Dion

ℰxpedition for the ℬanner of St. ℱriedrich

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.

@persianversion

ℰxpedition for the ℬanner of St. ℱriedrich

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.

@Odin

ℰxpedition for the ℬanner of St. ℱriedrich

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.”>

@persianversion

ℰxpedition for the ℬanner of St. ℱriedrich

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.”

@Odin

ℰxpedition for the ℬanner of St. ℱriedrich

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.”>

@persianversion

ℰxpedition for the ℬanner of St. ℱriedrich

“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.

@Odin

ℰxpedition for the ℬanner of St. ℱriedrich

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.”

@persianversion

ℰxpedition for the ℬanner of St. ℱriedrich

The sentencing

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.

@Odin

ℰxpedition for the ℬanner of St. ℱriedrich

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.

---

Osman

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.

@persianversion

ℰxpedition for the ℬanner of St. ℱriedrich

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.”

@Odin