"And that's what I never understood. How could two people be so different and yet so equal? What happened to her that didn't—couldn't, I suppose—happen to me?"
"So you went to a man whom you psychologically tortured?"
Sylar looked up, repressing a wince, at the harsh and melodical laugh that erupted. He tried to growl in anger, but simply ended up coughing in pain. Quietly, a glass of water was placed before him with care, just in reach of his shackled hands.
"How do I know you don't have some sort of poison in there? I did tell you about the drugged chai, didn't I?"
"If I wanted to kill you—clichéd as it sounds—I would have. Plus, I don't kill those with such interesting tales as your own. And I prefer death by starvation, anyhow."
Sylar rolled his eyes, reaching for the glass painfully. He sipped, peering up at the woman holding him captive. "Good to know."
"Now," she murmured, squatting down to look in his eyes. "I do believe we had a deal."
"So we did."
---
1870, Ottoman Empire
Torture Chambers
She peered up, a small smirk on her lips. It was perfect.
"'Tis beautiful, ma girsha."
"We should really stop letting foreigners in." She replied, grimacing at the mixture of accents in her own voice. The traveling between countries had laid siege to her dialect, each fighting for their own place. She breathed a sigh, tucking a few strands of hair behind her ear.
A light chuckle filled the air. "You are just like your father, Rashida."
"I should hope not, Monsieur St. Clare, I like to think I have some beauty to me." Rashida grinned, turning to wrap her arms around the older Irish-man. "It is good to see you, Neal. The Sultan has been having trouble keeping his latest architect in line, especially with the new wife coming."
"I imagine so. You wouldn't believe the things I've heard about that architect."
"Oh, Neal, you know I love gossip. Do tell."
Neal glanced around, confirming that only the horses were able to hear what they were saying, before leaning towards Rashida. "Lately? Spawn of a demon, Azrael in flesh, I heard one say 'Demon in disguise to kill us all.'"
Rashida turned to him, "You flatter me, Neal."
"Well, I thought you deserve it, what with all that there Sultan is forcing ya to do."
Rashida sighed, turning to gaze at the building behind her. "It's glorious, the torture chambers, but His Royal Highness demands new bedchambers and quarters for his new wife added onto the main palace. It's like feeding a stray cat. He keeps coming back, but I'm running out of food. Eventually I'll starve!"
Neal laughed, "Fantastic analogy, love."
Rashida smirked, leaning into his body with another sigh. "I get a couple days rest, which I can spend with you, but then I get to have directions given to me by a woman who could care less if she overworked the slaves, we're pressed for time, or if it's physically impossible."
"What's her name?"
"Iris."
"Delicate."
"Hate it. Delicate is weak."
"Definitely your father's little girl, love."
Rashida smiled, but was unable to reply as shouts in the distance caught their attention. She narrowed her eyes, glancing at Neal. The shouts grew louder as the time passed, nearly becoming coherent to their ears. Yells of witchcraft and cries for her met them, causing her to groan. If it was a domestic dispute, she'd take that shiny new sword given to her by the Sultan and slice everyone to tiny little bits and have them shipped to the Sultan personally.
"Rashida," one of the men came running to her, bowing down in the hot sand. "A man has appeared out of the air before your servants' eyes, by mine and my brothers. He is garbed oddly and speaks strangely. Word has been sent to the Sultan, but you have asked me to come to you before the Sultan. I could not dissuade them."
Rashida rolled her eyes at Neal, but he noted the tenseness in her shoulders and the sharp way at which she ordered the poor young man out of the sand. She motioned for him to get on the horse, which he did after great hesitation. The servants, under common law, were not allowed to ride upon any animal of transportation. But it was a far greater sin to disobey ones master.
Neal lifted himself onto his own horse, a brown stallion, and gazed after Rashida as she galloped. She was beautiful in the traditional wardrobe of the land, but people feared the way she had learned how to fight. She loathed the way that women and slaves were treated here, and only by having a father who was previously an architect and general for the Sultan and moving around constantly so she was not a permanent native of the land did she avoid being subject to the same laws. Only Neal could see she was tiring herself out, she needed some sort of way to escape. A break from her dance with the devil would be best, but to believe she would take his offer of a vacation, to leave the Ottoman Empire and go down to Ireland, was only wishful thinking on his own behalf.
She was married to the life she had, and would continue it until she died. Though she loathed the ways of the Ottoman's, hated the corsetry and overly-polite manners of Paris and England, there was no way she could be pulled away from either life she lived.
He could recall the days when he father was alive; eagerly awaiting the day his wife would give birth. Charles was a Parisian, somehow weaving his way into the heart of the Sultan and the Ottoman people, who quickly became one of the most feared generals. His wife, Alexandria, was a present from the Sultan. Originally, she had been one of the harem girls and Charles had refused her. Neal was still uncertain as to how she had become the entire structure of Charles' life, but she had.
It wasn't long until Rashida was conceived.
Three years after Rashida was born, Charles and Alexandria were assassinated. Rashida was spared only because she was female, and therefore not able to follow her father's footsteps. Neal had been given custody over Rashida, and when she was old enough had sent her to Paris to get an education—something forbidden where she was, but something Charles would have wanted. She went to England, learning how to be a 'proper lady'. After that, he took her down to Ireland for a few years, where she learned a passion for architecture.
Somewhere along the way, she had learned how to use a sword. The first time Neal caught her with it, he thought someone was trying to rob them. After discovering it was her, he took her back to her birthplace where she was presented before the Sultan. How she came to actually be his main architect was beyond him, and he daren't ask, but he would forever be curious.
As they approached a crowd of people, Rashida paused to let the man off her horse. She shouted a few words, and they immediately parted for her. Three men were holding onto a young man with dark hair. He was, Neal noted, curiously dressed for any country he'd ever been to. He had quite a few questions for the man, but said nothing as Rashida dropped off her black stallion, corrected her red and black clothing, and stepped toward him.
"What is your name?" She asked, running her hand through her black hair. The man peered at her for a few minutes. "Do you not speak English? There are few men here that do, but you are clearly not one of the natives of the Ottoman Empire. Who are you?" She barked the last few words, and Neal noted the twitch in her hand.
The man hesitated before opening his mouth, "Gabriel. Gabriel Sylar Gray."
She nodded, crossing her arms. "Can these men let you go without having you perform any more of your…witchcraft?"
"Yes."
Rashida said a few, sharp words at them men and they backed off. She turned back to him. "Where are you from?"
"America."
A light appeared in Rashida's eyes, a small smirk crossing her lips. "Have you not just finished a war?"
"We're always in a war."
Rashida made a noncommittal noise that Neal recognized as slight amusement and annoyance. "I'm afraid I have not been to America, and not many Americans come here. But to appear out of thin air is quite a grand trick. I wonder what they teach you down there."
A man walked towards them, placing a hand on Rashida's shoulder and bending down to whisper in her ear. Rashida grimaced, glancing at Gabriel.
"The Sultan shall see you, Monsieur Gabriel."