when she approached, but Najla had already straightened up, and the anger had already started to filter into her gaze. When Adina was finally satisfied, Najla spoke again.
<“I told you not to fight him. You can’t go brawling with slaves every time you’re bored, you’re a fucking prince.”>
<“And I told you, if you wanted any sort of fight you’d have to give him a challenge. Not this lot.”>
<“You are not the only one able to wield a sword here!”>
<“Yes, but I’m the best.”>
Najla looked down at Harith’s grinning face in annoyance, though his eyes only glinted as he returned her gaze. He had been the most difficult of their family to handle, a secondborn son with little care and less responsibilities. Though Najla loved him dearly, times like this made it difficult to see why.
<“They’re going to say a Servant beat you empty-handed. You let him insult you even further by fighting without a weapon.”>
Harith let out a laugh at that, reaching a hand up to shoo away another handful of salves. <“Do you know so much about warfare that you can deem it an insult?”>
<“Clearly you don’t know that much either.”>
<“Maybe that’s why I'm not insulted.”>
For a moment, Najla only studied Harith’s face angrily. His grin never faded, as he could tell that Najla had nothing to retort with. It was a rare occasion when her words stopped, and Harith delighted in it now just as much as he had when they were children, laughing again when she caved and swatted at his arm.
<“I hope he punches your stupid smile off next. Where did you send him?”>
<“To a private room. I even sent him up a girl.”> He grinned up at Adina then, who was still looking down on her husband with a frown. No doubt, as soon as Najla was done unleashing her anger on him, his wife would pick it up rather quickly. However, Harith did not seem to know this, for he took his wife’s hand and kissed it. <“There’s really nothing like a beautiful woman after a fight.”>
<“You rewarded him for feeding you a mouthful of sand?!”> Harith would not even have time to reply to this, as Najla quickly turned around, childish words fleeing her mouth while her brother was still in range to hear it.
<“You absolute idiot, just wait until father sees what he did to your face.”> Even as she cursed however, this was cut short by the sound of Harith’s laughter from behind her. Even Najla could barely stop herself from smiling when she heard her brother's first line of defense as his wife picked up where Najla had left off.
<“To be honest, my love, I think he knocked my nose back into place.”>
Biting her lip to keep from smiling, Najla approached one of the guards quickly, her face stern once more when she looked up to give him an order.
<“Whatever harem girl he’s with, bring her to me whenever they’re done. And do not let them bring him back to the barracks. Whatever my brother gave him is the Servant’s now.”>
Najla made certain that the next few weeks would look quite similar to Ketill’s first day of training. She had little hand in that part, of course, choosing instead to leave that to her brother. Despite her anger with him for fighting Ketill at all, it was clear to Najla that there was little to be lost by it now, as the damage had already been done. She played little hand in the rest of his life as well, beyond instructing the guards and slaves that were meant to care for him. He would indeed be kept fit as Harith had commanded, no longer subject to the diet of a slave, but offered plenty of food, water, and wine, all of a noticeably higher quality. He would be given no other task during his time training, one of the few promises she elected to keep, as it seemed Najla had found her new use for him entirely more valuable. Ketill would be rewarded for this new use every so often, always with the same girl, accompanied by the promise that he could always ask for another when he tired of her. It was a harsh offer, but the harem girls were used to hearing it.
The only other factor that would change in Ketill’s routine were the spectators. Najla would appear often, though she would never stay longer than however long a conversation with her brother or a demonstration of Ketill’s training took. Zahira was often with her, as she had made her fascination with the Servant little secret, but the most noticeable came a week in. Initially, Basim would appear alone to join Harith, though never to fight himself. However, when he came with Najla later, it became apparent that she had allowed this, for whatever reason. One could assume many reasons, perhaps that Basim’s will had overridden hers, or that Najla had forgotten her irritation with him, but the truth hardly involved Basim.
The root of Basim’s involvement was not in Najla’s inability to control him, but Osman. He had refused to accompany her to the Al-Uba’yd tribe, angered both by Ketill’s presence and her own intentions there. Najla had responded to this by accusing him of placing his will above that of the Sultan’s, a notion which Osman had not responded well to. They fought without any of the courtesy they would have shown if arguing in the Sultan’s council chambers, and with little of the affection that lovers were meant to show. After a few days, and a particularly explosive fight, some business had been invented for Osman to remain in the capital, and Basim was invited to be her male escort for the journey. It was a minor victory for Osman, who covered his scratches with fabric, but to Najla, who covered the bruises on her neck and arms with gold, it was a loss she could not recover from. Their relationship would recover, she would continue her business, and the incident was easily kept between the two of them, but Najla herself could not, not yet.
She could have created numerous reasons to excuse his behavior. After all, he was her betrothed, and so she was to meant to show him deference as the Sawarim demanded of a wife. She was not meant to challenge his will, or replace it with her own, but to respect his authority as her husband. Surely calling Osman a useless coward, among other names, had been a violation of this. Despite the abundance of excuses, Najla did not bother to find one. It would not happen again. That was all that mattered.
Besides, in some wicked way, it would work out better this way for Najla. She knew enough of Thamud to know he was just the type of ambitious that grew bolder with a Sultana present, especially if her husband had been left at home. Basim was excited to go as well, as he was completely unaware of the reasons why. He only knew that his sister had apologized for trying to stop him from watching the Servant fight, and was eager to see more of the Sultanate. Therefore, when Basim joined Najla and Osman to discuss the matter, the boy had only been eager to listen and learn. By this point, keeping the truth from her brother had become second nature. The bruises on her skin were hidden carefully by fabric and gold, and she spoke to Osman in the tone she remembered best, that of a dear friend and a devoted lover.
Preparing her brother had been a final concession Osman had made to Najla. Truly, it was little concession. It would seem strange to many, including Basim, if he shirked his duties on this matter entirely, regardless of what excuse Najla invented for him this time. The Sultan had unofficially granted Najla and Zahira authority on this matter, for Zahira’s husband was a man of the tribe, and Najla was willing to do anything to see the treaty pass. Officially however, it would be Basim that replaced her bethrothed to speak her words. Basim did not seem to realize that entirely, for her will had been the Sultan’s will after all, but he understood that Najla could not be the one to negotiate all on her own. There was no doubt that she held far more influence in the Sultanate than her younger brother, but by the customs of the Sultanate and the laws of the Sawarim, it would be her brothers will that would be formally reckoned with. It was an exhausting notion when she had first started to deal with such issues, but Najla had since grown used to speaking through a man’s voice.
It took some time before Basim was ready to be that voice, but in the few weeks that Ketill was made to train, Basim was readied as well. It seemed that despite his initial excitement, the more Najla and Osman told him of the Al-Uba’yd and the tribesmen, the faster his excitement faded. He was worried he would not be able to hold himself as a prince among them, that they would test his strength or violence, and that he would fail. In contrast, Najla had every confidence in her brother, for she believed his intelligence would carry him until his experience could. Those words had been her final comfort to him the night before they left, just before she shooed him out of the room to get some rest and closed the door behind him, allowing her to say her goodbyes to Osman.
<“You shouldn’t have told him how much of the vipers sweat he’d have to drink, you scared that poor boy half to death.”>
Najla’s sentence ended as she turned to look at Osman, who sat in the seat before her desk, grinning. He had not intended to worry him, but the look of dread on Basim’s face had been amusing to both of them.
<“I only wanted to warn him. Wouldn’t it have been worse if he got there expecting wine?”>
Najla giggled at that as she walked towards Osman, reaching up to pull an earring out of her ear. She stood beside the desk, pretending as if she could not feel her lover’s eyes on her, watching as she pulled off her jewelry. Najla stared out into the darkness of the courtyard as she pulled the bracelets from her wrist, their jingle now piercing in the silence when she placed them upon her desk. Finally, she reached up to pull the chains from around her neck, only to be stopped by a hand reaching out towards her. She barely stopped herself from flinching, but it was unnecessary. Osman’s touch was gentle when he took her hand, and when he pulled her towards him, at which Najla obliged. His touch was still gentle when he raised her hand, pressing his lips to the green bruises that marked her wrist, though Najla’s gaze was emotionless as she watched him.
<“May all your pain fall onto me.”>
She did not respond. Instead, Najla drew her hand out of his gently, pulling the tangle of necklaces over her head all at once. She set this on the desk as well, brushing her hair back to reveal the rest of his handiwork. The bruising stretched from the lower parts of her neck to her collarbone, just where he had held her to keep her against the wall as he spat insults into her ear. Now, his voice held none of the venom as he stood up behind her, leaning down to kiss her neck. She felt her skin tingle as his lips brushed against the delicate skin gently, yet remained silent.
<“Allow me to apologize until I have no breath left. I would rather die than live knowing I have caused you pain.”>
They were pretty words to Najla, empty, considering he had already caused her pain, but she had appreciated hearing them regardless. He had apologized to her countless times, and she had forgiven him, but she had not brought him into her bed since. Osman had continued to speak these pretty, empty words for some days now, and Najla had not seen her bruises heal any faster as a result. Even knowing this, her voice only held affection for her betrothed when she finally spoke.
<“You’ve apologized enough. Truthfully, I am amazed you any have breath left at all.”> She turned around then, now facing Osman. He had not pulled away from her, and so she reached out and placed her hands on his chest gently, tilting her head up to speak to him. <“I do not want to hear you apologize. Just tell me you will miss me.”>
Osman chuckled, and she felt his hands grip her waist, pulling her towards him to close the small space that remained between them. <“I’ll be useless at anything else.”> He paused then, and when he began speaking in her ear again, Najla found herself remembering why she had devoted so much of her life and heart to this man. <"Just like the first time you left me, when I had only just arrived. Without warning, you were gone. I spent days hoping to run into you before I found out you were on some business.">
<"I remember. You were one of the first to greet me when I returned, before my own mother could see me.">
<"I still insist that was an accident.">
Najla let out a soft, happy laugh, though it was just as pleasant to have it cut off when his lips touched hers. Her bruises forgotten, Najla returned his embrace fervently, only to pull away after a few moments.
<“Do not go to Elif tonight.”> Coming from another’s lips, this would have sounded like a plea, to keep her lover from going to his wife. Yet Najla was still a Sultana, and her words were spoken far more like a command than a request. <“Stay with me.”>
<“What would I tell Elif? She knows you are leaving-”>
He clearly intended to push his point further, but Najla would not allow it. Her brow furrowed slightly as she interrupted him, and when she spoke again her voice sounded a little less like a command and a little more like a plea.
<“It doesn’t matter. I don’t care. Just stay.”>
Najla awoke earlier than the rest of those she was meant to travel with, earlier than even the slaves that were to ready them. The desert sky was still dark when she sent Osman off to return to his room. There would be no chance to return to sleep, and so Najla prepared herself to travel quickly, hiding her bruises under fine fabric once more. It would be early in the morning when Najla, Basim, and Zahira would leave the capital with an escort of guards and a small following of slaves, including Ketill.
Despite the splendor they lived their lives in, it seemed the royal family did not travel accordingly. Najla had dealt with tribesmen long enough to know that they would never hold respect for her if she appeared to them pulled along by an animal, or worse, in a litter held up by slaves. No Sawarim would follow a leader who couldn’t ride alongside them, even if Najla would never be the one to ride into battle with them. They traveled over the course of two days, at an exhausting pace, barely resting until nightfall, but it would not show on the faces of the royals who arrived. As Najla had told Basim, they were never to mention their exhaustion, even when the Al-Uba’yd invited them to rest. Instead, they would refuse, allowing the slaves and guards to deal with settling them in, and go visit Thamud’s aging father before they were able to sit. Basim had been annoyed at this notion before, claiming that even the slaves would get to rest before he did, but he understood the appearances they were meant to keep, even if he had a difficult time doing so.
This had been one of Zahira’s greatest concerns, but they knew that the Al-Uba’yd would only be happy to claim that the Sultan’s nephew stayed among them. It was not as if he’d have to do much either, for behind closed doors, Najla would need to do most of the actual negotiating. Still, it was a delicate business, and the three of them would continue to speak on it in great detail when they were able to ride slowly enough to do so, though always just barely away from the ears of guards or slaves.
<“Of course, if we could just make Thamud give those damned horses back, all this would be far easier.”> Najla complained, her voice mirroring the exhaustion on her brother’s expression.
<“That’s what Cousin Akbar said. He said it’d be easiest to give him another wife and move on.”>
<“A Sultana for two dozen horses? Akbar has little respect for the women who will spend their days drinking desert dust.”> She paused for a moment, looking over at Zahira. <“Of course, I mean no offense.”>
<“And I took none.”> Zahira looked back at Basim now, a smile on her lips. <“Najla is right. Ask Akbar what luxuries he’d willing to relinquish for this treaty, you’ll see how differently his answer sounds.”>
<“Do you not like it here?”>
<“I do, truthfully, but I agreed long before I did. We must all do our duty to the Sultan, not all of us get to choose as Akbar does.”>
Or as I did. The thought made Najla smile slightly. It was not a smile born out of humor, for she could still feel the bruises fading under the fabric and gold, but she did not regret her choice to pursue Osman. It was simply amusing to consider that Zahira was about to take control of a tribe, alongside a husband who wouldn’t dare to stand in her way for something as silly as pride, while Najla’s choice had left her with someone who was all too eager to do so.
<“Do you know anything about how my people live?”>
<“Yes. Najla told me a lot about the Al-Uba’yd.”>
<“Like what?”>
Basim glanced up at Najla, though he got nothing from her. There was no need, Basim was not looking to her for permission, she knew her brother too well. He had agreed not to come to Ketill’s training before she had allowed it simply because he wanted his sister to be happy, not because she had asked him to. He was still his own man, though a far gentler one than his brothers.
<“Well, she told me that they started out as nomadic raiders. They were fighting with a lot of other small clans, but they took control of the Bahr al-Akhdar Oasis. The other clans they fought with faded off, didn’t they? They’re fighting with a new village.”>
<“They are not fighting yet, by the grace of God’s will, let us hope it remains that way. But do you know why the other tribes ‘faded’?”>
He hesitated for a moment, then nodded. <“You said they cut off all access to the oasis for them, right Najla?”>
<“They did. They ended entire bloodlines without swinging a sword. That was before they were loyal to the Sultanate however, it has not happened since the first time. But they love to tell that story, both to us and to the tribes that rely on the water they control. Don’t let them frighten you with it. They need the trade their oasis brings just as the traders need the water. It is Thamud that forgets himself.”>
They would arrive near dusk, tired of these conversations, and the abating heat of the sun, to a welcome view. They had traveled deep into the desert territories of the Sultanate, and here, the immense dunes would finally part to reveal the most precious sight to a Sawarim: water. The Bahr al-Akhdar Oasis was enormous, lined by date palms and various other trees, a blue and green beacon of life where there had only been a parched desert before. Now, it was not alone, as many of the villages surrounding it would have irrigated their fields precisely, leaving small, careful fields of various fruits for their people to eat. It seemed a precarious way to live, to spend year after year praying the water was enough and raiders wouldn’t come, but those who lived here knew no differently.
There was a small village built around the oasis, painstakingly built from whatever materials traders could bring through, or they could find in the vast emptiness around them. Thus, most of the village itself was built out of a clay-like mixture they were able to develop from the sand around them, and was used almost entirely for those who traded through the oasis. Most of the Al-Uba’yd themselves lived in tents, as their raiding forefathers did, and though the current aging leader did live within these sand structures, their son, Thamud, had opted to live as his people did. There was no doubt that this had been a praiseworthy move, and that his people had admired him for it, but it meant that Khaldun’s other sons needed to follow, a fact Zahira had despised. It seemed that they were already expecting their guests however, for the oasis below them had been lit up by fires and torches, and the sounds of laughter and voices creeped up from the tents packed some ways behind the village itself. Of course, they would not be able to approach such an area uncontested, and Najla had seen the trackers watching their movements along the path. However it was only now, as they began to near the oasis itself, that riders would come to greet them.
Three men wearing the white long, loose robes of the Sawarim approached them, led by a man who didn’t seem to feel the beginnings of the desert cold at night. He was bare-chested, though his head was covered, and held no weapon on his person. None of the others did either, for it seemed the trackers had done their job well enough, and let them know that the expected royals would be the next approaching. Najla commanded a guard to stop, and while he relayed the command to those who served her, Basim, Najla and Zahira rode forward to meet them. They stopped just before each other, and Najla silently watched as Zahira to gave her brother-in-law an informal greeting before she kicked her horse past him, to one of the men behind him, who was apparently her husband.
Thamud turned to face the pair of siblings waiting to greet him then, bowing his head low before kicking his horse closer to them. Neither Basim nor Najla would return the gesture, as expected, and were silent until Thamud began to speak. There was no doubt he was a tribesman long before he spoke, betrayed by his scarred chest, sharp cheekbones, sun-darkened skin, and the characteristic beard. His throaty voice acted as a confirmation. The Sawarim children that dwelt in cities were always told tribesmen spoke like that because they swallowed the sand that walls could block, and it cut away at their throats. Perhaps that was why the people seemed happy even living in their poverty, for at least they could be grateful for their walls.
<“Basim Sultanim, we are honored by your presence. May you stay as our blood and tread as easily as your journey.”>
<“May the Sawarim bless you and your blood, Thamud Khan, it is an honor to meet you.”>
Najla glanced over at Basim as he spoke, and when she looked back towards Thamud, her smile was no longer cordial, but proud. The rather formal words were irritating for Basim to learn, but he looked every part the prince when he spoke them now. Thamud turned his gaze towards her then, bowing his head once more.
<“Sultana, it is an honor to call you our guest. Your reputation precedes you, but you are just as welcome. I aspire to make the harsh journey worth your while.”> The rather formal welcome was a surprise coming from the tribesman who sat on his horse before her, but Najla smile indicated none of this.
<“May the Sawarim reward you for you hospitality, my friend. I have heard much regarding the Al-Uba’yd, and you.”> At that, she paused, making a point to look upon the scars that raked his chest. She looked back up at Thamud then, the smile growing slightly on her face as she spoke. <“To meet those behind such stories has made it a worthwhile journey already.”>
Thamud looked slightly surprised at her words, for they were spoken slightly more intimately than these greetings usually consisted of, but it did not seem enough to truly shock him. They would quickly ride past to greet the other members of his family, and when Thamud invited them to rest, Najla stayed silent as Basim replied, now consciously trying to suppress the pride in her expression when he spoke again.
<“We are not so tired that we have forgotten your father, Thamud Khan. Will you allow us to greet him before we can rest?”>
The tribesmen would oblige quickly, sending the guards and slaves towards the tents, where it seemed the royals would be staying. Thamud had offered to make space in the village, but the royal party had refused without hesitation. They could stay in no greater comfort than their hosts did. It was yet another of the endless list of rules that only served to create a proper appearance for the Sultan’s family. Perhaps it would have been unnecessary, for it was not as if the tribesmen would come to dismiss their authority should they choose to sleep in greater comfort, but experience had taught Najla better. As she had explained to Basim, those that a tribesman bowed to, and those that they treated with, were not always quite the same people.
Thus, it was the slaves and guards that were allowed to set up their tents and rest, even as the royals quickly rode down the length of the oasis to one of the small buildings in the village. Those they passed kneeled low to them, as most would when not on horseback, but the few that would not, the royals were unbothered by. These were men who wrestled sheep to the ground, at various areas around the camp and village so they would not see other animals being slaughtered, then cut their throats swiftly, allowing the blood to drain. It was a careful process, to be done according to every will of the God that granted them such food, and the royals allowed them to do so without interruption as they rode on into the village.
There, they greeted Khaldun Al-Uba’yd quickly, insisting that he not rise from his bed. He would move to bow his head, but Najla’s gesture interrupted this quickly, and she took his hand, pressing it against her forehead. It was a gesture nearly similar in respect to how she greeted the Sultan, but the Sawarim believed there was no respect too great for a tribe’s elders. Basim and Zahira followed suit quickly, and they spoke to the chief only briefly before they returned to their tents to ready themselves for the night.
It did not take much for the Al-Uba’yd to prepare for the celebrations, and the tribe had gathered around the center of their camp rather quickly as the travelers rested briefly. Here, they had set up a canopy in the center, under which Najla and her family had been placed. Most of the tribesmen that sat under there seemed to have some importance initially, members of Thamud’s family and warriors within his tribe, but as the night continued, this distinction became impossible to hold. They filtered in and out from under the canopy as they pleased, though they did not have this same freedom in approaching the royals in the center, as most only approached when encouraged by Thamud. Those that did were greeted graciously by Najla and Basim from their positions beside Thamud, though they never stayed long.
Basim was seated on Thamud’s right, as was expected. Najla likely should have been seated on his right, or even farther, besides Zahira and her husband. It would be a far more difficult situation in a court, for though she was a princess, she was still a woman, and it would be rude to seat her next to men all night. However, lounging on the cushions to Thamud’s left, Najla made a stark contrast to most of the women here. They all wore loose dresses that left no skin uncovered to the heat of the sun, and many wore head coverings even now. Some even wore masks of fabric, beads, and even coins threaded together, which would cover their foreheads and noses, exposing only their mouths and the thin tattoos that marked them as married. Zahira and Najla had both donned these masks as well, though theirs were made of interlocking golden chains. Under the rustle of this jewelry, Najla had stained her lips a dark red, and her kohl-rimmed eyes flashed mischievously as they peered out from her mask.
Najla wore a few thin gold circlets wrapped around her neck tightly, just enough to cover the bruising on her skin. Her dress was far simpler than usual as well, loose and long-sleeved so as to cover her wrists, though it had a neckline that dropped sharply, barely threatening to reveal the curve of her breasts. She had made certain none of the green that dotted the side of her collarbone was visible. Dressing was a more precarious business than she’d imagined, for Najla was not used to worrying about what skin to hide under what. Perhaps it would have been easier to cover herself up entirely as most of the women of the tribe did, but she had not forgotten who was entertaining her tonight. It seemed her host could not forget either.
<“Sultana, forgive me but I need to ask.”>
<“Hm?”> Najla raised an eyebrow, looking up at Thamud. His eyes were locked firmly onto hers, and Najla would not look away, but returned his gaze with a sweet smile. <“What need is there for forgiveness between friends? Ask, please.”>
She watched as Thamud grinned, and followed as he pulled his gaze off of her and onto where Ketill had been seated, just outside the canopy with the other royal slaves. Thamud’s grin did not die down, but Najla found that it was more difficult to keep up her charming smile when she was staring at a man that wanted to kill her. Reaching for her glass, Najla forcibly swallowed another sip of that horrible cloudy drink, just to have something to hide the fading smile behind as they spoke.
<“I’ve heard many stories about the Servants. After seeing one, I have no reason to doubt them.”>
<“Are you wondering how I survived? Or do you wish to know which of the stories are true?”>
<“Neither, Sultana. I want to why you kept him.”>
Najla giggled at that, a sound which drew Thamud’s gaze off of Ketill and back onto her. Najla was slightly slower at doing so, and it took a few moments before she wrenched her gaze off Ketill and back up at her host.
<“I am not a warrior, Thamud. I do not have your strength, or else perhaps I could have captured and killed him myself. But it was not so. It was the will of the Sawarim that he should be mine, and he delivered him to me. I simply did not want to interfere with that will.”>
<“It is an honorable thing, to act in the will of God. Has he converted?”>
<“No. But I have not deemed him hopeless yet. Any savage can become civilized.”>
<“Through the word or through the sword, no?”>
Najla’s grin answered him, and she raised her glass to take another sip of the drink before setting it down. She had grown tired of talking about Ketill already, for she knew that she would be spending much of the next day doing so. Now, she had Thamud’s full attention, and intended on keeping it for the rest of the night. It would not be a difficult feat, for though Najla did not believe he was enamored with her, at least not yet, she knew she had captured his interest. These tribesmen were easier to handle in certain regards, for he had not learned to watch where his eyes moved or the tone of his words, even while Najla manipulated hers carefully.
<“Bring me a sword to match his, and perhaps I’d be more inclined to try that way.”>
<“I have plenty to match his, Sultana.”>
<“Do not risk the lives of your men to prove it, Thamud Khan. I believe the Al-Uba’yd are skilled warriors, there are none that doubt that. But he is a beast, your men will not return to their families.”>
<“They would be proud to do so. They die of dust and thirst every day, a chance to die as a witness will be a blessing.”>
Thamud motioned a slave over to refill her glass, and Najla raised her glass to allow the girl to pour more easily, despite not wanting it. She continued to sip it slowly as the two talked, and for some time, she had nothing else to distract herself with. Basim was doing quite well, it seemed the tribesmen liked him, though that was no surprise to Najla. His endless questions annoyed his family often, but the warriors of Thamud’s tribe appreciated having a prince to brag to, and Basim was enjoying their stories. That left little that could distract Thamud from this Sultana that seemed intrigued by him, and the pair spoke without interruption until a small group of women filed into the tent.
The noise would not quiet as some passed trays of food between the guests, but some did halt their speech as Thamud stood, leaving her side to approach a woman holding a tray. From that, he lifted a knife, sharp and tinged with dried blood, before walking towards Basim. Though Basim had seen this tradition often, it would be his first time accepting it himself. By showing him the knife, Thamud was telling Basim that he had slaughtered the meat himself according to God’s law. The importance of a few words could not be downplayed, and Najla watched her younger brother carefully, studying his face for any signs of distaste as Thamud bowed to him.
<“It is an honor to give our sheep to feed such guests. All the food before you has been slaughtered by the laws of God, laws we are honored to serve the Sultan under.”>
Basim did not hesitate, and nodded at Thamud before reaching out and taking the knife by it’s hilt. He set it down some ways before him, where it would be in plain sight of all those eating their dinner alongside Thamud. It was an acknowledgement that this meal was not for them, but to survive another day to serve their God, and an intense expression of gratitude for those to whom such meat was precious. When he spoke, he did so well, his voice carrying out beyond the canopy, and Najla looked on Basim proudly as he did.
<“A thousand blessings upon you and your people, my friend. May the Sawarim reward you for your gracious hospitality and your faithfulness to the Sultan.”>
With that, the noise would only bounce back tenfold as the tent grew more crowded, with food and drink being passed around as guests laughed and spoke loudly. Najla however, did not touch her plate until Thamud returned to be seated beside her. He was the last to be served in the tent, just before the slaves, as was custom for the host, and yet Najla waited regardless.
<“Sultana, you have had a hard travel, there is no need to wait.”> Thamud spoke even as a woman finally placed a plate of food before him. <“Although you are kind for doing so.”>
<“It is no kindness, my friend.”> Najla smiled, finally ripping a piece of bread to pick up some of the meat with. <“A meal’s taste lies in the company you eat with, no?”>
It seemed that Najla was committed to making certain that Thamud’s meal tasted better than usual. She had learned how to flirt like a Sultana when she had been a young girl, and she could tell by the amused glances that Zahira threw at her that she was following her teachings to the letter. Perhaps it would have seemed useless, seeing as she’d left a husband-to-be waiting at the capital, but it was rare that those a Sultana flirted with would ever make it to her bed. The trick was to make each man they spoke to feel as if he was different than the rest, a far easier feat when the man in question believed it already.
To anyone that was watching Najla, she would have seemed nothing less than courteous, especially since her more flirtatious attentions were devoted solely to one man. However, to those who knew her well, the difference in her behavior was easily apparent. She sat close to Thamud, and sometimes found herself whispering in his ear as if telling him a secret. When he would reply, she would tuck her hair back to expose the unbruised skin of her neck, giggling lightly at his words and offering a carefully worded compliment she did not mean. Dinner had taken some time, but by the end of it, Najla believed it would not be difficult to goad Thamud into proving himself against Ketill if need be. When she caught her cousin’s wink, it seemed as if Zahira believed so too.
Despite the traveler’s exhaustion, dinner would not mark the end of the celebrations. Najla had warned Basim that this would likely be the case, though he had drank enough that he seemed to be enjoying himself still, with little care as to his fatigue. Those who sat under the canopy filed out slowly, towards those dancing around a large fire that had been stacked in the center of the camp. This celebration would be nothing like that of Najla’s engagement, for though they were celebrating her arrival, these were still tribesmen. The pulsing beat of the drum was nearly drowned out by their laughter and teasing, and it was not uncommon that this laughter would give way to blows. To the families of the drunkards, it would be a source of shame in the morning, but Najla paid it no mind from where she watched besides the fire. They were weaponless after all, so there was little danger of them losing anything but their dignity.
It was a shock to Basim the first time he watched a man pounce on another, knocking him to the ground before he began to rain clumsy, drunken blows on him. However, as the warriors he’d befriended began to laugh, he did as well, and when it happened again, Basim reacted just as they did. From where Najla sat beside her cousin and some of the other women, she beamed with pride as she watched him. Despite the gold circlet around her head now, Najla was not allowed to do all that she pleased, a fact that became quite apparent around the fire. Unless slaves were performing, the only ones that danced around the fire were men and children, while women lounged on cushions watching them. Here, she would not be able to dance as she did to her engagement, but that didn’t stop her from continuing to drink what the Sawarim deemed ‘vipers sweat’, singing along to the songs she knew, and clapping along to the beat of the drums.
It was clear in her interactions with the tribesmen that Najla had experience in the matter. She was not like Basim, who her mother claimed had ‘an easy path from heart to heart’. His practiced mannerisms had brought admiration and he was a likeable personality as it was. For Najla, her movements were not quite so natural, but born out of practice and clearly set rules on how a Sultana must behave. She would laugh and trade harmless gossip with the women who grew comfortable enough, and trade polite words and blessings with those who were far shyer. Children would often approach curiously, the first being a rather brave few, but they grew braver when a young girl asked if she could try on her crown. Her request startled the girls mother, and she had moved to yank her daughter away, but Najla politely refused the girl with a smile, and would move to brush off her mothers concerns quickly.
<“Sultana, forgive her, she is too young to know what it meant to ask for your crown.”>
<“There is nothing to forgive. I deem it no insult to ask, it is simply that few are granted the request.”> Najla spoke, looking up at the girl’s worried mother with a kind smile. <“Besides, perhaps it is a blessing. A girl who is so bold as to ask for a crown will be well-suited to wear one in the future.”>
It seemed a simple gesture, but Najla had long learned the appeal of such empty promises. After all, each woman here with an eligible daughter was eyeing Basim carefully, hoping that their young girl might be the one to catch his eye and become his first wife. It was an unlikely notion, especially considering that he could not see their daughter’s faces, but Najla was not above pretending as if she would be open to such a conversation, even if the girl in her lap was far too young to be a potential bride. They continued to speak amongst themselves, the girl’s mother now placated entirely, until the conversation slowly turned to a presence on the edge of the camp. He had been a subject of interest for some time, but when Zahira spoke his name, Najla was quick to pay attention once more.
<“I only saw him fight at court, and even that was a sight to behold. I can’t imagine what he was like before. Do you remember, Najla?”>
Najla smiled at that, turning her head to look at her cousin. <“Of course. I could not forget.”>
<“I do not know how you survived, Sultana.”> The comment came from one of the masked women, and Najla’s smiled only widened at that, aware of the women’s undivided attention now.
<“He never turned his sword on me. He fought for me then, just as he does now.”>
<“You speak as if he was in love with you.”> Zahira’s eyes were teasing above her golden chains, though Najla only giggled at the thought. She did not mind the teasing, both her and Zahira knew the types of rumors women chose to spread, and it was always easier to address these before they could.
<“The Servant has never loved anything beyond the blood he sheds.”> She glanced around at the other women then, trying to read their expressions from their eyes alone. <“He obeys me. He loves to kill. I have never seen a beast designed so singularly for the purpose of bloodshed.”>
Her introduction had intrigued the women, and for some time, Najla and Zahira watched with knowing smiles as the women offered various questions as politely as they could, until finally, Najla called a slave girl over. With a quick command, she ordered her to bring Ketill to her. He would be placed before the intrigued, masked huddle of women, made to stand and wait as Najla’s eyes studied him from over her golden mask. She would not be the first to speak. Instead, Zahira rose and stepped closer to Ketill. For a moment, there was a flash of worry in Najla’s eyes. The two were dressed similarly, and if it had not been for the mark of Zahira’s marriage upon her face, perhaps they would have been indistinguishable tonight. However, her cousin held little fear as she reached her hand out towards Ketill’s arm, though it would come through in her hesitation just before she could touch it.
<“How do I know he won’t hurt me?”>
Najla let out a soft laugh then, though her gaze was on Ketill when she spoke, not on her cousin. <“If Servants sharpened their swords on women, they wouldn’t be so skilled,”> She replied, switching to Broacianen rapidly afterwards.
“No one's going to beat you.” She reassured him quickly, making it rather obvious that she had not forgotten what he had done to Osman. “Though I do not believe you to be a murderer of women anyways.” She would be an exception to that statement, Najla knew, but she hoped that her cousin would not be. Zahira gripped his bicep then, giggling as she tried to wrap her hand around it, but the women would not be given long to coo over Ketill before a familiar voice boomed over the crowd to interrupt them.
<“Sultana, you bring the Servant to the women before us?”>
Najla giggled, tearing her gaze from Ketill to Thamud, who walked towards the women. He stopped only a few paces from Ketill, standing at a respectable distance from the group, but Najla motioned him closer to her.
<“I wanted to offer him a real challenge first.”> Her teasing was met with Thamud’s outstretched hand, which she took to rise from her current seat among the women. Thamud laughed at that, before turning to look at the men seated some ways behind him.
<“Any of my warriors could face the Servant!”> This claim brought a round of cheers from his people, though the women behind Najla stayed oddly silent, worried about which of their husbands and brothers would be foolish enough to step forward. Najla leaned in closer to Thamud’s ear then, and she could smell the stench of alcohol on his breath as she whispered to him.
<“I came here so that your people would see no bloodshed in resolving this conflict. Do not ask them to throw away their lives without reason.”>
<“I am not asking, Sultana.”> Thamud replied, his voice respectful even though he whispered in her ear as a familiar. <“If you should allow them a chance to fight him, then you will see how many ache for the chance to prove their devotion to you and the Sultan.”>
Truthfully, Najla had wanted this. It would be far easier to manipulate the discussions with such an impressive demonstration of the Sultan’s power the night before, and Ketill would once again be ordered to fight the next day anyways, when the Banu Dunya people arrived to agree upon the terms of a renegotiated contract. The Al-Uba’yd had already planned to celebrate even more than they did upon the royal’s arrivals, but they would not be able to do so once more until the new pact had been agreed upon. Perhaps it would be better to blood Ketill early, to give him a taste of what was to come after the negotiations. However, when she nodded, it would seem almost as if Thamud had convinced her.
<“I will ask no man to fight, and neither will you. They will choose themselves, and one will fight him.”>
Her next words were spoken louder, allowing most of his people to hear her command. It was the first time she’d spoken so directly to Thamud, without any of the flirtatious tones in her voice, and though he seemed somewhat surprised, the shouts of his warriors distracted him. While he moved to choose among the volunteers, Najla turned to Ketill then.
“You're finally going to get your blood, Ketill. I hope you’re not too tired. It’d be humiliating for me if you died now.”
Her words were spoken emotionlessly, though he would be able to see her smile from under the golden mask, as if amused by the thought. Perhaps that had been her true purpose. It would be an easy solution to a difficult problem if he was to die among the Al-Uba’yd.
While Thamud chose a warrior from among the many men who volunteered, Najla walked closer towards where her younger brother sat, among the warriors. Another followed her, a woman with all but her eyes and a thin black tattoo under her mouth covered. Ketill would be led away from the women and brought to follow, positioned where all the tribe could see him. The volunteer came as well, and did not look at the Servant, only kneeling before Najla briefly before his wife approached him. If there was any doubt it was his wife, it was broken quickly when the man handed her a sharp knife. It was a traditional protection, a confusing process to Ketill, certainly, but it would be clarified rather quickly when one of Najla’s guards stepped forward, an axe in one hand and a thin knife in the other.
The tribesmen had begun to gather, their voices reduced to a whisper as gossip filtered back through the guests, explaining what was to happen. They gathered at some distance before the great fire they had gathered around, in order to allow the fighters room, but otherwise, they packed themselves tightly to watch. Perhaps it would seem strange to Ketill that many of the women chose to leave, or turn their heads away, though the children were allowed to peer through the crowd without a hand to block them. Death was a fact of life here, there was no sense in hiding it. From behind Thamud and Najla, a man stood, and as the guard handed Najla the thin blade as well, the drums began. It was a fast, steady beat, and the rhythmic beats of the tribesmens fists upon their chests mirrored it as a voice began to sing behind them. As the tribesmen would raise their voice to follow the prayer, Najla moved onto her knees. Even a Sultana kneeled before her God.
Before she took the knife, Najla reached up, pushing the circlet on her head back slightly. She would not remove it, even now, but did not want it stained just yet. No glance would be given to Ketill, though as Najla took the thin knife from her guard, she realized that it was the first time he’d ever seen her pray.
She did so with her eyes closed, her voice unwavering as it joined the others, and her chin raised high. The woman beside her was quite a different picture, as she had heard all of Najla’s boasting before, but she did not stumble over her words either. They were too familiar. As she chanted, Najla raised the blade, then brought it down on her forehead in a simple, practiced motion. She’d done this before, clearly, and had left a small incision from which blood began to trickle down her face. The woman beside her raised her blade as well, though not to her forehead. Instead, she sliced her chin delicately, following the line of the tattoo that marked her as a wife, and in a few minutes, a widow. Najla did not wince as the blade found her, though her prayer halted only briefly before she picked it up again.
The chanting had not stopped when Najla rose, nor did the prayer of the woman beside her. Had Ketill been able to understand the Sawarim prayers, he would have known why, for the others needed no explanation. Najla had asked for the Sawarim to bless her slave’s blade, so that he may fight in her place. The woman beside her had asked for the same, but the rest of her prayer called for God to bring mercy upon her husband and to cast his pain on another. Najla wanted none of the Servants pain. Thus, she took the guards hand and stood, smearing the blood on her knife onto the axe he had brought. A slave girl rushed towards her with a rag, which Najla took, pressing it against her forehead. Some of her hair was matted with the blood, but she didn’t seem to notice quite yet. Instead, her eyes bore into Ketill’s as she spoke.
“You wanted my blood so badly, here you are. A few drops of a Sultana’s blood is a fair price for a man’s head.”
She would not allow Ketill much time to question her actions, though none seemed surprised that she would cut herself for him. It was to be expected after all, for by spilling her blood for that of her husbands, the woman beside Najla was asking the Sawarim that all her husband’s pain fall onto her. For Najla to allow her Servant to fight a man blessed by the Sawarim and win, edged dangerously close to allowing a Monarchist to best her God. By blessing his axe as well, whether or not he wished to use it, Najla was indicating that the Servant was under her protection. She was a Sultana, a position granted to her and protected by the grace of the Sawarim, surely the protection her prayer granted was enough even for a Monarchist. At least, if Ketill had asked, this would have been her explanation. She would not tell him that among the tribesmen, it was also a preemptive form of mourning. Instead, she would step back and take Thamud’s hand once more as he helped her seat herself against the cushions again. Her voice barely carried over the sound of the continued chanting as she spoke to Ketill again.
“Make it a good show. Then you’ll be allowed to rest until tomorrow.”
It was late in the night when Thamud escorted her back to her tent, and they finally abandoned the endless stretch of stars and drum beating. The tribe’s spirits would not be dampened by the violence they saw, and many continued to drink behind them, however, Najla had finally decided that she was allowed to show some of her exhaustion. They laughed together as they walked across the sands to her waiting tent, only to have Najla startle when Thamud began to reach towards her face.
<“Forgive me Sultana, you are bleeding again.”> Najla looked to his hand to see he was holding a rag, and despite wondering where he had pulled that from, Najla took it without hesitation. She pressed the rag to her forehead, looking up at Thamud again with a smile.
<“It would be less painful to cut your lip, Sultana. Perhaps next time.”>
It was the boldest phrase Thamud had spoken that night, a phrase which she had every right to strike him for. It was a phrase he would never have spoken if Osman had been here, if she had not invited it throughout the night, or if he had not had far too much to drink. Still, he was a tribesman, any courtly courtesy was a mask that could be snatched away, just as Osman’s had when she had gone against his wishes. Najla would not punish him for it.
<“As it is not the tradition of the Al-Suwaidi to do so, I doubt I shall ever see that day.”> For a moment, her words sounded like a warning. Perhaps it was a slip, an underlying hint at her true feelings for the man she’d been speaking so sweetly to, but Najla’s next words would only embolden him tenfold.
<“Then again, I doubt I shall ever see the day a man could best my Servant. I suppose tonight was the closest any man had ever gotten.”> A lie, but all her words had been. <“Perhaps once I see such a sight, I will stop doubting altogether.”> She finally turned to look up at Thamud then, smiling sweetly as she stretched her hand out to him. Thamud took this quickly, pressing his lips to her hand and then pressing her hand to his forehead, before releasing her.
<“Sleep well, Sultana.”>
<“And you, my friend.”>
She would not sleep just yet, it seemed, for Najla had only started to remove her jewelry when a figure barged in. It was a lucky thing, for she had just been about to undo the clasp of her necklaces before she turned to see her brother stumble in. He had drank carefully, never too much to lose his senses, but Najla could not help but smile as she reached to help him sit.
<“Aren’t you exhausted? Go sleep, you’ll have a long day tomorrow.”>
<“On what, the sand?”>
<“You have a bed.”>
Basim did not reply to her, and Najla studied his expression carefully. It would only take a few moments for Najla to speak, and she talked as if she had understood the source of his silence in such a short time.
<“You did well today, Basim. I have no doubt you’ll do well tomorrow. The Al-Uba’yd like and respect you, you have given them every reason to do so. Go sleep, please.”> He did not answer again, and Najla sighed, sitting on the cushions beside him. <“I’m exhausted. For my sake, go to bed.”>
Finally, Basim answered her. His mouth did not open, but he reached into the pocket of his pants, pulling out an object that fit into his fist. When he turned his fist to open it, Najla's eyes widened, and she repressed the urge to slap it out of his hand. Instead, she gripped his hand tightly, studying the Monarchist cross she had not seen in years.
<“Where the hell did you get this?!”>
<“One of the warriors. Abd al-Ad..Abkar, maybe. No, Akbar.”>
<“We'll try again when you're sober. Where did HE get it from?”>
<“He said they raided a caravan along one of these routes, and he took it off a corpse. He brought it back to burn it before his next raid, apparently. He said it would give him luck.”>
<“Why does he still have it then? Why do you?”>
Basim shrugged, his gaze still on the cross. <“I guess he thought I’d like to burn it more.”>
Najla let out a loud sigh then, releasing her brother’s hand. She found herself regretting Basim’s presence rather quickly, for despite Osman’s reluctance to come, she knew he would never have willingly snuck a Monarchist cross to her. At least if he had, he’d have been a lot more straightforward regarding his reasons.
<“You didn’t answer my question, Basim. Why do you still have it?”>
There was a long moment of silence, so long that Najla opened her mouth to ask the question again, before Basim finally spoke up. His words came tumbling out, so quickly that Najla realized he had been nervous to ask her.
<“I wanted to give it to Ketill. To pray. What if he dies tomorrow?”>
<“Then his fate will be determined as an infidel. Our God will sentence him to be the sand he tramples under his horse, and you and I will do the same when we pass.”>
<“It’s not fair though. Wouldn’t you have wanted to pray properly when you were a slave?”>
<“I would have killed for it. But Basim, this is risking a great deal, you don’t understand the weight of what you’re holding.”>
In no part of their discussion would she be able to convince him. Sometimes, her brother’s intelligence was only an obstacle. He continued to mention the teachings of the Sawarim that fueled his crazed idea, those that allowed infidels to worship without interference. Even in his slight drunkenness, Najla found that he was able to defend his opinion easily. She continued to ask him a number of questions, making sure that he had not been seen pocketing the cross, to which Basim seemed offended. He was not that stupid, he insisted, and after a few questions Najla found herself inclined to believe him.
<“You’re risking too much for a man who can offer you nothing. Leave it be.”>
<“I don’t want anything from him though. I just think he should be able to pray.”>
<“I have not forbidden him from prayer.”>
Basim did not respond to her. He looked down at the cross, turning it over in his hands, and Najla watched as he drew his thumb over the circle of thorns. He was intrigued by the symbol, clearly, as the Sawarim could not understand the notion of worshipping a physical presence. Najla had initially seen the cross scrawled out on a piece of paper, placed in front of her by the Broacien slave that tutored her in his tongue. She did not remember his name, but she remembered the sound of his laughter when she had asked him why his God allowed them to worship sticks in his place. He claimed he had converted to the Sawarim faith long before, and though he was educated enough to remain valuable to the Sultan, he had been replaced not long after she began asking questions regarding his old faith. The memory brought Najla no grief, though her expression softened as she watched Basim turn it over.
<“You know you can’t, Basim. That’s why you brought it to me, instead of doing as you pleased. If you really wanted to, you’d do so regardless.”>
<“Why do you say that?”>
<“You’re much more like Harith than you think.”> The notion seemed to please Basim, who had only ever desired to be a warrior in the way his father and brothers had been. <“You’re both equally committed to being a pain in my side.”> Basim chuckled at that, finally looking up from the cross and at his sister.
<“You’re saying I should burn it then.”>
<“It is the safest thing to do. For both you and Ketill.”>
Basim finally nodded, pocketing the cross once more as he stood. It was a relief to Najla, who believed he would burn the cross and allow her to sleep, without any of the trouble that would be brought about in the morning. Before he straightened up, Basim leaned down to kiss Najla on the cheek as a goodnight, then began to walk towards the tent flap before Najla’s voice stopped him.
<“Why did you ask me this time? You didn’t bother last time.”>
<“I didn’t want to upset you. I just hoped you’d say yes.”>
Najla smiled at that, a far more genuine smile than she’d shown throughout the night. Her brother truly was the kindest soul she’d ever met, a fact she relayed to him often, though she would never tell him how much it worried her. He was no fool, to believe Ketill would find anything but danger in a cross, but Najla knew how easily kindness became foolishness. When she spoke again, her voice was soft, barely above a whisper.
<“Go sleep. You’ll have a long day tomorrow.”>
As Najla watched her brother duck under the tent flap, she let out a yawn, finally allowing herself to feel the exhaustion the day had put upon her. Reaching up, she fiddled with the delicate clasps of her necklaces. Najla peeled them off one by one to reveal the fading green and yellow that colored her neck, all the while praying that her brother would be able to understand her reasons for denying him what seemed like a simple kindness.
OP
Dion JIHAD CHIQUE ® / NOT THE SHIT, DEFINITELY A FART
Member
Seen
3 days ago
After the night, the harem girl had disappeared, taking her leave long before Ketill had even woken up himself. It was a lucky thing he supposed – he had not longed for a woman’s company, nor had he hoped for more vulgar things – she was merely a distraction. It was meant well, Ketill presumed, but Sawarim did not understand that the slaves did not think like them and did not value the same things as they did. For Ketill, what he really wanted was something he would not get until much later. But it could not be given to him too soon – he desired it with all his body, every fibre inside of him demanded blood and retribution. But what he got instead was perhaps equally as good – though the feeling of enjoyment lasted much shorter than Ketill expected he’d receive from his true purpose.
Over the course of the next weeks, he was allowed to continue training. Although he was rusty, as time went on he began feeling better. To the Sawarim, it didn’t make a difference – even when he was rusty he could beat them, though when he got back into the swing of things, they noticed that whatever they did, it seemed like they couldn’t even touch him. Bar perhaps Harith, who could offer a decent fight, though his presence was whimsical at best as his other duties commanded his time, few as these duties were. But he seemed to have learned his lesson, and did not engage Ketill further beyond a simple spar from time to time. No blood would be shed, and the hits would be light.
One uneventful day, Ketill was brought out to spar again. The guards had knocked on his door and, contrary to how he was treated before, he was not removed by force. Rather, he was allowed to open the door. His dress had changed too – though it wasn’t a large change. He still went bare chested, though that was more out of concern for the heat than for fashion. It was liberating, at least, to realize that a slave could afford to be unfashionable. Some days, Ketill felt the annoyance Harith had with his more extravagant garb. The heat was a cruel mistress – the ladies enjoyed it, whenever they came out to watch, but for those crawling through the sand, swinging swords and axes, or being tossed around by Harith and Ketill alike, for them it was not a pleasure, but a cruel time to be sparring.
As he walked towards the fighting grounds in the courtyard, escorted by two guards, Ketill noticed a few familiar faces on the benches – Basim, Najla, but further away standing closeby but not close to the royalties, there were several harem girls. One face in particular was memorisable, and instantly recalled by Ketill. It was the girl Harith had sent to his chambers after their first meeting, the one with the freckled face. If it hadn’t been for those features, he would not have even realized it was her, given she was wearing a dark blue cloth wrapped around her head, revealing only her eyes and the bridge of her nose. The reason for the harem girls’ presence was not explained – though Ketill knew too well that he had earned their favour, even if he was disliked by most of the Sultan’s court. He was a tool – and a tool was only useful as long as it did its’ job.
When Ketill stepped into the ring, he shot a brief glance at Basim, however. The harem girls weren’t so interesting, and his air of disinterest was visible to all the harem girls – though it only made him more desired. Instead, he looked at Basim curiously, wondering why the boy had shown up, though Najla’s presence made the reason slightly more obvious. Whatever it was that she desired of Basim, it was not of interest to Ketill.
The first opponent stepped forwards, and the interaction between the guards and Ketill was still somewhat awkward. There was no mutual respect. Ketill had destroyed every single opponent so far, after all, and the guards were still trying to see how they could show this Monarchist that he was not invincible. The Bear of Broacien remained unharmed so far, though, apart from some minor scratches and cuts. A few times Harith and some other daring guards and captains had attempted to pry from him the secrets of the Servants and their warfare. Although Ketill was a convert now, he did not wish to betray his former order so quickly. After all, the Monarchists were not his friends any longer, but neither were the Sawarim. Ketill was handed a weapon at random, and the two men approached each other, both immediately attacking. The Sawarim had learned early on that Ketill was a master at destroying shields, as he had gone through the training supply of shields rather quickly. They had brought in new wooden shields at first – but these too deteriorated over time. After some argument, Harith instead decided to just call on a small supply of metal shields. At least these would not break so easily.
But the truth behind why Ketill was being trained remained hidden. He assumed he was going to be a fighter against these ‘tribals’ as Najla had called them – a slave warrior to be killed by a Sawarim, to show how mighty the Sawarim god was. It was better than being a house slave, and Ketill knew he could survive. It would be easy if the fighters were anything like the guards and soldiers he was fighting now. But, why did she need a slave, a Servant no less, to fight tribals? It seemed redundant, and it was, so he only guessed at the political motives for bringing him.
Of course, as things went with Najla, there was never a gift without a demand in exchange. It was not like Ketill had much chance – but he would have liked to have been informed about the travelling. He’d been given a day notice, and was told to pack up whatever he wanted to bring. That wasn’t a useful order, as Ketill had nothing of value to bring. The very next day they left already, to an unknown destination, except for the name of the tribe they were visiting. As a slave, Ketill walked near the back. The pace was harrowing – and he would be given no respite. Although Najla had to keep up appearances by not resting, Ketill had wished for a horse, or at the very least a small break. Instead, he was made to keep walking. Despite the protection his favoured position gave him, the guards that were overlooking the slaves were less than courteous. The sand and dust had weathered them down too, and the pace was not giving them any quarter.
When Ketill stopped for a moment to drink from his leather waterbag, the coarse and rough hands of a guard pushed in his back. The push made him spill some of the valuable water, but there was no time to argue, and certainly no energy for it either. He kept going, continuing to gulp down on the water, before putting the cork back in place and continuing the walk. The road was long and arduous, and there would be no rest for a while, Ketill could feel that much in his bones.
And most certainly the walk was long. They arrived at a village, though with the amount of tents set up, it seemed more like a camp. Ketill didn’t know what to do specifically, or why he’d been brought here, so he just followed suit, doing as the other slaves did. As the caravan of people continued moving, the slaves and servants made a left, and proceeded to the place where they’d make camp. Ketill tried to turn left as well, to follow them and set up a tent and help with preparations. But once again, a coarse hand stopped him, and another hand pointed him forwards. Following the hand, Ketill saw Najla atop a horse, with Basim and a woman he did not know. They exchanged greetings with someone, which Ketill could only presume to be a villager. At the very least he would’ve been important, given the strange woman’s greeting towards him. Ketill looked at the guard again, who nodded, and pushed him forwards. Ketill’s lack of understanding of Sawarimic meant that this kind of non-verbal communication had become the norm.
Ketill followed the directions and continued on the way, shooting a longing glance at a few of the tents that were being put up as he walked past. As they walked through the village, however, his attention was grabbed by the passer-by’s that were all very interested in Najla and Basim, and when Ketill himself passed, him too. It almost felt like the first time he entered the Golden City, though these people seemed less civilized, and definitely more like the raiders that they had encountered that faithful night when they were captured. Ketill still remembered their faces – specifically the dark skinned man. A snake, he was. It made sense Najla had took to him – people that are alike tend to band together.
He was brought to stand still outside of a house, which Najla and Basim had entered. He wondered what was inside that was so secretive that he was not allowed to see it – but given the intrigues of the Sultanate, that could be a great many things, ranging from holy relics, to the banner of St. Friedrich itself, to merely a piece of furniture that their contact in the village had wanted to show them. There would be no answer, so Ketill opted to not pre-occupy himself with the question to begin with. Instead, he focused on the eyes that were boring into the back of his head. He could feel their presence almost, the burning sensation on his back, it was the feeling of a man that felt hatred. For once, that man was not Ketill. When Ketill turned around, he found that the man staring at him was a villager – at least, so Ketill thought.
He was dressed in leather, wearing some type of armour. On his belt rested an axe – unlike the somewhat graceful weaponry in the capital of the sultanate, this axe spoke more to actual efficiency and capability in battle. There were some notches on the wooden hilt – which Ketill could only assume to be a kill count. When Ketill looked at the man, the man did not look away, and continued to stare at him, his eyes fixated on the three dots on Ketill’s face, slowly dropping to his eyes.
“What is it?” Ketill asked boldly, the royal guards that Najla had brought looking at Ketill and then to the man. Their eyes spoke of their feelings about the situation, and they weren’t happy, but they did not interfere. The man didn’t answer, regardless, merely looking at Ketill. A man would have been unnerved, perhaps, by the bulging eyes trying to stare him into submission. For Ketill, it reminded him of the recruits and guards at the castle that had tried to do the same before a spar. This lasted a few more moments before a guard stepped in between the man and Ketill, grabbing Ketill’s arm and guiding him onwards. Only then did Ketill realize that Najla and Basim had left the house – the visit was brief, but seemingly required.
From the house he was guided – almost paraded – through the rest of the village, towards a canopy that had been raised within a fraction of the time it’d take a slave to do it. What these men lacked in extravagance and showboating, they made up for by working spirit. Of course, this was merely to the untrained eye of Ketill. Najla might have, and likely would have, seen something entirely different. Ketill was naturally not allowed under the canopy, and was guided to an empty spot, closer to the fire. He sat there among the other slaves that were part of the entourage of Najla. Though under the canopy there were merry times, the slaves were soberer, talking among themselves. Ketill was excluded from that – the slaves had no interest in him, some despised him for his supposed religion, some despised him for his position as favoured slave, and some despised him simply because they didn’t like him.
In truth, Ketill did not feel favoured. In fact, his position was considerably worse than those of the other slaves. They might not have the same level of protection, but most of them failed to realize that unlike them, Ketill was not complacent with his position – he desired something else entirely, something that laid within grasp at any moment but could never quite be taken.
So, he just sat, his legs folded, looking at the people under the canopy, studying them carefully. His eyes went along, studying the warriors at first – they were strong, stronger than the guards, but obviously less disciplined. They were skirmishers and a flanking force. He remembered their kind from his time at Coedwin – these men were thrown into battle first, sent out ahead of the main lines to harass the enemy with their ranged weapons. Bows, javelins, jarids. Once the Servants advanced, they retreated, running like cowards – but it was a ploy. They would repeat this over and over, taking a few lives each and every time. And then the main battle commenced, when the Servants’ lines had been shattered and were in disarray. It was like a ritual.
A ritual of battle.
Ketills eyes rolled up slightly, as he began remembering one of the first times he went into a large battle outside of Coedwin. The skirmishers just went and came, shooting down his companions from the dunes, or from the small amount of shrubbery that was ahead of them. The commanders would order to attack, but the skirmishers would be long gone. The thuds of his footsteps echoed in his mind, molding themselves from a repetitive stomping noise to a mind dulling, deafening sound much alike the beating of drums.
The thuds of his own footsteps slowly made way for louder thuds. Ahead of them, as they moved forwards, a trail of dust arose, not of one man, thin and slick, but of a hundred, a thousand, if not more – it stretched from left to right, and came over the hill like a wall of dust, coming to swallow the Servants whole.
He looked down again, and found himself suddenly on a horse, galloping towards the wall of dust that came to destroy them. In his left hand he held the reins, his shield firmly attached to his forearm. In his right, his sword, prepared to take Sawarim blood. But they were not fighting Sawarim, they were fighting the Pretender himself. Ketill looked right, to seek out his companion, but only found a steed – skeletal, his skin and flesh gone, only the bones remaining, galloping besides him. Atop the steed sat a warrior clad in the armour of the Servants, though he had no hands – only bones – and he had no face – only a skull. Ketill’s eyes widened then, and he looked left, only to find more skeleton warriors on skeleton horses, galloping towards their death. These men had perished.
Ketill would follow.
As they approached the wall of dust, it swallowed them, like a mouth ajar eating whatever found its’ way inside. When the air cleared ever so slightly, Ketill found himself on the ground, as sudden as he had found himself on a horse earlier. His horse was dead, laying atop of him, a spear stuck in its chest. The beast writhed under its’ own weight, trying desperately to avoid what was inevitable. Humans and animals were alike, in that aspect, struggling against the unknown, even if it was certain. Ketill himself was far from dead, and felt no fear of the unknown now, and struggled against the animal, slowly crawling out from underneath it, finding that with luck his legs had not been crushed. He coughed, the dust almost suffocating him, as he looked around. Bespectacled and confused, his mind pounding like the war drums when they marched. This was war. This was real.
With his left hand he covered his mouth now, trying to ensure that he would not die of suffocation before he even cut down a Sawarim. As he swivelled around, trying to find out where he was, or where his opponent was, he saw a man approaching. Slowly, walking with a hand at his side, holding on to a wound of some sorts. In his other hand his sword dragged, in the sand, leaving behind a trail that was swiftly bloodied by a mixture of the blood dripping off the sword, and his own blood. He wore neither armour of the Sawarim, nor armour of the Servants. Instead, he was dressed a thick cloak of fur, which resembled clothing of the North. As the man approached, he slowly walked up to Ketill, his eyes flashing left and right, before he collapsed in front of Ketill.
Ketill barely managed to catch the man, holding him upright. “I don’t understand,” he uttered, his voice cracked with confusion. This was not how that battle went – not at all, not even close. “Who… are you…?” Ketill finally asked, though he would not receive a response.
Instead, the figure merely answered in a cryptic manner. “The Gods want blood,” he said, slowly slipping from Ketill’s grasp, “The fire. There will be fire. The ravens – you will know.” As the figure spoke, his face began fading too, the skin slowly disintegrating into the same dust that surrounded them, until Ketill was no longer holding anything resembling a man, merely a skeleton representing a husk. Ketill let go of the man in shock, the body falling onto the ground then – instead of laying there, it sank into the desert ground, and slowly the sand turned black from where it had sunk, spreading all around, even corrupting the dust that was in the air, casting a darkness on the entire area, even more than there had been before.
A soft thud was heard, Ketill’s sword falling to the ground as he grabbed his head with two hands, spinning around where he stood, trying to seek for answers or a way out. This was madness – he was going insane. It had to be. He fell to his knees then, facing down at the black ground, simply opting to wait out this spiral of madness. If he did not act, he would contain it, he would stay sane. Slowly, ever so slowly, the approach of footsteps could be heard, faintly, through the sand. Ketill did not look, his eyes squinted shut, his hands on his ears, trying to ignore it. The steps got louder, and louder, sounding like this damned drums again, drumming inside his head, trying to drive him insane.
Then the drums stopped, the footsteps stopped, and Ketill slowly opened his eyes. He looked up, finding shoes in front of him, then legs, then a figure, clad in extravagant black clothes. He did not dare look further, but something inside of him demanded it, forced it. With twitches in his movements he looked further, finding a face covered in black cloth, the eyes visible. Ketill would recognize those eyes everywhere. Slowly the figure kneeled down, remaining in a calm composure. Ketill’s confused look faded – he understood now. Instead, he began grinning like a maniac, moving spontaneously, though lacking the control to move away. That soft voice spoke to him now, again, like it had before. “You’ve been granted your life, Servant. Make me regret this and I’ll make you regret it more.” The words were remarkably close to him, despite the woman seemingly not even moving her lips to speak them. The eyes peered into his eyes, but reached deeper, finding his very soul, trying to reach out, touch it, pretend to care for it with kind hearted but empty empathy. The tongue of a snake had more soul than these words that the voice dared utter to him. “I’ve never met a man like you.” At these words the figures hands reached out for his face, grasping his cheeks, holding them to ensure that he looked at her. With fake touch and fake words, they had hoped to greet Ketill and ensure his cooperation and lasting loyalty. Ketill tried to pull back from her touch, but could not move, for her eyes had made him into stone, his muscles refusing to move. “You never wanted anything from me. You still don’t, not even now. I could offer you the world, but all you want is blood. Perhaps they were right to call you Daab.”
“AGK!”
The figure retracted their hand, which held a silver dagger, curved like a Sawarim’s blade. It had been planted in his heart, with deadly accuracy. When she pulled back the blade, the crimson of his blood stained the sterile silver, marking it eternally. As the figure pulled back, it retreated in whole, stepping back into the black dust, fading away. Ketill tried to speak to the figure, to speak its’ name but couldn’t, grasping at his heart, slowly slumping forwards until he collapsed into the black sand.
With a loud gasp, Ketill returned to the world, finding himself in the same position, watching the people under the canopy. He found that none had taken notice of him fading away, and why should they? They were preoccupied with drinking and talking. He caught his breath, his eyes moving side to side, twitchy from the strange flashback he had, which had begun resembling something more akin to a vision rather quickly. The words that the figure had spoken to him, those were easy to tell apart. He had heard them before, and they had solicited the same feelings then as they had now. The fire burning inside of him was fanned, expanding and heating his body more than the nearby fire could. But the words of the stranger that had spoken to him, these were much more unknown. But somehow he felt at ease with them – he was not scared of the unknown. Whether this vision would prove truthful or not, the ravens had been seen before, and they had marked a bad omen for someone then. But they would appear again, it seemed.
Though his thoughts were deep, the touch of a slave would bring him back to the world. His body shook when she touched him, but he quickly relaxed when he noticed it was merely some slave girl. These visions had put him on edge, something that was new to him, and that made him feel energized. The long trek to this village had been brutal, but somehow, he no longer felt tired. He only felt… a calming sense of anger in his head. Before this feeling had only ever been in his heart. It was a strange feeling, this, and Ketill tried to ignore it as he slowly got up from his seated position and walked towards the canopy. It was nearly emptied now, with the men mostly dancing around the fire. When he stepped into the sight of all those that held eyes for him only in this moment, someone stepped forwards. Seeing her eyes as she stepped forwards and tried to reach for him, his instincts kicked in. His muscles tensed up, preparing to strike. But something inside of Najla stopped her reaching for him. For a moment, Ketill considered grabbing Najla’s throat, and tearing it up, choking her in seconds, breaking her neck like a twig. As he fingers began to twitch at these thoughts, someone spoke up.
The voice from the vision? It couldn’t be. She was standing here, in front of him, so why did the voice come from amidst the group of women? As Ketill looked into the group now, he saw the same woman that was standing in front of him – lacking a tattoo. None had ever explained to Ketill what they meant, but he knew that Najla did not bear one. His eyes flashed back to the woman in front of him, and he realized that this wasn’t Najla. With that realization his muscles relaxed again, when this new woman clutched her hands around his biceps. Although it annoyed Ketill, being a parading horse of the royal family, he knew that it was to be endured. A tool was only a tool, after all. When she grasped at his arm, Ketill’s eyes remained upon Najla, who spoke to him like he was dense.
“Yes, it would be strange for these women to suddenly start beating me. Strange as that would be, I do not hold you above letting them do it.”
While the women looked on, a familiar presence entered the area under the canopy again – though Ketill knew not his name. And though Ketill did not understand his words, he could hear the intonation with which the man spoke. Najla’s reply betrayed that the man had made a joke – though Najla’s laughter was not always a sign of something being funny. She was a snake, after all. Suddenly, a cheer erupted behind the man, and some raised their hands and fists into the air, as did some with cups of alcohol.
Ketill merely stood there as the woman that had grabbed his arm earlier slowly backed off. Perhaps this was Najla’s great plan, as the mood suddenly seemed to have shifted. Despite the cheerful nature of the inebriated men, Ketill could sense that there was more going on. The women did not seem as happy as the men did, after all.
Then Najla spoke, first to the Sawarim, then to Ketill. Her words, no doubt well meant, were little more than a confirmation at that point. A grin once more toiled around Ketill’s lips, before he spoke. “If this is where Osman comes from, I think I’ll be okay.” He looked at the men once more, these raiders and skirmishers, but found no reason to be concerned.
Najla moved to her brother then, and Ketill was lead to the centre where all could see him, close to the fire. As he waited for the man that he presumed to be the village leader, he pulled off his tunic – as luxurious as it might’ve been for a slave. He let it fall onto the ground, showing off his bare chest now, littered with scars. It was how he had trained with Harith and the other guards, so it would be how he fought now. Not too soon after that, the man that was to fight him stepped forward. The face was one he had seen before – that man that had watched him so intently when he waited outside the house that Najla and Basim had entered. The same hatred he had felt then he could feel now, but this time it was met by a similar anger. Whatever fire that his vision had started in his head, it remained there, and slowly he could feel his vision going red. It didn’t feel pleasant – but at the same time, so comfortable, like the warmth of a skin at night. Ketill had to actually try and not fall too deep into this red mist inside of his head. It felt dangerous, somehow.
The tribals then started a confusing ritual, which Ketill had no meaning for. The drums began, once again reminding Ketill of the drums of war, but this time, there was no flashback, nor a vision – it was reality now. Every single person sat on their knees now – all but Ketill. He did not bow for a god, not even his own. The flatter of wings called Ketill to attention, looking to his left, atop a rooftop of one of the houses. A bird with black wings, obviously a raven, sat there, and was then promptly joined by another. They were silent, did not caw, did not flatter their wings unnecessarily. They just watched Ketill, their heads twisting sideways, curiously, as if they were waiting for him to act.
An omen, surely, but for who? He glanced back at Najla. Everyone had their heads bowed. If he moved quickly, he could be upon her in seconds, and take her world. Though the luxury of the palace would be hard to tear down – it would be easy to tear down one woman, no matter how high the throne she sat upon was. He could feel his hands twitch now, a quick glance back at the ravens, and then at Najla. Slowly he put his foot forwards to walk, but then stopped. Instead, he put his foot back. It was something he could not explain, something he had no thoughts for. It would’ve been easy. But it wasn’t what he wanted. He had only asked for a sword – not her world – that, he would take.
Before the Sawarim finished their prayers, Ketill glanced at the ravens, but they were nowhere to be found, not even in the sky. Though it was dark, and they blended with the night sky well, Ketill was sure he would’ve been able to see them. But he couldn’t. Had he… imagined it?
Then his eyes found Najla again, and watched carefully as she sliced her forehead. The offering of blood was familiar to him. The meaning the Sawarim gave it was not – but that mattered little. When it was all said and done, she lifted her face to him, and spoke to him – sternly, as were her eyes.
“I don’t need your blood,” Ketill spoke back as the guard walked towards him with the axe. “They watch over me. If I die, I will fight forever.” With that cryptic message said, he grabbed the axe from the guard, and turned to face his opponent. The man did not seem nervous, seemed to have made his peace with whatever was going to happen now. Ketill was at peace too, though not because he was at ease with whatever happened, but because the red fog in his head slowly crept over him further. His breaths began getting deeper, his entire body moving with them, up and down, as he stared down his opponent. Although the man was not meagre or frail at all, there was a clear size difference – though, that usually went for Sawarim and Broacieniens. At that point, Najla’s request to make it a good show did not even reach him anymore.
The two men were now no longer Sawarim and Broacienien, no longer Sawarimic and Servant, but purely man and beast. A pact had been made in Ketill’s mind, to fight to the death, not as enemies, but as warriors. To earn the forgiveness of the Allfather. It was not the end – it was merely a beginning.
There were a good few meters between the men, clearly meant for them to size each other up. But rather than wait for the man to reveal his movements, Ketill stepped forwards. He moved slowly, walking at a leisurely pace, then faster, jogging, then running at the man. The sand kicked up beneath his feet as he ran towards him, and to Najla and Zahira, who had seen him fight before, this would be neither familiar nor unfamiliar. He had moved quickly before, with a threateningly aggressive nature, but this was more. It was different, somehow, though it would be hard to see how or why.
Once Ketill got in swinging reach, he began swinging his axe at the man wildly, releasing a breath of air with each swing, softly at first, as the man merely sidestepped his attacks, or deflected them best he could. With each swing, Ketill’s breaths got louder, indicating he was putting more and more force behind the attacks, and at some point, it would’ve become audible for the audience.
Even then, what was more concerning, was that the volunteer did not get a single chance to attack, and was pushed onto the defensive. He was sidestepping left and right, and forced to step back and around Ketill to avoid his many strikes. If he had hoped to wait until Ketill was tired out, he would’ve fought all night, as Ketill showed no signs of slowing down, only growing more aggressive in his many swings. While he could deflect the attacks earlier, doing so now only resulted in an uncomfortable loss of grip on the weapon as Ketill pushed through.
Ketill had not hit him – yet – but continued his assault until the red fog in his head had taken over more or less entirely. His axe moved with impunity, and Ketill’s movements no longer felt like his own, even if they were. He had control, but at the same time did not. He never felt this way before, and it was uncomfortable like before, but at the same time perhaps the most comfortable he had ever been. His axe swung overhead, but before connecting with the man’s axe, which he had shifted to block the strike, he suddenly changed the direction of the axe. Instead, Ketill moved it left and downwards, catching the man in the side. The axe cleaved into the man’s armor and cut underneath, not reaching deep enough to disable him entirely, but deep enough for blood to flow.
Ketill’s axe got pulled back and before the man could even cry in pain, the axe was sent down once again, this time cleaving into his hip. Once again he cut through the armour, and when the axe was pulled back, he bled even more. His otherwise white tunic under the armour was now staining red from the blood. Momentarily, Ketill ceased his assault, and he found himself watching the man stumble backwards as he tried to prepare for the next attack despite being wounded. His eyes then glanced over the crowd, to measure their reactions, before he stepped forwards again.
As he approached, the man tried to swing at him now, desperate to at least hit the accursed infidel that Ketill presented himself as before he would die. Instead, Ketill moved his free hand up and caught the man’s hand mid-swing. Using his grip on the man’s wrist as leverage, he forced the man downwards to the ground, before turning to the right and swinging the man in that direction, sending him tumbling down. He landed right before the crowd, who moved back to offer the fighters space. They were getting dangerously close to the canopy now, however, and even as the fighter scrambled to his feet, one hand on his wounds, the other preparing to strike against Ketill, he made no effort to move away from the canopy.
When Ketill drew closer once more, chasing the man for his blood, to show the Sawarim how this Daab offered blood, the tribal warrior instead moved forwards, engaging with Ketill much how Ketill engaged him earlier. He lacked the speed or tenacity, but Ketill made no real effort to block the strike. It was aimed at his shoulder, and would likely have cleaved into him. But a small movement meant that he only got nicked by the edge of the axe, cutting him slightly, too shallow to do real damage, but deep enough to bleed. It seeped from there quickly, streaming down his torso, but Ketill did not feel it – or at least, it seemed that way to the audience.
While the man tried to get his axe in position again, Ketill grabbed him by the neck with his free hand and lifted him up – a feat of strength that not many could have mimicked – and threw him, through the canopy, landing on the back half under the canopy, and rolling through the sand until he was slightly behind it. Again he stumbled to his feet, and imagined that Ketill would have to move around the canopy to reach him, buying him valuable time to prepare.
Instead, he and the others would find that Ketill had no such manners. He walked through the area covered by the canopy, stepping over the pillows carelessly as his eyes remained fixated on the man in front of him, even as he passed Najla and Thamud. His axe dripped of blood, as it did on his shoulder, but this seemed of no concern to him.
Once more Ketill approached, seemingly hounding the man like a bear, which he had been described to be after all. Now the real duel would begin. They had both had a taste of the others’ fighting style and had a taste of blood. When the Sawarim swung his axe at him, Ketill blocked it with his, and would retort with a strike of his own, which the man would block. The battle continued for a minute or so, each giving out a blow and then blocking one, sometimes daringly trying to strike twice before having to block. In their exchange of blows, they slowly moved around in a half circle around the canopy, back towards the fire. The two were both evidently experienced warriors, but only a fool would’ve bet on the Sawarim at that point. The clanking of metal against metal, the wood of the shafts clattering against each other, it would last for some time, until Ketill finally had a chance to disarm him.
When the shafts collided, Ketill swiftly moved his axe downwards, the metal axe-head hooking around that of his opponent, who was caught by surprised and lost his grip. With a swift movement the axe was pulled out of his hand and flung back towards the canopy, landing in the sand somewhere. Rather than use this chance to kill the man immediately, Ketill stepped back, and with a single motion threw his axe to the side, letting it land in the sand. They would continue unarmed, he tried to say with that gesture, though he knew better than to trust a Sawarim.
The raiders’ eyes were dim, even as he approached to fight Ketill again. Once they got close enough, they began exchanging blows – this time, neither of them blocked or moved out of the way, but just took the hits of the others’ fist. The raider struck first, striking Ketill in the face, who retorted by punching the man on the eye, before he received one in the jaw again. This, too, went on for a minute or so, until Ketill grabbed the man’s clothes and lifted him in the sky, and then throwing him into the sad not much further. It was clear that, despite the reputation of being a bear, even Ketill could run out of energy. It seemed the fighter himself was also out of energy however, as both of them were breathing heavily.
Ketill jumped onto him immediately, and began punching him with his right fist, while holding him down with the left. It was a brutal display of combat. Whereas most fights would be settled in a few minutes, with a single lucky strike of the axe or sword, this one seemed to have lasted quite some time yet. The punches continued, and the man did not have the energy to fight back. His hands desperately reached through the sand, looking for anything – a dry stick, a stone, anything – he could use to kill Ketill. In sight of the audience, his fingers reached for the axe that Ketill had discarded earlier, and cheers would erupt from the warriors as they cheered the man on.
But despite his luck, the pain he was feeling as well as the continuing blows in his face would not help him. He tried to strike at Ketill’s neck to end the fight, but missed entirely, instead having the axe rake across his back, slicing it open somewhat. Ketill’s eyes widened then, as he felt the pain of the man’s axe opening him up. The man capitalized on this then and pushed his free arm underneath Ketill’s chin. With his other arm, he promptly swung at Ketill, hitting him in the jaw with his elbow.
The blow pushed Ketill off of the man, giving him some hard earned time to breathe and recover from the many blows to the face he got – at this point, his face was already starting to swell from the punches. His wounds were bleeding still, as were Ketill’s, who seemed to be covered in blood more than the fighter was, though it was uncertain if it was his own or the mans’ blood.
The man crawled away – or at least tried to – but found himself quickly struggling against Ketill, who had gotten up and grabbed the man’s leg, pulling him back, and then shifted his hands to the man’s back. With a single pull, he pulled the man upright again, and grabbed him by the hair. Rather than head-butt him like some would have expected, he turned to the fire, and pushed the man’s face closer to the fire. He struggled heavily, as many would when faced with the heat, and the audience was sure to see the trembling of Ketill’s arms as he pushed him closer, closer… ever so closer.
Ketill finally managed to push the man’s face into the fire itself, as he felt the lick of the flames burning the top of his fingers inside the man’s hair, as the man’s face was scorched rapidly, blisters appearing within a few seconds. Once the man’s body went more limb from pain and he started losing the energy to fight back, Ketill pushed even harder, throwing the man into the fire entirely now. The agonizing screams were blood curdling, forcing even Ketill to think about what he had done. But even then, the screams didn’t stop. The pile of logs that were burning slowly crumbled, having been destabilized by the man’s forced entry into the fire, crashing on top of him.
Ketill turned around to face the crowd, but looked back at the fire once more once he heard the pained movements of the man he had thrown in there. Although he was still half ablaze, the man tried to crawl out of the fire, somewhat successfully, although his lack of grip in the sand made him slow. Rather than force him to burn to death, Ketill walked towards the nearby axe that the man had dropped, and took it up again. Then he stepped closer to the man, and raised the axe high – even in the dark of night, the moonlight shimmered off of the axe when he raised it.
Then the axe met with flesh. Ketill began chopping at the man, even when he stopped crawling, even when the screams stopped, even when the wheezing breaths stopped, even then did he continue to chop at him. The body shook with every thud of the axe, hitting his body in random places, blood seeping from every place on his body where he could’ve been hit. During this, he yelled loudly, “RAAAAAGHK!” as the axe kept hitting the man’s lifeless body as it continued to burn.
Once he was done, he stood up straight and walked closer to the audience, standing there, his body heaving under his laboured heavy breaths. Again he threw the axe down in front of him, before lifting his hands to the sky. “AUDRUN! AUDRUUUUN!” As he stood there, his hands raised to the sky, shouting the name of the all-father, it must have been a strange sight to the Sawarim. He was breezing, and if he had truly been a bear, he might have actually breezed with visible mist coming from his nose.
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