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Dion male Member

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

STATUS: bbbbbbbbbbbbomboclat 5 days ago
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Recent Statuses

5 days ago
Current bbbbbbbbbbbbomboclat
2 likes
8 days ago
the real crime is trying to get people to play league of legends
8 likes
8 days ago
its a bit ironic coming from me but be nice to new stupid people. they're new and stupid and this forum is too dead to chase away every stupid new person
2 likes
9 days ago
DE POLO OP MIJN BODY ZIT VOL MET BLOED VAN STERVELINGEN TERWIJL IK 8.6 DRINK
11 days ago
i won't lie i got a foot fetish, but i can never taste defeat
5 likes

Bio

i like being on the most active roleplaying community oriented forum on the interwebz.

Most Recent Posts

In Naruto: Revival → 9 yrs ago Forum: Casual Roleplay
Seems fine. Vacuum thingie is scary, actually.
In Frokane's Mildly Politcal Hangout Thread → 9 yrs ago Forum: Off-Topic Discussion
<Snipped quote by Smash>
That is a strange way of saying 42% of Americans on this very day and that's from a Left leaning site during an unpopular month. Granted others have pointed out just how bunk many of these polls are, skewed at their best as we have seen wherever the President of the United States is involved, but that's certainly another topic for another time.

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


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

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

And in all fairness neither of them is wrong:

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

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

For example:

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

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

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

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

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

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

But fighting ideas is extremely hard and even more so when they're literally ingrained into a subculture and seen as the ultimate truth, some sort of truth you need to obtain to become enlightened/educated. You can kill a person but you can't kill an idea. Sometimes I wonder if we've even gone too far into this pit for us to be able to 'fix' it with education or compromises or discussion.
In Frokane's Mildly Politcal Hangout Thread → 9 yrs ago Forum: Off-Topic Discussion
@Andreyich it's the queer straight alliance discord chat, a more tame and less charged version of the GSA if you will
In Frokane's Mildly Politcal Hangout Thread → 9 yrs ago Forum: Off-Topic Discussion
actually super easy to get even one or two sentences confused!


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

thought so too

pot kettle black etc etc

In Naruto: Revival → 9 yrs ago Forum: Casual Roleplay
In Naruto: Revival → 9 yrs ago Forum: Casual Roleplay
Wanna drop my interest here as a precaution.
In ℰxpedition for the ℬanner of St. ℱriedrich → 9 yrs ago Forum: The Gallery
Najla’s eyes followed Yasamin’s movements carefully, watching as the girl nervously toyed with the hands she’d settled in her lap. Najla had invited her to sit at her desk in order to explain her presence, and now the girl was trying to find a delicate balance between being deferential enough to look away and respectful enough to meet her gaze. It was a thin line to walk, and Najla knew she was not making it any easier. With eyes narrowed over the thin black veil that covered her lower face, fingers drumming on the table before her, Najla presented an imposing confidant to the women before her.

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

<“Yes, Sultana.”>

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

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

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

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

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

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

<“Sultana-“>

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

<“What was the word?”>

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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



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

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

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

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

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

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

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

<“She’s a mute, no need to worry.”>

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

<“By birth?”>

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

<“In a way.”>

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

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

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

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

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

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

<“Will he be coming today?”>

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

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

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

<“Aynaya-“>

<“Oh, the veil! It’s lovely!”>

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

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

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

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

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

<“You came.”>

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

<“You’ve decided then.”>

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

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

<“In name?”>

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

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

<“Fine.”>

<“Fine?”>

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

<“Perhaps you will be.”>

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

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

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

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

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

<“I’m glad you did.”>

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

<“What is it?”>

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

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



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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

<“If God wills it.”>

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

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

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

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

<“So he lived? Were they married?”>

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

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

<“Why not?!”>

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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



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

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

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

<“You’re still bitching.”>

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

<“I don’t want either of those.”>

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

<“You know how I can tell?”>

<“How?”>

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

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

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

<“What are you saying?”>

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

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

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

<“If God wills it.”>

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

<“What did Elif say?”>

<“Nothing of substance.”>

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

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

<“If God wills it.”>

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

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

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



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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Water.

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

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

<“UNCLE!”>

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

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

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

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

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

<“Grab her!”>

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

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

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

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

<“Where’s Basim?!”>

<“Alive! Go, run, you’ll catch him!”>

<“Me?”>

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

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

<“What about you?”>

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

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

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

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

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

<“Where’s Harith?”>

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

<“We’ve got to get to the stables.”>

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

<“Basim, this way! Follow Ketill.”>

<“He’ll kill you!”>

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

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


In ℰxpedition for the ℬanner of St. ℱriedrich → 9 yrs ago Forum: The Gallery
After the fight, Ketill was brought to a new room, though from the adrenaline and the blood seeping from his body, it felt more like a blur, everyone and everything moving past him in vague streaks of color. As the guards dragged him past people left and right, who seemed more concerned with looking at him than moving out of the way, one of them handed him a rag and ordered him to put it against his wound. Ketill followed suit – not because he understood the man, but because there was nowhere else to put the rag. <‘’Ya Sawarim, for a beast that can’t be hurt he bleeds a lot,’’> one of the guards said to the other, earning a laugh while they rushed him further.

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

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

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

<‘’That’d mean his God was real.’’>

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



No. It was not.


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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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



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

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

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

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

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

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

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

‘’Why are you cutting my hair?’’

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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


Negusi Solomon


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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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



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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

<‘’Agreed.’’>

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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



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

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

‘’The sultan needed me.’’

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

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

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

‘’None.’’

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

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

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

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

‘’Snow?’’

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

‘’So it was true?’’

‘’What?’’

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

‘’You need to leave.’’



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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

<‘’May I speak to him then?’’>

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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



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

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

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

‘’No, wait, how was it?’’

‘’Boring.’’

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

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

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

‘’No, just Najla. Is that all?’’

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


In ℰxpedition for the ℬanner of St. ℱriedrich → 9 yrs ago Forum: The Gallery
The morning of the duel, Najla had awoken as usual, repeated her morning prayers, and immediately set upon the task of preparing herself to face the events of the day. While for Ketill, that had meant servants to hand him weapons and help him into his armor, for Najla, it meant servants to fix her hair and fit her into her dress, finally placing that thin gold ring upon her head once they were finished. She looked every bit the Sultana whose honor would be restored, though she did not quite feel this way. Regardless of what happened today, she would find no victory. The most she could hope for was that her honor would be restored for her family’s sake, even if it would not do so in her husband’s eyes.

They would begin to head towards the duel early into the afternoon, as soon as Najla and her family were readied. The process went as expected, with her mother escorted by her father, Harith escorting Adina and his son trotting behind both of them, and finally, Najla, gripping onto Basim’s arm as they spoke. She could tell that he was trying to ease the nerves he imagined she held, and so Najla allowed him to do so, never quite telling him that she felt no worry. That would indicate that there was a desirable option, one she was worried they would not reach. All she could feel now was dread, and as they stepped towards the arena, she felt it consume her.

Here, they would have to exchange their niceties, following each of the tedious Sawarimic rituals to the letter, before they would be allowed to settle in their seats and watch. They had approached the Sultan as a family first, and Najla initially stood back and watched as he greeted them. It was custom, after all, for him to speak with his brother briefly first, and then it was Harith who’d approach him, bowing his head and kissing his hand, before carefully instructing Mehmet to do the same, though he would not understand the meaning of the gesture. Finally, it was Basim, after which her uncle finally motioned for Najla to come before him, to kiss his hand and press it to her forehead, before straightening up. Her family was not yet out of earshot, and Basim was only a few paces away, waiting to escort his sister again, but Najla was the only woman of their family who’d speak to the Sultan without her escort’s presence beside her. It would go unnoticed by most of the crowd, certainly, but to Osman’s family, Najla knew it would not be forgotten.

<“I admit, my blood, I was excited to see your Servant fight. I simply wish it had been under different circumstances.”>

<“As do I, Sultan. I cherish none of the blood that is to be spilled today, only the peace that it will bring.”>

<“I hope so. This will be the last day I hear of this matter again.”>

<“Yes, Sultan, it will. You have my word.”>

For a moment, Najla simply stood before her uncle, waiting for him to say something. He simply looked her over with that same gaze he’d held all day, all her life really, one that never quite betrayed what he was thinking about, only that he was thinking. Basim held a near-similar gaze when he was deep in thought, a shared quirk among blood that brought her some comfort, even when she was waiting for her Sultan to continue expressing his disapproval.

<“Are you nervous, Aynaya?”>

My eyes. These were the first words that brought a smile onto her face that day, however brief it was. It had been the nickname given to her as a child, not long after she had been given her own name. She’d heard it when she had scurried through halls as a child, and when her family had lovingly chided her afterwards. It had been years since then, and Najla had not heard the name in any voice but her mother’s for some time, so to hear her uncle speak it again felt strange. More than anything however, it gave her a brief hope, an indication that perhaps this would truly be over.

<“No, Sultan. I hold no fear of the Sawarim’s judgement. His will has acted upon me in far more trying ways, and each time, he has shown me that those who retain their loyalty to both him and to you, will always return to his graces. Whether I should win or lose today, so long as I emerge as a better servant to my God and my Sultan, I see no need to fear.”>

<“May the Sawarim will it so. Go, return to your family.”>

Najla nodded at the command, before leaning down to kiss her uncle’s rings again, finally turning and walking towards Basim to take his hand. He escorted her to return to her family, though Najla knew that this would not be the end of it. They had greeted the Sultan, acknowledged his impartial right to determine this matter as the enforcer of the Sawarim’s will, but now, they would be made to face their opponents. For Najla’s family, that would mean standing behind their daughter and drinking in the greetings of Osman and his family, but for Najla, that meant standing before Elif herself, to speak cordial words she did not mean. Hopefully it’d be one of the last times she’d have to do so.

So she waited amongst her family, where they would only have to wait briefly before Elif approached the Sultan, escorted by Osman, who could barely look Najla in the eyes as he walked by. Yet she would not tear her eyes off of him as he bowed low before the Sultan, straightening up to recite a few familiar lines before the Sultan was through speaking to him. Najla could only hope that Osman would not notice what she had suspected, that her uncle’s opinion of Osman had been substantially lowered by this matter. He had proven all too clearly that he had little ability to control his wives, and a man who could not even win the obedience of his wives would be hard-pressed to find it elsewhere. Her uncle’s opinion of Osman did not quite matter to Najla now, who knew that on some level, it would make Osman more reliant on her to keep his influence with the Sultan. After all, it seemed her uncle would forgive her eventually, though she did not yet know when. But these were not matters that could quite concern her now, for before she could think too long regarding the matter, Osman and his family had come to approach her. They greeted her father first, as expected, repeating the cordial greetings that she was certain none of them felt. Yet Najla could not listen to such words, for she was all too focused on the eyes she could feel burning into her, watching her so fiercely that Najla was worried she might speak.

Yet she was silent. Even when Elif and Osman came to Najla, and even as they forced out the few well-wishes and expressed their acceptance of the results, whatever they may be, she was silent. When all the niceties and formalities were over, and the families could move to ascend their platforms, Najla would have been quick to forget those piercing eyes, if it had not been for her brother’s soft whisper in her ear as they walked back.

<“Did you see the way she was looking at you?”>

<“I can’t blame her. I’m about to take her sons life.”>

An unpleasant matter, but the way Najla spoke of it seemed almost dismissive. It was not Osman’s mother she was worried about, after all. It was certainly regrettable, but there was little that her mother-in-law could do to her. It was her husband that she was worried about, and it was the look in his eyes that she could not forget, the one that told her she’d never be forgiven for this. It was this look that she tried to shake from her vision as they sat down in their seats, with nothing to do but wait for the fight to begin.

Even so, it seemed they’d find some entertainment while they waited, for Sa’aqr was quick to enter the arena. Najla leaned forward in her seat, ready for Ketill to exit after him, but a voice pulled her back quickly.

<“I don’t think they’re starting.”>

Najla moved back in her seat, looking up at her father as she replied. <“Then what’s he doing out there?”>

<“Embarrassing himself. These are the last words his mother will ever hear him speak, and they’re going to be lies.”>

This reply had come from her brother, though her father’s silence was proof enough that he agreed, though he wouldn’t say it. It would not take long for Najla to understand why, as Sa’aqr was quick to begin parading himself before the crowd, making grand gestures and making various grand claims about vanquishing a Servant to the crowd. It was an entertaining show, and though most of the crowd seemed to appreciate it, Najla found little humor in it. He would die soon, and each and every one of these claims would be forgotten once he did. A glance around at her family seemed to suggest the same, for those who had seen Ketill fight seemed to understand that these were the last few words he’d be able to speak. Those who had not seen her Servant were likely worried, or simply uncomfortable with the grandiosity of it all, bar Mehmet, who was enjoying the show all too much.

Finally, it was time, and the crowd’s attitude seemed to change entirely when Ketill stepped out, his armor flashing under the Sawarim sun. However excited they had been, however riled up Sa’aqr’s words had made them, the crowd seemed to quiet for a moment as they took in the beast their Sultana had brought. The facemask only made him more fearsome to look upon, and Najla felt as if she could see the ice of his eyes from where she sat. As the crowd’s volume began to rise up again, likely now excitedly discussing the ‘Bear of Broacien’, Najla’s mind had turned to another matter entirely, and she leaned over, whispering in Harith’s ear softly.

<“You never told me, what did you do with the armorer?”>

The question elicited a grin from Harith, who glanced down at her briefly before turning his gaze onto the arena once more. He had told her of the man’s transgression, and though he’d had to explain a few points regarding the armor to Najla, she had been quick to agree with Harith, this could not go unpunished. Yet Najla had left the matter to him, for it was Harith he’d lied to, after all, and Harith who had volunteered to find a just punishment.

<“You don’t need to hear about such violence.”>

<“What?”> Her whispering was slightly louder now, harsher even, though she could not quite tell if Harith was joking or not. <“You brought your child to see a man die, but you won’t tell me that?”>

<“He’ll see plenty more death before his time, I’m not going to pretend otherwise.”>

<“And I haven’t?”>

She would get no chance to pursue this further, at least not today. The silence of the crowd was quick to indicate what was about to happen, and the armorer was quickly forgotten as the prayers began. They were the same as ever, the familiar words that preceded harsh deaths and blood-stained sands, yet they felt different to Najla when she spoke them. The last time had been just before Thamud’s death, or the slow procession towards it, and even then, she had not felt that sense of dread in her stomach.

It would not be given long to settle, for as soon as the prayers were over, the fighters were ready to begin. Najla merely watched for a moment, though it was not long before her father spoke up, pointing out some of the details he believed his daughter was missing. Perhaps her father should have been whispering this knowledge to Basim, who would find far more use for it, but it was Najla that seemed far more eager to hear it. While Najla appreciated the distraction from the events that were to come, Basim would likely not be half as eager to have the details of the violence pointed out to him. And her father would be wasting his breath on Harith, who would be whispering the same to his son in time, but for now, was grinning like a maniac.

<“See how they’re testing each other? Watch the way they’re estimating each other’s movements.”>

He’d have to begin to explain some of the finer details to his daughter, who continued to ask her father questions about their movements, trying to see if she could understand the tide of the fight better this way. It was also a helpful distraction from her nerves, though Najla would not reveal this to her father as she continued to ask questions, hoping he wouldn’t notice. There was no sense in revealing her nerves to him, he was not a man that would help her to calm down. If that had been her goal, Najla would have asked her mother, but now, her father’s words were giving her some sort of insight she had not had before, which were a comfort in themselves at least.

She had felt a hint of nerves set in when Sa’aqr first struck out, grazing Ketill’s armor with his dagger, though it faded rather quickly when Ketill set upon him, slamming into his shield. Or rather, it was not Ketill that eased her, but Harith’s soft chuckle, as he leaned over where she sat to speak to his father.

<“Didn’t I tell you I wasn’t just wasting those shields? It’s no wonder he went through the supply!”>

Harith’s amusement had been a stark contrast to her father before, though this comment managed to bring a smile onto his face briefly. It did not last long, for Najla’s hand was quick to shove Harith out of her line of vision, letting him settle back in his seat as she focused on the fight once more. It seemed her father had caught the impressed look on her face when Sa’aqr dropped his shield to grab the spear, for he was quick to speak again.

<“He’s performing. Don’t let it worry you.”>

His words were affirmed quickly whenever Sa’aqr began to spin the weapon around in his hands, and so Najla simply watched as they finally approached each other again, as Sa’aqr moved to slam his spear into Ketill’s head. As the two tangled together, the fighting seemed to grow more violent, more brutish, and she felt her body tense as they exchanged blow upon blow. When they finally split apart, as Ketill moved back to call for an axe, Najla just watched the way they walked, feeling that dread seep into her stomach again. They were beaten and bruised already, there was no question as to that, and so she could only hope that they’d end this fight soon.

Unfortunately, she’d get her wish. The sounds of the crowd cheering and gasping fell silent as the pounding of Najla’s heart rose in her throat. He’d been hit. She could not tell how badly, but the nerves she’d been trying so desperately to hide showed themselves now, as she gripped her father’s hand tightly. He said nothing as to this, offered no words of comfort, for soon Sa’aqr’s yell filled the arena as Ketill dragged him down, only to be followed by a familiar voice.

Najla looked up across the arena, only to settle her eyes on her husband. He looked terrified, as did his mother, both watching as Ketill raised the axe towards their son. Though she glanced down when Ketill struck, the excitement of the arena would not be able to keep her attention for long, and her gaze returned back to her husband. For a moment, Najla felt only pain, remorse that she had caused such a hardship upon the man she loved. This would not last, for a stern voice in her ear would be quick to redirect her attention.

<“Don’t look away. You sentenced him, you owe him that much.”>

So Najla looked, her expression fading to something completely unreadable, no trace of the remorse or pain, no sense of worry or fear. She merely watched as Ketill pulled the tip of the spear out of his side, raising it in the air, and though her father had told her to look at Sa’aqr, her gaze was on Ketill. She could not read his expression from behind the facemask, but Najla felt as if she could feel his eyes on her, boring through her, harsher than any weapon he’d touched before. Perhaps she was imagining it. Her eyes followed the spear as he lowered it, stabbing it through Sa’aqr’s neck, twisting it and letting the man fall upon the sand. The crowd roared to life behind her, even as Najla watched the blood spread across the sands, staining each grain. She’d sentenced her brother-in-law, and now, the crowd behind her cheered even as her husband grieved across from her. Perhaps she would suffer for this too, later, when the people realized they were cheering for a Servant. For now, they had seen only violence, and they had loved it.

The crowd would quiet as the Sultan stood from his throne. His voice carried across the arena, announcing that the Sawarim had decided in Najla’s favor, officially deciding this matter. As ritual demanded, he would turn to Najla’s family then, and call for them to demand their recompense. This compensation typically varied, from a small sum to the murder of a near relative, depending on the crime. But as promised, Najla shook her head at her father, who stood, his voice answering his brother’s question on her behalf. It was a strange comparison to the first time Najla had sentenced Ketill, where she had stood to announce her will to the court, but it seemed here, in the face of violence, the Sawarim had separate rules about their women’s roles. It mattered little to Najla, who could only tear her gaze off of Ketill when the Sultan would accept this notion, leaving before allowing the crowd to disperse after him.

<“My daughter says she will reject any Qisas that is offered. This suffering is regrettable, and we will see no more of it.”>

With that, it was over. The Sultan would leave, and the crowd would move out just after, gossiping and talking amongst themselves about what had just happened. Najla’s family would not remain, but leave just after the Sultan. She could hear Harith and Adina’s hushed arguing behind her, likely about the violence their son had just witnessed, she could hear Mehmet speaking to Basim, who pulled his nephew along as he spoke about anything but the violence the boy had just witnessed, and finally, her parents, though she could not quite hear what they were saying. Najla however, was quiet up until a slave ran up to approach her, bowing quickly.

<“Sultana, forgive me, the Servant-“>

<“Has a healer gotten to him yet?”>

<“Yes, Sultana.”>

<“Good. If he needs further attention, have the healers sent to his room. And instruct his servant to notify me once he’s healed. Otherwise, I don’t want to hear anything more regarding him unless he dies.”>



The Sawarim believed in burying the dead as soon as they were allowed, and so Sa’aqr’s body would be taken quickly, carried off the arena and into a temple. Here, he was joined by his male kin throughout the day, who were tasked with cleaning the blood off his body, preparing him to meet his God. Perhaps it was a cruelty, to force family to do so mere hours after his death, but the Sawarim God was not a soft God, they had long since seen that. Once they were done, they’d wrap his body in a white cloth, securing it tightly with rope, before leaving him to wait until they could bury him. As with all other aspects of their lives, death was a highly ritualized process, and so they would have to wait until the next day to bury him during the proper hours. Until then, they would allow visitors. First it was Osman and his family, of course, but they tapered off throughout the night, until Najla could finally call upon him herself.

The sound of her steps against the tile seemed to reverberate against the temple walls, indicating just how alone Najla was now. There was only Sa’aqr before her, though he was not the man he remembered. She had recalled him as a boastful man, entertaining when he was drunk, prone to large gestures and a penchant for playfully teasing his younger brothers. Now he was a corpse, wrapped tightly in white cloth and set upon a slab of marble. Though his body had been cleaned, so that the white cloth could not be stained despite the injuries that had left him here, it still smelled. Najla was hard-pressed to keep from wrinkling her nose, and instead uncorked the small bottle of pressed rosewater she had gripped in her hand, holding it to her nose as she walked closer.

Najla seemed to hold no fear of a corpse, and so she felt no hesitation as she walked around the slab, stopping behind it to look down at the white cloth that so tightly wrapped his body. It was stainless, an indicator of how he would leave this world, though Najla was certain it would not be so by the time he was buried. They would have to rewrap him if it was dirtied, but she had seen enough funerals to know how many corpses were buried with their mother’s tears upon them. Still, she did not touch it. Rather, she simply lowered the bottle of rosewater from her nose, using a small amount to wet her hands in preparation for prayer. As she set the bottle down on that slab of marble, just beside the corpse, the sound of a footstep came. Far heavier than hers had been, and faster. There was no question as to who it could be, for there would be no one else allowed within the temple while she was here, and so Najla did not even look up as she continued to rub the scented water into her hands, though she could feel her heart starting to race.

<“Were you waiting for me?”>

<“For some time. I was beginning to think you weren’t coming.”>

<“You shouldn’t have waited.”> Najla’s voice was soft, making it clear that her words were coming more out of concern for him than herself. Finally, her eyes lifted up to her husband to be, and she felt herself falter before her next words. She had never seen Osman so hurt, his eyes bloodshot with grief and lack of sleep, his voice hoarse despite his strangely calm demeanor. It pained her to think that she had brought this upon him, even though she would not acknowledge it yet. <“You need to sleep. I can see that you haven’t rested since.”>

<“Of course I haven’t.”> Osman was quick to walk closer, stopping on the other side of the slab which held his brother. His tone was growing angrier now, though the grief that permeated them was unmoving, resistant to any other emotion. <“I spent the day washing his corpse, and the night scrubbing his blood off my hands. How could I have rested, when my hands still burned with his blood?”>

<“May your pain be taken from you.”>

It was a formal response, though the tone she spoke it in was soft, as if it could bring him some comfort. Osman’s eyes lifted to her, still burning, and Najla could tell that he had noticed. She had not offered to take his pain onto herself, for she could have done that long ago, had she named Harith as a champion. Whether that would have evened the score in Osman’s eyes, she did not know, but something in her words seemed to ease him. It was not that he was not entirely angry, but he was precariously balancing between his emotions, perching halfway between grief and anger. It seemed as if the former won out, briefly, for Osman’s words felt as if he was aching for some comfort, even from her.

<“I feel as if I’ve already forgotten his face. Every time I try to picture him, I don’t see a man anymore I just-“>

He paused here, drawing a deep breath to steady himself. Najla wanted nothing more than to reach out to him, to pull him into her arms and take such a grief from him, but she couldn’t bring herself to lift a hand. Instead, she spoke again, her voice barely heard above his heavy, tortured breathes.

<“His face will return to your memories as it is meant to. It will take time, but-“>

<“Stop lying!”> His hands suddenly found the marble slab, leaning against it to steady himself. The anger had returned to his voice, and for a moment, it had caused Najla to jump as his demand echoed against the tiles of the temple. It was a lucky thing that the guards were outside, though Najla did not feel so lucky as Osman continued.

<“Do you see Jalil’s face in your memories? Do you see the boy he was, can you picture that? Or is it just a rotting, crushed skull on a man’s body?! Sa’aqr still bleeds, in my mind he has not stopped bleeding, I cannot see anything else!”>

<“I hear his voice.”> Najla forced herself to continue speaking, though the way his hands tightened upon the marble, mere inches from his brothers corpse, should have been a warning. <“And I- I feel his presence. They say the witnesses never truly leave us, and they speak the truth.”>

<“You made him a witness.”>

The accusation was spoken through clenched teeth, and suddenly, it felt as if Najla was more aware of how empty the large temple was, how the only one that stood between her and her lover was the corpse she had created. The fear had settled for some time, but Najla would not give in just yet, could not bear to show it, in hopes that perhaps his grief would overwhelm his anger. Elif could not understand his grief, but she had spent nights in Osman’s arms, seeking comfort when her memories of Jalil could not be put away by sleep or wine. It was a fleeting hope however, for Najla knew by now that their memories of before would not be enough.

<“I didn’t want this. I didn’t name him.”>

<“Or Harith, hm? Was my family the only one meant to bleed?”> He finally released the marble, now slowly walking around the slab where his brother lay, his eyes frozen upon Najla. She had to force herself not to take a step back, praying that he would not be so stricken as to hurt her here, in the presence of their God.

<“No, I would never wish this upon you. I didn’t want him named, I could never have imagined this.”>

<“Don’t tell me you didn’t know what your dog would do.”>

<“My love, you’re grieving.”> Osman halted, for now he had made it around to her side, though he was still a few paces from her. <“We’ll deal with the dog later. We shouldn’t talk about such things now. Not here.”>

For a moment, Najla wondered if her words had worked. Osman shot a quick glance at the white cloth that covered his brother’s face, and Najla watched as his eyes moved upwards from there, tracing the ray of light that led straight up past the decorated tiles, as if he could see his God in the sky above. After all, while it was the law of God that a man was allowed to strike his wife, it was not a tradition that was smiled upon, especially not in so sacred a ground. Perhaps, given more time, she could have spoken to him, convinced him of the difficult situation Elif had put her in. Whatever brief hope of that had begun, it was quickly dashed, for Najla watched as Osman’s gaze snapped back to her, the anger still very much apparent within them.

<“You think God will judge me here? After all that you have done? You unleashed a Monarchist dog upon your people-“>

<“Osman-“> Her plea was cut off as Osman took another step towards her, and finally, Najla tried to step back, out of his reach. Still, it was too late, for his anger had peaked. Whatever those brief moments of thought had brought, it was not peace, Najla could see that in his eyes. He seemed nothing like the man she had fallen in love with, he was not her husband, but a beast that wanted her gone, dead. Another among many, it seemed.

<“I listened to the people cheer, for the end of my brother’s life, for the glory of an infidel! Look what you have brought upon my family. You should never have returned, you should have rotted beside your brother-”>

<“Please-“>

Her words were barely spoken when they were cut off by a harsh crack, followed by a sharp sensation of pain in her lip. Najla would have fallen over from the force, but Osman was quick to grab her before she fell. His hand wrapped in her hair, as before, but Najla was helpless to do much but struggle as he turned her around, forcing her to face the corpse beneath her. One hand gripped at her left arm, keeping her from utilizing it, and it was her right that gripped against the slab of marble, the sole obstacle besides cloth that stood between her and Sa’aqr now. Osman did not push her lower just yet, content to spit words into her ear, as Najla felt the tickle of blood as it begin to move from her lips.

<“Look what you have done! LOOK!”>

Najla tried to turn her face away as Osman pressed her head farther down, and she could feel that trickle moving on her face now, threatening to spill down onto the precious white cloth. Even in her pain and fear, Najla held one clear thought in her mind: Don’t stain the cloth. They’ll notice. She tried to hold her bottom lip in her mouth, ignoring the pain and the coppery taste that filled her mouth now.

It was not enough. Osman’s words were nearly as harsh as his hands, spilling forth his grief in between accusations, but Najla could not hear them. She could feel the tickle of a drop of blood as it ran down her lip, moving down her chin, aching to fall onto the pure cloth under her. She wanted nothing more than to speak, to beg Osman to release her before he stained his brother’s body with her blood, but doing so would only serve to stain the cloth more, this she knew. So Najla held silent for these brief moments, praying that the drop would not fall, but this too, was to no avail. Finally, when she felt as if the drop would fall from her face, Najla released the slab with her arm. In this moment, she reached up, hoping to stop the blood from falling, and Osman’s strength pushed her down farther without such resistance, so that she nearly fell against the corpse. This moment was short-lived however, for Osman’s arms were quick to pull her back, throwing her to the side, away from his brother. Najla fell onto the tile harshly, the first cry of pain escaping her lips as she did so.

For a long moment, they were silent. Najla slowly pushed herself up to sit upon the tile, looking up to see that Osman was bent over, his head resting on the marble beside his brother’s head, as if in prayer. He was not praying however, the way his shoulders rose with his labored breaths, or perhaps sobs, was enough to tell her that. In this silence, Najla slowly took account of her injuries, touching the arm he had grabbed, the side she had landed on, knowing that these were likely to bruise. Finally, she raised her hand to her lip, and when she pulled away her fingers, Najla could see that the red of her blood had already stained them.

The silence endured, and finally, Najla pushed herself to stand. At the sound of her movements, Osman lifted his head, stepping back from Sa’aqr’s body and away from the slab he was laid on, walking around as if he meant to leave the temple. However, he did not quite seek to leave yet, and his eyes remained on Najla as she stepped towards Sa’aqr once more. She did not look at Osman, nor would she speak, only walking towards that bottle of rosewater she had left, the one that miraculously had not been shattered in the wake of her husband’s assault. Once more, Najla uncorked this, but rather than offer it to the dead as intended, she poured a small amount upon her hands, scrubbing the blood off. Again, she filled her palm with the scented water, wincing slightly as she wiped the blood off her chin and lips, wiping it on the black fabric of her dress. It did not escape her that she had dirtied her own clothes to keep that white cloth spotless, and briefly, she felt thankful that she was draped in all black. Perhaps it was lucky that they were mourning, for Najla was quick to lift the black cloth that was meant to cover her hair, draping so that it exposed little but her eyes. No doubt, she would have to wear the fabric in a similar fashion for some time, though none would question her as to the reason, not until mourning was over. When that was done, Najla offered the rest of the water, pouring the final few drops at Sa’aqr’s feet.

<“Ya Sawarim, forgive our living and our dead. Be generous onto him, and cause his entrance to be wide and wash him with water and snow and rain. Cleanse him of his transgressions as white cloth is cleansed of stains. Take him into Paradise, and protect him from the punishment of the grave.”>

It hurt somewhat to speak the prayer, but Najla persisted, though it was mumbled under the cloth that covered her mouth now. It did not matter. Osman, who was still watching her with those burning, bloodshot eyes, knew precisely the words she was speaking. It was only when she was finished that Najla closed the empty bottle again, finally looking up at her husband.

<“Are you waiting for me?”>

<“Others saw me enter after you.”>

Najla did not need more of an explanation than that. They would have to leave together, with her upon Osman’s arm, or else it would raise suspicions. Refraining from mentioning the fact that it was bad timing to get a handle on his emotions, Najla began to walk around the slab, slowly moving towards Osman. He seemed impatient at her pace, and would close the final few steps himself, stopping just before her.

<“Let me see.”>

<“Don’t touch it.”>

He disobeyed her to reach up, at which Najla flinched. The sight of her flinch caused him to halt, but only briefly, and his touch was gentle as he reached out, peeling the cloth that covered her lip. It was a gesture she would have expected years ago, but not here, not now.

<“It will heal quickly.”> Though his voice held no softness in it, his touch did, and Najla would not fight or struggle with him now. Her eyes only searched his, as if hoping to see something other than grief in them, though nothing came.

<“Pity. You should strike my eye next time.”>

It was the first sentence she had spoken to Osman that made her feel as if she was fighting back somewhat, as if she had not given herself over to endure until his grief was satisfied. There could be nothing farther from the truth, but Najla knew that this could not last forever. She could not survive like this, treading lightly so as not to spark his anger, there was no life there. Perhaps it would have been easier to have Osman taken out, removed as a danger to her, but there was no winning there either. To even begin to make up for her misdeeds towards her family, Najla knew she would have to endure, but her words had made it clear that this was no easy task for her.

<“When you take another of my blood from me?”> She opened her mouth to protest, but Osman’s thumb scraped against her lip then. Whether on accident or on purpose, Najla did not know, but she let out a soft hiss of pain as she pulled her face away from his grip. Osman did not try to hold her to him, but let his hand fall to his side. <“The dog will be long dead before you have that chance.”>

<“Even so, what then? I’ll bear you sons and daughters, to pay the debt of death with life? We cannot build a life upon skeletons Osman, our home will crumble.”>

The silence that followed was all that answered her questions, though her eyes spilled plenty more to Osman as he stared down at her. Whatever grand dreams of their future they had held before Najla first left Al-Tirazi, they had been dashed long ago. There was no happiness to be seen in their future, where Najla would be left to fight endlessly against Elif and Osman, and where Osman would have to face her every day, knowing she had ordered the end of his brother’s life. There was no hope to dissolve the wedding either, unless by one of their deaths. Najla had come to fear this prospect for some time, the pain in her lip convinced her that if Osman had wanted her dead, he would have had every opportunity. She wondered if Osman feared that as well, though as far as Najla was concerned, her husband was already a ghost.

<“Others are waiting to pay their respects. We should go.”>



The Sawarim held rituals for nearly every aspect of their lives, but none were so carefully decided as their deaths. Sa’aqr’s body would not be given long to rot in the temple, for the day after he had been washed and shrouded, a crowd had gathered outside the temple to mourn. It was Sawarim custom that any who wished to attend the funeral were encouraged, so that while the first few rows of mourners were filled with Sa’aqr’s family and friends, there were many beyond that, often people who had never seen him before the day they’d watched him die. There were only a few men who would be allowed to enter the temple that day however, as it was Sa’aqr’s male kin that lowered him into a casket, which they would lift onto their shoulders and carry before the crowd.

Osman had been one of the kin meant to carry his brother’s body, which left Elif alone beside his mourning mother and sisters, listening to their grieving wails. Najla felt lucky that she was not expected to stand beside them, but allowed to stand alongside her mother, as tradition would demand of them. Still, it was a small comfort, for the rows of mourners were separated according to gender for the most part. They would slowly start to merge as they walked him to his burial site, but for now, it left Najla standing too near to Sa’aqr’s mother. Had it not been for her wailings, Najla might not have even realized who she was, for many of the Sawarim women looked similar now. They were all shrouded in black, most only showing their eyes and the bridge of their nose, their prayers and tears covered by this thin cloth. An irritating tradition, especially in this miserable heat, yet Najla would not complain about the sweat running down her forehead as the other women were so prone to do. It was a lucky thing, for none could see how swollen her lip was now, nor would they until it had healed. Osman’s family would mourn for forty days, no longer, and Najla would do so as well, out of respect for the man she had killed.

Suddenly, the crowd that had been melting under the heavy heat seemed to come alive, as the first words of the prayer started to move over the crowd. It was her uncle that spoke them at first, as he had given Osman’s family an incredible honor by offering to recite the first of the prayers over their son. As soon as he had finished however, others would pick up the prayers. These were religious leaders with forceful voices, who carried over the crowd and who never faltered, regardless of how far the burial sites were or how heavy the heat weighed on their shoulders. Thus, even as the crowd began to repeat the prayer, it was the voice of these leaders that carried it over the wailing and the chest-thumping, as if their God himself would hear.



As familiar as the words were to Najla, she faltered in her prayers for a brief moment when the casket was carried out past her. It was a simple casket, covered in a black shroud embroidered with golden lettering of prayers, but this was not what gave her pause. The casket was perched against Osman’s shoulder, and though he stood straight, as did those of his kin that helped him, there was still no mistaking the pain in his expression. They halted before the crowd for a moment, and once the first verse of the prayer was completed, they began to walk past the parted crowd, who would begin to follow them as soon as they had passed. Najla reached out and took her mother’s hand, for she knew how easy it was to be parted in such a crowd, though none would push and shove where the Sultana stood. That would occur near the back of the train, where those who had been strangers to Sa’aqr would mourn, not where the royal family had gathered.

There was nothing quiet about a Sawarim burial, and it was often said that every death within the walls of Al-Tirazi deafened the city. It was only partially true, for every death within the city did not matter. No one mourned for the street urchins or peasants, no one wailed for the slaves. Had Ketill been killed in the duel, none would have gathered to mourn, and even providing him with a burial site would have been a kindness. For Sa’aqr, the city halted. As if the position granted by Osman’s new attachment to the Sultan’s family wouldn’t have been enough, he was a Sawarim, killed by a Servant. He was a witness now, and for that, the whole city would find cause to mourn.

Those who carried the casket were silent, and though Najla could no longer see Osman’s face, she had not forgotten the look in his eyes as he stepped out with his brother’s casket. Those who followed behind however, were not. The men in the crowd beat their chests as they called out the prayers, some, like her brothers in front of her, did so lightly, more for show than any real desire to mourn. Others would walk away with their chests black and blue, their backs marred with whatever weapons they had seen fit to unleash upon themselves. Every drop spilled for a witness was an honor, after all, and so many of those who beat themselves so thoroughly were not even of Osman’s family, but had simply hoped to gain some favor with God. Noticeably, the women did not scar themselves so, with a few unintentional exceptions. Osman’s mother had not stopped her wailing, and could barely follow along with the prayers, for she could only pull at her hair and beat her chest, crying out for her son. Najla, who followed a few paces behind, only gripped her mother’s hand harder, wondering if she had done the same when Jalil had passed.

The procession had begun within the palace walls, though it would proceed beyond these walls, out to a suitable burial site for Sa’aqr. These sorts of funerals were one of the few times the citizens of Al-Tirazi saw their royals family, and Najla recalled how they would try to edge their way to the crowd near the front of the procession, hoping to catch a glimpse. Perhaps it was a strange sight to them, to see the royals walking, with none of the luxuries to hold them above the rest, but they seemed to enjoy it, regardless of the circumstances. This time however, Najla felt as if she could already hear their whispers, hoping to find Sa’aqr’s killer among the crowd of mourners. Perhaps they would have been drowned out by the sounds of prayer, but Najla would have no chance to find out.

<“Valide, Sultana-”> Najla’s eyes jerked up to see a guard standing near her, clearly uncomfortable at his position in the procession. The Sawarim had strict rules regarding these sorts of burials, and though he was not breaking any by approaching her this way, he would be if he lingered too long. Najla however, seemed to have little desire to make it more comfortable for him. More than anything, she wanted to ask how he’d pointed her out among the sea of women, though there was no time for such questions.

<“You shouldn’t go past the walls. Come, turn back.”>

The request was rather strange, and Najla looked up towards her mother in confusion. Her mother only nodded, indicating that she agreed with the guard, though she did not let go of Najla’s hand as they continued to walk forwards. Women were not allowed to attend the burials anyway, it did not make sense to stop her this soon, not when she could simply turn back when Osman’s mother and his family were meant to. Al-Tirazi had never been her enemy before, who believed it had turned on her so quickly?

<“On whose order?”>

<“Sultana, please-”> They were nearing the entrance to the palace walls now, and Najla showed no sign of stopping.

<“I’m not turning back for a plea.”>

<“It’s your father’s order. Please Sultana, come with me.”>

For a moment, it seemed as if Najla was ready to disobey him, but finally nodded, much to the guard’s relief. Her mother followed her as they wormed their way out of the procession, mostly unnoticed by other mourners. There was no way this could be taken as an insult, for the female members of the royal family rarely had an excuse to leave the palace walls regardless, funerals did not do much to change that. However, it was slightly strange, for it had been under Najla’s command that Sa’aqr had perished, it made little sense that she would not see the consequences through. As they finally moved out of the column of mourners, Najla turned back, searching for Osman, who was likely sweltering under the heat and weight of the casket at this point. However, though she could see the casket he carried, Osman himself was lost in the midst of a sea of arms rising into the air, only to be thrown onto their chests again in a hypnotic rhythm.

<“Where is my father?”> Najla asked the guard, who was about to respond before her mother quieted her with a sharp tug on her hand.

<“He knows best Najla, don’t go asking him questions.”>

<“But I am not in danger, I shouldn’t be leaving like this, it’s not right.”>

<“It’s right if your father says it is. Come, you’ll have much more time to mourn, you should ready yourself for the visitations soon.”>

Whatever protests Najla held were quieted, though not by her mother’s words. It was Ketill’s that rang in her ear now, reminding her of just how little control she truly had. She had not wanted to kill Sa’aqr, but she had set Ketill upon him anyways, the best choice she had in a difficult situation. She had not wanted Osman to punish her for it, but she was reminded of his grief every time she spoke. Now, she was not even able to finish the proper recitation of the prayers to the grave, all from her father’s demand, only to be chastised for even wanting to speak to him. Perhaps her father was right to do so, for while Ketill had put on a splendid show for the crowd, Najla had heard the whispers in the city. Not everyone was pleased with how Najla used her new tool, for while it made for an impressive display, so did Sawarimic funerals, and none seemed to enjoy those either. Whatever the reason, there was nothing more for Najla to do, and so she simply stood aside and allowed the procession to pass her as she continued to whisper along to their prayers, intending on at least finishing her recitation, so that the Sawarim would not seek to abandon her to her sins.

<“In the name of our God and his wife, in the name of the Sawarim, the highest, the ever-present, the lord of worlds, in the name of the Umma, the giver of life, the merciful, the witness to truth, I profess there is no God but the Sawarim. May the Sawarim forgive the dead for their transgressions and reward them for their deeds, may they find peace in their eternal place by your side. May the Umma offer their blood a comfort, and may the dead seek only the highest, for they have died in your name. There is no God but the Sawarim, and it is to him, the all-knowing, that I make this plea.”>

With that finished, Najla was quick to turn back, allowing her mother to lead her into the palace once more, her mind racing. Whatever reason her father had for this, Najla had gotten little hint of it, and that worried her more than the command itself. She only hoped that Elif had not seen her turn back, nor Osman, for that would be a difficult situation to explain without arousing more anger. She could not blame her father, for he could not have guessed what a simple command could mean for his daughter, but it was not as if she could tell him either, only endure.



Though the issue of the funeral had weighed on her mind for a great deal of time, Najla knew she could not address it so quickly. After all, her father and brothers were going to be at the burial for some time, and there were few others that could give her a clear answer regarding this matter. Her mother had been little help, only insisting that Najla not pester her father with questions. Rather, she had returned Najla to the palace, telling her to go ready herself for the visitations later. It would be a long few days for her, for Najla knew she’d have to spend a great deal of time with the bereaved’s family, as tradition demanded. It would be a great deal of crying, praising a witness, and retelling stories of his past braveries, none of which she was eager to hear. Still, she would not abandon this matter so soon, and after she was certain the burial was over, Najla had headed off to find her brother, hoping to get some answer from him.

There were few reasons for her father to issue such a command, and in all likelihood, he had done so out of sheer caution. After all, the people believed Sa’aqr was a witness, there was always the chance that they could begin to whisper that Najla herself had created a martyr. It was a prospect that worried her greatly, for there was no easier way to perish in this desert than to lose the favor of the Sawarim God. Still, she’d heard nothing of real consequence from her contacts in the capital, but even that was hardly a relief anymore. Most of her enemies were inside these walls now, and if they had wanted to kill her, they would not have to bring her beyond the walls to do so. Even here, on the path to Harith’s rooms, would be easier for them.

The guards at the entrance were slow to recognize her, but the sound of her voice, or perhaps the commanding tone she spoke in, was enough to touch their memory it seemed. One went ahead to confirm that Najla could enter, a formality Harith usually didn’t bother with, but it seemed he had asked for some privacy today. Still, it wasn’t enough reason for her to wonder just yet, for she was allowed in briefly afterwards. There, Harith’s large rooms were empty, save for the sight of her brothers, leaned back on their cushions still dressed in their black robes. Still, Najla could sense that something was not quite right, for they were both silent as she entered, making it rather obvious that their conversation had been stopped for her. Even more telling was the fact that neither Adina nor Mehmet were present, though Najla would not mention this just yet.

<“What are you doing here, Basim? I thought you’d both be ready to rest.”>

<“We’re just talking. Did you need to talk to Harith?”>

<“Not about anything important. How was the burial?”>

<“Same as the all the others before him.”> It was Harith that replied now, his voice dulled by the exhaustion of mourning under such heat. <“More blood though. I guess that’s to be expected, seeing as they’re calling him a ‘martyr’ and all. I swear, they’d find any reason to bleed.”>

<“Did you not bleed for him today?”>

Though Najla’s tone had been somewhat amused, she could see that her words had brought a rare cloud of seriousness onto Harith’s face, which was surprising, given that his nonchalance seemed to have endured through the funeral. He responded as she moved to join them, settling herself on the cushions far more gracefully than either of her brothers.

<“They only call him a witness because Ketill killed him, as if every cockroach he steps on deserves the blood off my back. Jalil was a martyr. I bled for him.”>

<“May the Sawarim grant him peace. I’m happy to hear your words, but be careful who you repeat them to.”>

<“I won’t have a chance. Who besides you would ask a question like that?”>

It seemed that some of the amusement had returned to Harith’s voice, nearly as quickly as it had fled. Najla did not spare it much of a thought, instead turning her gaze onto Basim. He was oddly quiet, which was out of character for him, though perhaps it could be attributed to the violence of the past few days. After all, the duel itself had been difficult to witness, and to be among the mourners as they sliced their backs open with lashes was hardly a comfort. It was a blessing of sorts that Sawarim women were forbidden from attending the burial ceremonies, though Najla wondered if perhaps that privilege should have been granted to Basim rather than her. Still, something told her that this silence was not entirely due to that, for while it could certainly have been enough to weigh on his mind, her instincts told her otherwise.

<“Who else was bleeding?”>

<“If you’re asking about Osman, don’t worry.”> Again, it was Harith that responded, though Najla could feel her younger brother’s eyes on her. Though he was silent, the way his gaze seemed to see right through the veil that covered her injuries almost unnerved her, and so it was easier to focus on someone who had no reason to suspect anything from it. <“He didn’t seem as eager to beat himself as the others. Not after what happened with his mother.”>

<“What happened? Is she okay?”>

For a moment, both of her brothers frowned as Najla glanced between them, seemingly surprised that she hadn’t heard. To Najla, it suggested that they had not heard of their father’s command to her, for most of the women were expected to turn back at the same time.

<“She lost her mind when they told her to turn back. They had to stop the march for a few moments after she tried to jump onto her son’s casket. How did you miss that?”> This was a common occurrence at Sawarim funerals, where grieving mothers would often beg to be buried alongside their children, wives their husbands, blood onto blood. It was not meant to happen, and disrupted the processes, but it seemed most were quick to forgive the actions of those who mourned.

<“I turned back at the walls. You didn’t notice that I was absent?”>

This drew a laugh from Harith, despite the rather morbid nature of their conversation. They had both seemed surprised, which indicated to Najla that she was right in assuming her father had not warned either of them about his command. She was not surprised that Basim did not know, but her father trusted Harith with a great deal regarding his activities. It did not always use to be this way, for Harith’s unpredictability was not always an asset to their family, but Jalil’s death had changed a great deal. Still, this only indicated that she wouldn’t have much luck understand his reasons why, at least not here.

<“I can’t tell any of you apart during funerals, you all look like a flock of ravens. Speaking of, take that thing off now, it’s too hot to pretend you’re mourning.”>

<“I am mourning.”> Najla replied, trying to hide the slight panic that had arisen at Harith’s words. She hoped that she could simply ignore them, figuring that Harith would be quick to forget, though Najla was not so certain Basim would miss this so easily. Still, she forced herself to make eye contact with her younger brother regardless, hoping he’d see the anger in her eyes above anything else.

<“And shut up about ravens. It’s all I ever hear from Ketill anymore, I can’t stand it. He’s worse than Majnun, except his Leyli is a fucking bird.”>

This drew a grin from Harith, though she saw no such reaction from Basim. He had never insisted that she thank Ketill, or even mentioned it, though she knew there was a great deal he did not quite understand about that night. To be fair, there was a great deal Najla did not understand as well, but she had long since given up on the Servant, labeling him as an irreconcilable madman. Basim seemed far more reluctant to do the same.

<“What did you do with him?”> Najla’s eyes turned to Basim as he finally spoke. There was little hint as to what he truly meant, but Najla would not begin to guess, answering as truthfully as he could hope for.

<“Nothing.”> There was only a moment’s pause before she’d have to speak again. <“Really, no punishment, no reward, nothing. Why, you don’t believe me?”>

<“It’s not that. I’m just surprised Osman hasn’t insisted on something.”>

<“Even if he does, it doesn’t mean I’m going to give it to him. Do you think I’m that weak?”>

<“You’re not weak, it’s just that-“>

Basim trailed off slightly here, and Najla’s eyes flitted between both of her brothers, trying to determine if they were nearing the truth. If Ketill was not the reason they’d come here to converse, then Najla could only hope that Basim had not told Harith about the rest of what had happened that night. He would not be so easily to ignore Osman’s actions as Basim was, and even that had not been a simple process. But if Ketill was the reason, then it would mean that they had sought to have this discussion without her present, a thought which brought along no comfort either.

<“What do you think about giving him to me?”>

Najla’s eyes widened when Harith finally spoke, and for a moment, all she could do was look between her brothers in shock. She had been right then, in guessing that they had come to speak about Ketill, though Najla could not have guessed that they would come to such a conclusion so quickly. The shock in her eyes was enough proof of that, though there was only a few moments before it rapidly turned to anger. With a sudden motion, Najla stood, pushing herself off the cushions.

<“Is this what you two were talking so secretively about? You had a discussion about my slave and decided I shouldn’t be present for it?”>

<“Najla, we never meant to go behind your back. We’re asking you now, aren’t we?”>

Najla turned around then, her face contorted into a frown, though they’d only be able to see the anger in her eyes. Basim’s voice was a carefully controlled calm, trying to ease his sister from making another mistake. She had always found it amusing that he was so level-headed, considering that all his siblings had turned out so differently, but today it only served to irritate her.

<“Should I be grateful for that? Neither of you get to make decisions regarding my property. Ketill is mine.”>

<“He’ll still be yours this way, he just won’t be Osman’s.”> These words made Najla pause briefly, and upon seeing this, Basim turned to Harith. <“Explain it to her.”>

<“We were thinking, you could grant him as a gift to me. I’d find a use for him, and you could still use him to fight whenever you needed. I promise you that. This wasn’t intended as an insult, so don’t go taking it as one. Basim only hoped it’d make this ordeal easier on you.”>

<“Is this true, my blood?”> Najla turned her gaze back to Basim then, who seemed somewhat annoyed that Harith had outed the plan as his so easily. She would not have needed that confirmation, for Najla knew her brothers well enough to guess at whose decision this was. Still, she was furious that they had even sought to consider this option, especially after having told Basim that Osman would not take Ketill. It also hinted that Basim had told Harith about Osman’s threat, leaving Najla only able to hope that he had not told him of the rest. Though her tone was somewhat sarcastic, Basim opened his mouth to reply, only to be cut off by his sister, whose voice was rising despite the pain it brought to her injured lip.

<“Do you have so little faith in me? I already told you, Osman will not touch Ketill, because Ketill is not his. He’s mine.”>

<“Yes, for now. But when you’re married, nothing is yours anymore. It will change-“>

<“Nothing fucking changes, Basim. You’re smart enough to see that. What do I own now that is mine, outside of where your hands can reach, what do I own that father could not take?! Baba wouldn’t even let me go past the castle walls to see Sa’aqr’s funeral, and you know what? He’s still dead!”>

Najla finally halted in her yelling, taking a long breath as she tried to calm herself. She could see from Basim’s expression that he was more worried than anything, for he had seen how easily Najla’s anger had slipped in front of Elif, and perhaps was simply worried that she’d do something dumber this time. However, Najla saw something else in his eyes, something she didn’t want to address. He had not realized that their father had pulled her out of the funeral, it seemed, and while her father did not know the consequences it might have, Basim’s eyes suggested otherwise. If Osman were to find out that Najla turned back midway through his brother’s funeral, it would certainly be a cause for anger. Perhaps that was why he didn’t defend himself, or likely because he didn’t see a need to, but a glance over at Harith showed that he was not quite as calm as Basim now.

<“Is that why you’re so worked up, because baba asked you to stay in the walls? Ya Sawarim, Najla, don’t yell at the boy because of that, he can’t fucking control it. Besides, baba was just trying to protect you, just like Basim is.”>

<“Protect me from what? The only enemies that concern me now are the ones within these walls, but it’s not like baba would consider that. Making decisions on my behalf is hardly any sort of protection.”>

<“What does that have to do with Ketill, or us for that matter? If you’re going to be this ridiculous, we should just have father take him.”>

<“He’s not his to take!”>

<“Shut up!”>

Though his siblings were far more used to just shouting over Basim’s attempts to quiet them, this was far more than an attempt, it was a command. Perhaps it was the still-present surprise at Basim’s newfound confidence, but regardless, both Harith and Najla fell silent. He stood then, and when he glanced between his siblings, Najla found herself regretting her words to him almost instantly. She did not want to drive him away, all this had been for that very reason, and yet she had lost control of herself entirely, it seemed. Even worse, was that Harith was the only one who seemed angry. Basim held none of that anger when he looked at her, only annoyance coming through his words as he spoke again.

<“If you think you can keep Ketill, what do I care, just keep him. But if you’re letting your pride speak before reason, don’t be surprised when both fall. It’s not like it matters, we’ve got another forty days before the mourning is over, you don’t have to decide which voice to speak with now.”>

Najla had meant to respond to him, perhaps even to apologize, but Basim gave her no option. He simply walked past her, and out of Harith’s room, closing the door after him. For a moment, Najla watched him leave, feeling regret that she had allowed herself to yell at her youngest brother on such a day, though she knew Basim was not the only reason this regret consumed her so now. When he had finally left, she turned back to Harith, who simply sat back and raised an eyebrow at her.

<“Are you sun-stricken?”>

<“No, I’m just- angry I suppose. I’ll apologize to him later, it’s not him I’m angry with.”>

<“Is it father?”>

<“I don’t know. It doesn’t matter anyway, this will all be over soon. By the time the mourning period has ended, it’ll be settled, I promise. I don’t want you to have to shoulder any more of my burdens.”>

<“We’re blood, Najla, we don’t have a choice on that. Why do you even want to keep Ketill anyways, I thought you could barely stand the sight of him.”>

<“That’s true, but it doesn’t erase his value to me. Besides, even if he had none, I wouldn’t pass the Djinn onto you.”>

She had meant to say more, but Harith let out a short laugh, before leaning back on his cushions again, just shaking his head. <“You don’t really believe that, do you?”> When Najla didn’t respond, Harith only laughed again. After all, she knew Ketill was a man, he was flesh and blood just as see was. But Harith had not seen all that she had, he had seen a beast, not a demon. <“You’ve got to be sun-stricken then. Just give me the Djinn, he’ll become a man in saner hands.”>

<“No. And if you try and take him behind my back, I’ll tell Adina the names of every one of your bastard’s mothers.”>

<“Don’t make empty threats, my blood.”>

For a moment, Najla thought her words had served their purpose. Harith’s grin faded briefly, and his eyes seemed to dim, leaving Najla to wonder if she’d made him angry. After all, while they both knew she would never divulge the information, they also both knew that she held it. Harith had never quite held the same skills in obtaining silence from the women, and Najla was always prepared to aid her brother in that. Still, it was a topic they never spoke of unless necessary, and there was good reason for that. Yet it was not a touchy subject either, that much was clear when she watched Harith try to repress that all-too-familiar grin as he spoke.

<“You know you can’t count that high.”>

<“You’re an ass.”> His grin finally broke through at these words, though Najla would not wait to see it, turning around and leaving her brother on his own.


In ℰxpedition for the ℬanner of St. ℱriedrich → 9 yrs ago Forum: The Gallery
The situation the past days had grown rather precarious when the argument that Basim had started ended with a fight between Najla and Elif. Osman had threatened to raise a hand at Najla, and Ketill had stopped him. Hate her or not, he would be the one to hurt her, not Osman. That uptight dog had less honour than even the lowliest of peasants. But Najla had not seemed pleased – much rather, she had ordered him out of the room right away, to which Ketill dutifully followed her order. He had nothing else to say, and it seemed Basim didn’t need him anymore. Whatever the purpose might’ve been for this visit – Ketill had not managed to follow half of it, after all, so the purpose was lost on him – it had obviously failed.

He returned to his room, without an escort for once, and continued his daily business – which was to say, a lot of lounging about. Occasionally he’d call in Yasamin and tell her to get him food, or something of the sorts, but overall he spent his time alone – precisely how he liked it. And perhaps better for Najla too. An unchained bear of Broacien walking around the palace was likely to raise a few eyebrows left and right.

This time he did not have to call Yasamin in himself, as she knocked on his door a few minutes after his arrival. ‘’Yes, enter,’’ Ketill was quick to say, expecting a guard or Najla, or perhaps even Basim. Though to be fair, it was a stupid assumption. Najla, nor Basim, would not knock on his door, but enter at will.

The door opened and closed right after her, as the freckled Broacien-Sawarim halfblood entered, standing in front of the door with her small stature while Ketill laid back, eying here up and down waiting for her to speak. ‘’Yes?’’

‘’What was it this time?’’ she replied, a hint of curiosity or perhaps annoyance in her voice as she spoke. Still, she spoke soft as always, as expected of a harem girl. Gentle, like a flower. Ketill learned long ago that it was deceiving. ‘’You were brought to the prince’s chambers. You’re in trouble again, aren’t you?’’

‘’How did you even know about th-’’

‘’Guards like harem girls. They can’t touch us, but that doesn’t mean they don’t like talking to us. You should stop getting in trouble. You’ve already been whipped by Osman for punching him, and the Sultana can’t always protect you.’’

‘’I suppose I’ll be dead soon then.’’

‘’Ya Sawar- I mean, dear Monarch. What did you do?’’

‘’Not your concern, Yasamin.’’

Her face formed a frown then, her unpleased nature with the answer being more than evident as she stepped closer to him in that typical womanly fashion – not the manner at which you walked if you wanted to seduce, more so the manner at which women walked if they were displeased. ‘’No, you’re wrong. I may be your servant, but we both know that’s not how things are. So tell me,’’ she told him, with an attempt to sound more stern. She merely earned a laugh from Ketill, who couldn’t help but be amused with her failed attempt at being bossy or stern. She did not possess the same skills Najla possessed. Luckily.

‘’He tried to strike Najla, and I stopped him.’’

‘’Who, the prince? You know you’re not allowed to touch him, right?’’

‘’No, Osman, but I suppose that I can’t touch him either. Not that that stopped me before.’’

‘’That’s… no, you’re not allowed. And he’s allowed to strike her – that’s the law. But she’s a Sultana, so I don’t think it’s that easy. Even so, I think you did the right thing.’’

‘’I suppose. Was that all?’’ Ketill seemed rather bored with her already, and this only furthered her annoyance, it seemed. She raised an eyebrow at him and waited a moment to collect herself before continuing.

‘’It’s been a week and some since you were granted me as a servant. Yet you’ve not bedded me. Is there something wrong with me?’’

‘’What is it with the Sawarim and their obsession with sex?’’

‘’There’s no obsession with sex, and I’m not a Sawarim, you.. you oaf!’’

‘’Then why are you complaining?’’

‘’Nor am I complaining! You just- alright, never mind! Why didn’t you just tell me you weren’t interested!’’

‘’You didn’t ask.’’

By now, Yasamin had gone entirely red, and in an effort to speak, could only bring forth an angry noise before turning around and walking out of the room. The door slammed shut behind her when she left, the loud bang echoing through the hallways momentarily before fading away. Ketill merely leaned back some more and rested his head on his hands, folded behind his head. He shook his head in confusion before closing his eyes, mumbling something about among the lines of ‘’… women…’’ before dozing off.



The next days were uneventful entirely, and from the hushes and whispers that passed his doors he could only make out who was involved – Najla, Elif and Osman. Basim was mentioned in passing only, so it seemed he had escaped the wrath of this conflict, but Ketill did not make the mistake of assuming he wasn’t involved. It was rather obvious what had happened to cause this after all, at least to Ketill, since he had been present for it. But nobody came to bring him to his execution. And so, he could only assume that Osman had kept his mouth shut about being touched by Ketill – and instead, they had focused on the fight between Elif and Najla. He did not realize yet how spot on his assumption was, but as with all things in the Sultanate, in due time the secrets were spilled to him.

Once Yasamin had cooled off, she had visited Ketill again, apologized half-heartedly for her outburst which was met with the wave of his hand. He was undoubtedly indifferent to the girl, and was remarkably at ease with indicating as much. She had spilled the secrets rather easily, too, seeing as she knew Ketill had a stake or two in Najla and her situation. Najla would likely never have told him, but Yasamin did, and she continued to tell him about it all – the meeting she had had with her parents and brothers, though she knew not the contents. She explained its’ significance, but she was honest when she said that she herself knew little of what it actually meant. She was not royalty after all, so how could she know?

‘’All I know is that something more is going on, the word got out and someone, somewhere, must’ve gone to the Sultan and complained. These meetings don’t happen for nothing, and the way that people have seen Najla around – she’s bothered by it, it seems. So whatever it is, it’s serious. And the court knows, and we also know that there’ll be a duel.’’

Ketill had been entirely disinterested in her explanation as he could not care less what happened to Najla, as long as she survived and wasn’t hurt physically, so that none could take that right from him. But the mention of a duel did interest him. ‘’Between her and Elif? Women fight?’’

Yasamin covered her mouth as she laughed at his remark. It was rather stupid, of course, but the way she’d said it made it sound like it. ‘’No, they will pick a champion. Usually a brother, or a relative of sorts. They’re volunteers, though. Usually. In theory she could force you, but…’’

‘’But?’’

‘’Well, it’d make sense to put forth one of her brothers. And we both know it won’t be prince Basim.’’ Her mention of Basim was noticeably more respectful, using his title of prince, compared to Ketill, who just spewed the name like it was a commoner. Broacien habits died hard, it seemed, but it also seemed like Ketill had little care to what Basim thought of it – Basim so far had appreciated Ketill more for his foreign culture and knowledge, and not because he was particularly respectful. There was little reason to change that now.

‘’Why not? Basim cares enough for his sister to offer.’’

‘’Well, yes. Our prince is a good man like that, but he’s also smart. He knows he’s not a warrior – ya Sawarim, dear Monarch, he is anything but a warrior. It’ll be prince Harith.’’

‘’That’s smart. Sounds like something Harith will suggest, and Basim will support it. I’m sure whoever Osman picks will not dare to fight a prince at risk of killing him.’’

‘’It’s not Osman that picks. It’s Elif.’’

‘’It matters little, no? If you kill a prince you may win the battle, but you lose the war. Nobody will respect them anymore. Who picks them makes no difference.’’

‘’You… understand little of Sawarim politics, I see. I forget at times that you’ve not made any attempt to learn the culture and language.’’

‘’Why would I. Freedom will come. One day.’’

‘’One day, Ketill? You know how long I’ve been here?’’

‘’No. But I’m not you. I’m ‘’Daab al-Broacien.’’ We are different.’’

‘’Very much so. In fact, that’s probably the reason why my skin is clear as a freshborn and yours is marred with whips.’’ Her reply was snide and quick, and though playful as it may have been, it was clear that there was truth in her jab. Perhaps she’d attempted to catch Ketill off guard, but she would find that this did not work.

‘’Good thing that I don’t have to fuck the Sultan. I just have to kill whoever I get told to kill.’’

‘’Hm, yes, that is much better. I suppose I should pick up a sword, then. Regardless, prince Harith will fight, that’s my prediction.’’

‘’I look forward to it. Harith is a good fighter – and a respectable man.’’

‘’I suppose so, but it’s still not sure. There are various reasons why she wouldn’t pick him. What if she intends to lose the fight? I wouldn’t wish to offend the first wife if I were the second, Sultana or not.’’

‘’I saw what happened that day. Najla wants to win. If she wants to lose, she’s a fool, and deserves whatever comes out of this.’’

‘’Very well. I’ll take my leave now. I need to mend your tunic, still.’’

Ketill shrugged and let her leave, seeing her leave and, just before the door closed, spotted her bowing before someone in the hallway. Then the door fell shut, but Ketill had the slight feeling someone was coming for him. Nobody ever came through these halls otherwise – except when they were walking from one of the visitors rooms to the bathing house. And even then, someone important enough to bow for? Ketill got up, and headed for the door, and by the time the guard had knocked, he was quick enough to open it right away. But he’d quickly have to make way for the guard that came through the door, followed swiftly by the princess herself, Najla. He could’ve guessed. She was quick to parade around his room, commenting on it and taking a seat at the desk. She looked a lot more collected now, a few days after the fact, but this didn’t impress Ketill. She showed her skin proudly, which was equally unimpressive, though that was likely because Ketill did not understand why she did that. You would not see him flaunting his scars, so why would she be proud of not getting wounded. Perhaps he just didn’t understand.

‘’Your brother gave me it. One of the gifts I’ve been granted whose value goes beyond what you can see,’’ he answered her. He obviously referred to Harith, who had granted him this room after their fight. He did not answer her remark about Yasamin, deeming it unworthy of a reply.

She was quick to explain the point of her arrival in his room. She was quick to elaborate that it would not be Harith, no, but him instead that would fight for her. This was not a problem though he found it strange that he, the one she despised, would have to defend her honour. But perhaps it was for the best, because when she revealed who he’d fight, it was a bitter payment for the danger she was putting him in. ‘’It won’t be a problem. Osman’s line is weak. His brother will be no exception,’’ Ketill merely added to her statement about Sa’aqr’s skill. Sure, the man might’ve been good. But he was no bear.

Her next words, however, irked him. She was forcing him to fight someone that she didn’t want to die. But essentially, she was ordering the man’s death now. She shouldn’t complain if she was signing the man’s death now. ‘’Yes. It pleases me greatly knowing I will have a hand in diminishing Osman’s family. That you may win your honour back. I have many requests, but this time I will do it without. His blood will be my payment. Perhaps with my victory they will see that your god does not favour them at all. And in doing so, you’ve promised yourself to a man whose own god does not love him.’’ His eyes spelled out the rest to her, and she did not need to ask to find out how he felt about it. He had no feelings towards Sa’aqr and as such, had no real feelings about killing him. He was just a man that stood in the way. Elif had made a poor choice, and that was the end of it. But he knew that wasn’t the full story. If Osman’s brother died, Osman would never forgive him – and by extent, he knew that Najla would bear the brunt of that anger. She was essentially giving herself up to be beaten again. If not outright assassinated. She would not win regardless. But that was not Ketill’s problem.

She walked away, but then turned back, seeming to remember something. He listened her through, his grin growing larger as she spoke to him. At the end, all he had to say were a few simple sentences. ‘’How far you’ve fallen. You started as a slave, but got back your title of sultana. But in the end, all I see is that same girl. Scared shitless, no clue what’s going on, eyes always looking for some form of leverage. ‘’Saina.’’ Oh, how little control you truly have. Sa’aqr will die. And then, if the ravens command it, many more. You will receive the bruising’s you so desire in time.’’



After being chosen as the champion, Ketill was granted access to the training grounds again. For some time he trained alone, falling into a repetitive state of improvement as before, like how he had always trained in Coedwin. It wasn’t long before a familiar face showed up to observe, and this time it was neither Basim nor Najla. In their stead, Harith had found his way here. He stood at the sidelines, observing as Ketill was merely lifting objects to become stronger. It took a good ten minutes before Ketill even realized the man’s presence. Once he did, he dropped the large log that he was lifting and looked over to the man, who approached him. ‘’I heard you’re fighting as my sisters’ champion,’’ he said as he approached, before putting his hands in his side when he reached the training grounds.

‘’Yes, it seems that way. I expected you to fight,’’ Ketill answered, not really elaborating too much, nor offering a lot of insight into what he thought.

‘’I offered, but eh, Najla did not wish for it. Basim thought it was a good idea, but it seems Najla wants to clean this mess up herself.’’

‘’You mean she wants to risk her pet bears’ life to fix it for her.’’

‘’Hmm… yes. That’s what I mean. But you need not worry, I can be-’’

‘’I never said I am worried.’’ The words were quick enough to interrupt the prince, who was taken aback a bit that a slave dared speak in the middle of his sentence. Ketill’s eyes were dulled as he looked at Harith, and when he spoke again there was a lack of emotion in them. ‘’My prince.’’

‘’No. I mean, you shouldn’t be. That makes sense. Sa’aqr is a good warrior, but not good enough. He’ll never win. I think Elif knows this. Osman… Osman probably thinks Sa’aqr has a chance. But it’s idle hope – deep inside he knows. He just had to convince himself. ’’

‘’The implication is that if I kill him, they’ll hold a grudge, and if he kills me, Najla loses her honour. Do we really win either way.’’

‘’My family wins, if you win. Najla loses. Her honour is restored, but Osman would never get over the death of his brother. This is just… ehhh… it’s politics. Even something as simple as a duel, you know, two men deciding the fate of a trial, even a duel is politics. I imagine it’s the same in Broacien, no?’’

‘’No. We don’t duel for our women’s honour. We go to war for it.’’

‘’War?’’

‘’Years ago, long before our current king ruled, a duke’s wife was found in bed with a younger woman, who turned out to be the daughter of another duke. She had seduced the girl, and bedded her, and the duke was so insulted he demanded the head of the duchess. Of course, the other duke did not comply. So, they led armies to war to settle it.’’

‘’And? Who won?’’

‘’The king. After the war he declared them both to be unfit for rulership, and took their lands to distribute it to other men. It was a just action, but he benefitted from it too.’’

‘’Sounds like something the tribals would do, here, in the Sultanate,’’ Harith added, seemingly unaware of the insulting nature of that statement. Not that Ketill minded, he wasn’t wrong after all.

‘’I think we just prefer our business to be in the open. There’s less sneaking and subterfuge. It’s more honest. Everyone knew what had happened. The dukes were lucky that the king didn’t intervene until after the fact.’’

‘’I… see. That’s something I can appreciate, but it’s just not how we do things here.’’

‘’I know. Najla has shown me that by now. This Sa’aqr, who is he precisely?’’

‘’Sa’aqr? Well, he’s Osman’s brother. He’s skilled and well known, and has been involved in a lot of battles. I know that minor families have paid him to represent him in duels like these before. Not that he’d acknowledge that, but it’s happened.’’ ‘’’’

‘’So he’s a duelist?’’ Ketill then asked, raising an eyebrow at the prospect. Duelist or not, he was going to win this fight. But it certainly gave him an insight into what to expect. But Harith carried on, putting a finger on his beard as he thought.

‘’No, he’s lead a few raids against the Servants. Perhaps you’ve fought him, but evidently you didn’t meet on the field, as you are both still alive. He was in charge of the heavy infantry, last I recall, but it’s been a few years since he went North to fight. Not that his skill has waned, though. But like I told my family – he won’t beat me. So he certainly won’t beat you. Just remember that it’s a fight to the death. There’s no second chances.’’

‘’I won’t need any.’’



They were given little over a week to prepare, with the appointment of the champions taking place somewhere in between. Harith had arranged for other guards to practice with on the condition that Ketill would not destroy them. It was a promise easier made than actually fulfilled, but Ketill did not intend to break it. Never the less the guards were cautious – the mans’ reputation preceded him and it was hard to convince them to actually fight him, rather than try and find ways to surrender as early as possible. Even so, their addition was worthwhile and made the process easier – and helped him prepare better.

The day before the event itself however was one that was met with some disdain as he was forced to raise out of bed early by Yasamin, before the sun had reached the horizon. As he’d be representing a princess, he was taken out to the bathhouse, to be given a proper washing. Yasamin was quick to force him into the bath, and though she acted like she did this of her own volition, Ketill was convinced that Najla had ordered her to. Or perhaps someone else. It mattered little, since this was a luxury he was normally not afforded. The illusion was soon shattered, however.

‘’You should hurry. They’re coming to fit your armor soon,’’ Yasamin informed him, seemingly under the impression that he already knew about this. But much to her surprise, he did not.

‘’Armor fitting?’’ he replied, looking over his shoulder at the woman, who was walking back to the hallway to let him do his thing.

‘’Yes, you’re fighting a nobleman, and you’re representing a princess. Did you think you could go bare chested?’’

‘’I wasn’t going bare chested. What armor are they giving me?’’ he asked, seemingly a bit concerned about what they were going to give him. He’d never fought in anything except for clothes, or otherwise his suit of armour. However, never had he fought in a Sawarim suit of armour. Although it seemed trivial, any warrior would agree that such small matters could make the difference in any fight. This wasn’t just for looks – it was life or death. He wondered if Najla had realized that – if she had even been the one to orchestrate this.

‘’I don’t know, you’ll see soon,’’ the woman replied, louder now as she left the bathinghouse and left to go do something else. It seemed like she was taking well to the life of a servant – compared to being a harem girl, it was easier, Ketill supposed. Especially because he didn’t require much of her.

Sighing slightly, he leaned back into the pool and let the water consume him. Slowly he sank down as air bubbles left his body, until his lungs were empty and he went as low as he could. For a moment, he felt like he was without weight, and he closed his eyes. His vision went dark, the shimmering of light going through the water but this, too, fading eventually, seeping away from his vision like the breaths of a dying man.

In the darkness of his mind, he heard the cawing of ravens and the clattering of shields meeting axe and sword. Were they signs of what was to come? It could not be a thought of the past, for it had been long since he’d visited the North, and the ground was white as snow. He did not recall such a battle in the snow, none of the scale that could produce these sounds. The clattering got closer then, and he began hearing voices.

Slowly they came closer, and one voice in particular stood out, misplaced in the battlefield as it was soft and feminine, not warlike like the grunts around him. ‘’My name is not Saina. I am not a merchant’s daughter.’’ Violently he shook his head, as if to deny this inevitable truth. The voice’s person was clear, but they were not within vision, and whatever wish he had to strangle the person whose voice it was, there was nothing of the sorts he could do. ‘’My father is Ali al-ibn Wahad, brother to the Great Sultan and a commander in the army.’’

The echoes of battle faded as the voice began taking precedence, just like how the person whose voice it was had taken precedence in his life through the torture of his Gods. A cruel joke, he remembered. Yes, it must be.

‘’And he will part you in four, and send your members back to Broacien.’’ No. Again he shook his head. That’s not what she said, he knew it. He wanted to open his mouth to yell, to vent his anger and beat this voice, but nothing happened.

‘’Were there ever the rumors in the South, of Najla al-ibn Wahad and her brother, Jalil?’’ The voice soothingly asked, seemingly following the script of past events again, but Ketill’s heart continued to thud hard in his chest, with a mixture of adrenaline and anger. ‘’Then you must know who I am, and so when I kill you, it will be honourable, for you know your killer.’’ But once more the voice strayed from what had been said, and his heart pounded harder, again he shook his head and tried to yell. His mouth moved slightly now but it would not part, for the burden of the darkness around him was too heavy and weighed too heavily on his lips for them to move.

‘’So few people knew where we were going, but the Servants of all people are not blind to the on-goings of the Sultanate. Some Sawarim here must know how great I am, my boundless power, ask them and they will confirm. They will tell you Najla and her brother disappeared over a year ago from the Sultan’s court. The reason for that was to end you.’’

With those words, Ketill once again tried to yell, shaking his head more violently than before. Finally, his lips opened wide, but instead of yelling, he could only feel the water entering him. With a look of shock he opened his eyes, only to see the blurry visage of Yasamin looking over the edge of the water. Suddenly the realization that he was drowning was setting in, so he promptly pushed himself upwards towards the surface. Luckily for him, the baths weren’t deep whatsoever. As he broke the surface of the water, he gasped for air while Yasamin looked at him with a confused and concerned glance. ‘’What on earth were you doing?’’

‘’It’s… nothing, get my clothes and bring me to the armorer.’’ Though Ketill did his best to seem collected, the panic caused by drowning was visible in his eyes. When Yasamin left, her face betraying her lack of understanding, he breathed heavily, looking around rather panicky. He was quick to leave the bath once she reappeared, getting dressed and promptly leaving to the armorer. The walk there was quick and silent. It seemed Yasamin did not dare bring up her questions, and Ketill had no desire to speak about it. But the panic in his eyes had now made way for anger, and his steps were filled with the very same anger once more.

The armorer was checking out some chainmail when Ketill was brought in, but was quick to redirect him to the centrepiece of the room, which had been prepared days ago it seemed. It was flashy, certainly, and it was obviously of Sawarim make. The pants flared wide, and were largely uncovered by the chainmail except for the long edges on the side. Over that went a tunic, with a mail vest over it, followed by a lamellar breastplate. It was relatively simple of design – but the details were astonishing and the polish on it could reflect light so well it’d put the sun to shame. It was certainly a piece of equipment reserved for ceremonies and the like, but the crown piece was the helmet, which had a plume of horsehair on top, and a facemask that was opened at the moment. Ketill curiously walked up and inspected the armor, feeling it left and right.

Sadly, he was quick to determine that while the armour looked good, it was certainly not of superior quality. The metal was weak and the openings in the armour did not close properly. Of course, there was little time to mend this now – certainly not with only the word of a slave to demand it. Without much time being spent on other things, the armorer pushed Ketill into position and started fitting the armour, adjusting where required. This turned out to be a rather big timesink, as Ketill was a fair share larger than most Sawarim men. Most straps had to be adjusted outwards and made larger to accommodate his size, to the point where the armorer began getting annoyed at the changes he’d have to make. And all that for a sub-par armour. Likely, they had just refashioned a ceremonial armour.

‘’Yasamin, tell him this isn’t good,’’ Ketill told his servant, who was waiting at the door. The girl was quick to comply, walking closer and pointing at the breastplate.

<‘’He says it’s not good,’’> she said, flawlessly in a Sawarim accent. To be expected, as she’d lived here for a long time, but it was still strange to Ketill, who could still utter little more than that common insult he’d learned long ago.

<‘’No, it’s good, no need to change it,’’> the armorer retorted, while he grabbed a new plate of metal to attach to the lamellar to lengthen it. <‘’He’ll win for sure in this armour, tell him that.’’>

‘’He says you’ll win for sure in this armour. And he also said it’s fine, and there’s no need to change it.’’

‘’He’s wrong. The plates are weak, and there’s too many gaps. This isn’t fighting armour.’’

Yasmin sighed, it becoming quite evident that she was going to have to translate an entire argument. <‘’He says it’s too weak, and that there’s too many holes.’’>

<‘’Ya Sawarim! What do you think I’m doing now? I’m getting more plates to cover the holes!’’>

<‘’Those plates won’t help if the metal is too weak.’’>

<‘’You dare insult my craftsmanship?’’>

<‘’No, that’s not- that’s not what I’m saying, I’m sorry. The fighter believes the metal is too weak.’’>

<‘’I’m sure he also believes that there are more than one God, the great Sawarim! Pfah! What does he know!’’

<‘’He’s fought in armour many times, he’s a Serv-’’> Yasmin said, but she was interrupted by a louder voice, the thick Sawarim accent ruling out that Ketill had spoken up himself. Instead, the doorway was filled by a taller stature, followed shortly by a slightly shorter one, though they were both taller than the average Sawarim would’ve been. Harith seemingly had found reason to come observe the process, while Basim seemed to have tagged along. However, it was not Harith’s loud voice that had rung this time, for it had been Basim that had overruled that of Yasmin.

Yasmin was quick to turn her body to face the two princes, bowing her head and continuing to look down, even though the princes didn’t even address her. Instead, Harith’s eyes were focused on the armour, scanning it for weaknesses and strengths, walking closer to him while Basim stepped to the armorer. <‘’He’s a Servant. He may be an infidel, but he knows his way around a sword – and a set of armour. You say the armour is strong enough?’’> Basim’s voice carried weight now, as opposed to earlier. If the armorer had not listened to him because he of his rank and stature – he would’ve because Basim seemed to carry himself with more authority than before.

<‘’Yes, my prince,’’> the man said, bowing his head lightly, glancing at Harith with a side-eye as he did so. <‘’It was requested that I made the armour look as good as I could, to ensure that the savage looked somewhat presentable. He couldn’t fight in our Sultana’s name if he looked like an unkempt beast, after all.’’>

This remark earned a small laugh and a grin from Harith, but Basim seemed less amused, merely nodding at the man in a fake agreement with the statement. <‘’Very well.’’> Basim looked at Harith then, who was prodding at the lamellar and lifting the plates to see how it worked. He then looked at the armorer, and grinned more wide than before.

<‘’What did you use for this?’’>

<‘’Only the finest steel, of course! Nothing but the best for the al-ibn Wahad family!’’>

<‘’Good. My sister will be pleased. Ah- but, I am not.’’> Harith then answered, his eyes turning to Ketill then, who seemed confused as ever at the situation. ‘’Bow your head,’’ Harith hissed at him, and Ketill complied, allowing Harith to pull the lamellar contraption off of his body. He stepped over to Basim, and promptly pulled the lamellar over his head, resting it on his shoulder. Basim was clearly caught off guard but adjusted quickly, looking at his brother with a confused but curious glance.

<‘’What’s the meaning of this?’’> the armorer asked, before adding a clearly forgotten <‘’… my prince?’’> at the end. He seemed a bit more nervous now that things were actually happening.

<‘’Well, you said it’s only the best for the al-ibn Wahad family, but the armour was being worn by a slave. Now it’s a member of the family. So we will see if it holds true, no?’’> he explained, but remaining just vague enough for the armorer not to understand. But it was made clear when Harith pulled the dagger from his waistline – not a ceremonial one, like that of Basim, but a real one, made of cold hard steel.

<‘’Ah, I…’’> the armorer stumbled as he stepped closer, reaching to grab Harith’s hand but not coming close enough, while also being held back mentally at the thought of touching a prince. Harith put the dagger against the lamellar with the tip, before looking at the armorer then. The thought of a prince dying at the hand of the faulty armour seemed a bit more pressing than the death of a slave to the armorer.

<‘’Hm? Something wrong?’’>

<‘’A-ah, no, my prince, it’s just that every armour has its’ flaws… you are a brave soldier, surely you understand that there is nothing other than a soldiers skill and bravery that can protect him from death? Armour can only do so much, yes?’’> This gave Harith reason to pause, and then he nodded and lowered the dagger, before taking the lamellar off of Basim’s shoulders, who seemed relieved the heavy armour was finally removed. While Basim rubbed his shoulders, Harith turned around and faced the armorer, holding out the armor.

<‘’Armour makes a difference, but it is not the end solution, you are right.’’>

<‘’So then, if the Servant is as great a fighter as they say he is – then he should be fine, right?’’>

<‘’Perhaps,’’> Harith spoke, softer now, as he looked the armorer deeply in his eyes. Without a warning, the dagger shot forwards again and shot straight into the armour. It went one side in, the other side out, going through both the front and back layers of the armour. A simple dagger wasn’t meant to penetrate even one layer – so for it to penetrate two was quite miraculous. Harith’s eyes were dark then as he looked the armorer even deeper in the eyes, staring him down with the power of a lion. <‘’But this will not do. It may be a slave in the arena, but it is the name of my sister he is fighting for. Look at him,’’> he said, and the armorer did as he said, and looked at Ketill, who was quite amused by the spectacle. <‘’That’s not a slave anymore. That is my sister. Would you dare give her this armour?’’>

The armorer dropped to his knees then, folding his hands together and putting them down in front of Harith’s feet as he begged for forgiveness. <‘’No, my prince! I would not dream of it! Ya Sawarim, I would not dare!’’>

<‘’Then see this fixed,’’> Harith hissed, before dropping the armour in front of the man’s fists. He glanced back at Basim, who nodded at him, and then Harith turned to Ketill. ‘’It’s good now. It’s the finest steel, he said. It seems we will need to find new steel then.’’

‘’I told him it was bad,’’ Ketill replied, hiding the amusement in his voice rather well, but not well enough for Harith to not notice.

‘’Sometimes, speaking the right language is the key,’’ he replied, a smug look in his eyes before glancing back at his younger brother again. <‘’Is it not, Basim?’’>

Basim’s eyes found themselves on Ketill, and not Harith, however, which gave the impression that he was speaking more to Ketill than Harith. ‘’Yes, it is.’’ The couple then turned and left, leaving Ketill and Yasamin alone with the armorer once more.



The next day the duel took place – it was set to take place early in the afternoon, so that everyone could be well rested and the champions had time to prepare. The fight was set to commence the moment the sun was at its highest, and so most people had arrived slightly before, to talk among themselves and find a good place to watch. Rather than taking place in the training area, a special site had been set aside, within the confines of the palace walls, but slightly removed from the palace itself. The ‘’arena’’ itself was little more than a circle drawn in the sand, marked along the edges by stones placed along the edge of the circle. But the circle was so large, it might as well have not been there. There were then raised platforms all around, with benches placed on them in case the fight would last a long time. But, as Ketill knew from events like these, most people would stand so they could see all there was to see.

At the center there was a single large platform, with a throne set on it. Most likely this was for the Sultan himself – he was, after all, meant to spectate the fight, given that not only did it involve his family, but also the need for justice and lawspeaking. But Ketill couldn’t help but feel that, besides justice, this fight was also meant for politics. And perhaps a smudge of entertainment, though that amusement would be lost on either of the involved parties, bar perhaps Elif, who even if she lost, won.

Ketill was brought out about four hours into the morning, where he was helped into his armour by other servants. It seemed that, though he was nothing more than a slave, he was given access to some privileges he’d otherwise never have. Once he was lifted into his armour and the straps were all fastened, he was brought to the armoury, and allowed to select a weapon. Though most blades were curved, he managed to find a standard straight blade, meant for two handed use but capable of being used with one hand. This ‘bastard sword’ seemed the perfect fit for Ketill, who had the strength to use it with either one hand or two. He then grabbed a standard shield made of wood, imagining he’d be better off with than without, and he could always drop it. But to his surprise, he wasn’t allowed to leave yet.

‘’If you drop your weapon you’re allowed to take a new one from a servant. If you can reach them in time,’’ one of the servants explained in rather broken Broacienien, and so Ketill selected a few other weapons. However, he didn’t quite anticipate to need them. In his mind, the battle would be settled quickly.

He was then kept inside for another hour – to allow people to settle down on the stands, which were large enough to hold at least a hundred people. But, perhaps also to allow Sa’aqr time to parade around, as one of the servants made an off-hand comment about how the man was parading around like he had already won. Entertaining the crowd before a fight was a ballsy move, and one that Ketill did not entirely appreciate, but there was little they could do, because the time to fight was soon arriving. Some hour before the fight, he was finally allowed outside, and was escorted into the circle by a detachment of four guards. He held his sword by the blade, casually gripping it as he looked over the crowd. His eyes scanned for the familiar faces – Najla, Basim, Harith, Osman, Elif. His eyes also found the Sultan, who glanced at him with an air of disinterest – but what his eyes did not betray, his focused gaze did betray. There was more vested in this battle than just Najla’s honour, it seemed.

His visor was still opened, but the fact that he had a facemask at all seemed to shock some of the people in the crowd. Sa’aqr was dressed in similar fashion – his armour was flashy too, and shone like a sun itself, but it did not beat Ketill’s armour, which had been retrofitted during the night to have a stronger breastplate. What happened to the armorer after that, Ketill did not know, but he knew that Harith would not be quick to forgive such a transgression if he was a wise man.

There was silence on the field of the arena, but the crowd was noisy, a jarring juxtaposition between those that were about to enter a fight to the death and those that merely had to watch. But at some point the crowd went silent, and Ketill looked at them to see what happened. Now the Sultan stood up from his throne with his hands spread wide, to calm the crowd and call them to attention. He spoke words that Ketill could not understand, and the people bowed their head, and they began their prayers once again, repeating what he’d already seen at the tribe when he was forced to fight there. Sa’aqr joined them, bowing his head too and mumbling his prayers. It left Ketill with the time to observe the crowd. His weapons would not be blessed this time – there were too many – so he assumed he’d just fight as if he were Najla herself. A strange thought, and he wasn’t sure if he’d interpreted it correctly, but it was the easiest explanation. He didn’t need one to fight, so it’d do for now.

His eyes befell on Najla and her family, flanked by the man he presumed to be her father. It was the same man he’d seen when he had arrived at the palace, who had welcomed her back. Momentarily he wondered if he even knew just who his daughter was. Perhaps he did, as it seemed that nobody in the Sawarim Sultanate seemed to care much for misdeeds, as long as they were carried out in name of the Sultan and their God.

The chanting echoed off after their prayers, and the eyes returned to the battlefield, focusing their attention on the two combatants once again. Was this the sign to start? Sa’aqr’s eyes betrayed very little, as he pulled his blade from its sheath. He was evidently a very skilled fighter, far above the tribal peasants Ketill had kicked around not long ago. Ketill merely raised a hand to lower the visor and pull down the eerie facemask, before giving one final glance over the crowd. Their looks of amazement at the helmet betrayed how little they knew of fighting and how much they knew of indolent, cruel entertainment provided by death. Little did they know that it would not be him that died today.

He readied the blade in his hand and stepped towards Sa’aqr, who waited for Ketill to approach. Once they were close, they started circling each other – it seemed repetitive, similar to what had happened before, the men sought out the weaknesses in each other’s stances but could find none. For a moment it seemed like they were equals, though Najla would know this to be false, and so would Harith. Ketill was first to strike, a warcry erupting from his mask as he swung his sword at Sa’aqr who graciously stepped away from the strike and then stepped closer again once the sword had passed, swinging his sword at Ketill in return. This dance continued back and forth – one would swing, the other would step away or block, and then they would swing and the other would block or step away. It started slow, the occasional clatter of the blades being the only sound between the warcries that Ketill gave, loud enough to pound thunder into the hearts of the spectators. But the speeds picked up, and the clattering of blades began getting quicker, as did their swings and movements.

They were just testing each other now, to see what steel they were made of, how they fought, what made their movements tick. But for everyone else it already seemed impressive, bar those that had fought before. They would be able to read the movements and understand, as it was something you did not quite understand unless you had been in this position before.

Finally, it seemed like Sa’aqr had seen an opening. He was quick, and with a rapid swing struck at Ketill’s head, who dodged it by ducking low, only to be caught off guard by Sa’aqr. He had reached for his dagger with his other free hand, and quickly jabbed it forwards. Ketill attempted to move his body to dodge it but wasn’t fast enough, and the blade grazed along the side of his body, luckily catching only the lamellar. The dagger cut loose one of the leather straps as it passed, and the metal plate fell down into the sand. Although the lamellar armour was stacked, it was not a good sign for Ketill.

The crowd cheered at this, but quickly quieted down when Ketill responded with his own attacks, using Sa’aqr’s exposed position he caused by stepping forward to stab him by raining down blows on him. He first struck at Sa’aqr’s head with the pommel of his blade, striking him harshly and without any reservations, causing the man to rear back slightly. He then tried cut downwards into his shoulders, striking him once, twice, thrice. Sa’aqr caught the attacks with his shield, but under the pressure of the continuing attacks felt his arm shake under the pressure of Ketill’s strong arms smashing the blade into him like he was a training dummy.

They were broken up when Ketill stopped swinging at him and instead stepped forward and kicked Sa’aqr in the stomach. Again, the crowd cheered, seemingly pleased with whatever manner of violence was presented to them. Sa’aqr himself seemed less pleased as he fell backwards, rolling over before managing to quickly land on his feet – it seemed he was experienced enough to know how to roll without ending up exposed. Ketill stepped back momentarily, and again circled Sa’aqr who did the same. They were like wolves, their eyes fixated on the other as they looked to see what to do next.

Again Ketill was the aggressor, stepping forwards rapidly and swinging his sword low, aiming at Sa’aqr’s feet, who nimbly hopped over the sword and struck Ketill with his sword, though unluckily only hit the shield Ketill used. Again they exchanged blows, the clattering of swords overtaking the cheers of the crowd, until Ketill managed to strike Sa’aqr perfectly on his hand, cutting into his palm slightly, but more importantly knocking the blade away into the air, the sword landing in the sand beyond his reach. Now Sa’aqr was forced onto the defensive, as he raised his shield in front of him with two hands, one supporting it while the other aimed it. Ketill seemed overtaken by a fury as he struck again and again, the shield splintering every time he hit it, while Sa’aqr looked back to his servants and pages. <‘’SPEAR!’’> he bellowed at them, and he was promptly thrown a spear. The moment he saw it coming towards him, he moved his hands in such a way that the shield dropped and was tossed to the side, before jumping back very quickly and catching the spear mid-air. It was very flashy, a move by someone that was confident enough in their abilities to mess around and give the people a show, but it was also a move that indicated that he was underestimating Ketill.

Now that the man had a weapon again, Ketill stepped back, waiting to see what Sa’aqr would do. Rather than attack, Sa’aqr seemed content to spin the weapon around a bit, as if he were trying to impress the spectators. The blood that seeped from the cut in his palm seemed not to bother him, though the blood seeped down the wooden base of the spear.

Finally he was done, and approached again, running at Ketill. Once he was close enough, Sa’aqr jumped into the air and plunged his spear forwards, forcing Ketill to step to the side, while readying a strike of his own, but Sa’aqr seemed to have had planned for this, and when he landed merely twisted his body to face Ketill and strike the men with the blunt end of the spear. His spear landed on the side of Ketill’s helmet, who stepped back in confusion and pain while trying to get his bearings again. Before he could do as much he was hit in the head again, from the side, further confusing him as the mask obstructed most of his view on the sides.

The crowd cheered then, as they were glad to see Ketill receive some punishment too, but their amusement was shortlived as Ketill rushed forwards. Being unable to see what was going on, and realizing that if he didn’t get close enough the spear would be his death, he just plunged himself into Sa’aqr, losing his weapon in the process though Sa’aqr lost his spear too. The two were then on the floor, tangled in a contest of who could get control the fastest. Sa’aqr seemed to have the benefit of vision as opposed to Ketill, who could only look straight ahead. With a few nimble moves, Sa’aqr pushed himself off the ground and rolled himself on top of Ketill before using his armor-clad gauntlets to pummel him in the helmet a few times. Ketill replied in kind by ramming his fist into whatever body part he could find, before luckily managing to push a finger into the opening between Sa’aqrs helmet. He pried at it momentarily, but then got aggravated with it and just pulled at it the hardest he could.

Sa’aqr was forced to come closer with his face first, before being forced backwards, lacking any control over the movement of his head at this point. He was only freed when Ketill pulled in the right direction and ripped the man’s helmet straight off of his head. Though this wasn’t a big loss, it certainly opened him up to Ketill’s next attack. While Sa’aqr had pummelled him in the face a few times, the blows were all caught by his helmet. Now Ketill merely moved his head forwards fast enough and headbutted Sa’aqr straight in the nose, and though it’d hurt all the same without a helmet, it was no big surprise that it hurt twice as bad since Ketill was wearing a metal helmet.

Sa’aqr fell backwards relinquishing control of Ketill, gripping his nose with his hands. Before he could get up to get a new weapon, Ketill was upon him and pounded him with his fists, blow upon blow falling on his face while Sa’aqr desperately tried to punch Ketill back. They exchanged blows like this for a good minute, before Ketill got up and stumbled backwards. His walking was clearly not quite as straight as it had been before, but Sa’aqr was definitely worse off than he was.

Ketill walked to the edge of the arena and held out his his, while barking for an axe. Once he got his two handed long axe, he dropped the shield that was still stuck to his arm and turned around to face Sa’aqr, who had crawled to his spear again and was in the process of getting up. Ketill, however, was determined to end this now, so he stumbled towards Sa’aqr, his footsteps kicking up dust as he went. The moment he was closed enough he swinged his axe upwards and sent it down towards Sa’aqr, who only barely managed to bring his spear upwards horizontally to block the attack. The sound of wood against wood was new, but the cheers were not, but it was not just once that Ketill attacked him, but again and again, until he caught the wooden pole with his axe’s head and cleaved it clean in half. This left Sa’aqr with nothing more than a wooden stick and a stick with a metal point on it, which obviously was far less useful. So when Ketill’s next swing came, headed straight for his skull, Sa’aqr could only jump to the side and hope for the best.

He dodged the initial attack, perhaps, but Ketill stumbled right after him, preparing his axe for the next swing, intending to take his head. He breezed inside the helmet, which was warm and annoying but had seemingly protected him so far. Then he swung.

The sound of armour shattering could be heard but it was not Sa’aqr who had been struck. Ketill could only look down as he felt the stabbing pain in his side, realizing instantly that he had been struck. Sa’aqr had quickly gotten up and stepped into Ketill’s attack, pushing the broken tip of the spear into Ketill’s body. It had gone through the armour, though luckily the armour had softened the blow. The tip wasn’t in deep, but when Sa’aqr let go, it was deep enough to stick in there. Under the facemask, it was obvious that Ketill was confused, but there was little time to think. He had to end the fight now, or he’d bleed out.

Sa’aqr turned around in an attempt to request a new weapon, but Ketill’s hands gripped at him, catching him by the hair and pulling him downwards, with such force that Sa’aqr could do nothing else but yell in pain. Ketill let go as he threw the man down and walked around him, standing in front of him as Sa’aqr tried to inch backwards on his hands, forced to look up at the menacing figure that was Ketill, who overlooked him and readied his axe. As Ketill raised the axe, a familiar voice could be heard from the crowd, yelling ‘’NO!’’ as Ketill brought the axe down. It was Osman’s voice, to be sure, as none other than him would’ve reacted that way. The axe caught Sa’aqr in the shoulder, which seemed to be a common place for Ketill to strike people – he had hit Thamud in exactly the same place after all. The axe went deep in the area that was uncovered by armour, and even though Ketill tried to pull it back, the axe was stuck, so he just let go.

Sa’aqr fell backwards in pain, resting on his back while his hand gripped at the axe trying to remove it, but only making it worse by pulling on the weapon that was so deep inside of him. But he was given no time to rest, as Ketill gripped his hair again, pulling him upright and putting him on his knees. He forced Sa’aqr to look towards the crowd, and like he had done with Thamud, spoke to him, though he was sure that Sa’aqr did not understand. ‘’You are not the man I want to kill, but as you are his family… I will take joy in making his family a member smaller. You made a mistake by volunteering, knowing you could not win.’’ He pulled his hair back, exposing Sa’aqr’s throat, and with no time to ask for a knife, pulled the tip of the spear that was stuck inside of him out. Some blood gushed out that had been held back by the spear, but it seemed to matter little to Ketill, who did not even wince or scream at the pain.

Triumphantly, or perhaps in a dash of arrogance, Ketill put the tip of the spear in the air. For a moment, time froze, and Ketill looked into the crowd. He looked at Najla, and then at Harith, who seemed pleased, and then at Basim, who seemed taken aback by the violence. And then the Sultan, who maintained that air of indifference, and whose thoughts could not be read. On the other side of the stands, opposite Najla, there he saw Osman, whose eyes were filled with terror, whose hands clutched the woman he could only assume was his mother. Her eyes, similarly, were filled with terror, but also tears as she covered her mouth due to the sigh she was about to witness. Elif was there too, but her eyes betrayed nothing more than sadness – though, not for a loss. For the loss of her husbands brother, perhaps.

He wondered if Osman’s mother was now convinced that he was a devil, a Djinn. Perhaps she was. It mattered little. With Sa’aqr’s beaten and bruised face staring at the sky, waiting for what was to come while trying to struggle against it, Ketill reading the spear. With a moments wait, he then plunged it down, deep into the mans neck, and then twisted the blade twice, before moving it to the side to cut open his entire throat. Blood spewed forth, and Ketill let go of his hair, pushing him forward. Sa’aqr fell down face first into the sand, the blood quickly spreading through the sand. Ketill looked around and though the crowd may have cheered, in that moment he could not hear whether they did or not. All he could see were the faces of Najla and her family, and on the other side, those of Osman and his family.


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