Paradigm Shift

Sinbad wanted to be cool about this but he was pretty sure that he was dying.

To his left there was an abundance of dirt, wind, and scratchy golden grasses that reached his knees. Using a branch he'd snapped off of one of the trees for balance and for leverage, he trudged miserably on. Unpleasant moments like these were a necessary byproduct to crafting his dream. Though the teen tried to reason away his displeasure, it did little to assuage both his physical state and his declining mood.

To his right, there was Hinahoho, the only one who understood the struggle of not being a freak of nature, and there was a skinny little tree with sparse foliage. He identified with that tree. Swallowing bitter spit, Sinbad gripped his walking stick until his knuckles went white and repressed the surging need to dart towards it and bask in the shade it provided.

Accustomed to hellish conditions such as these, Mystras and Ja'far were tiny dots on the horizon.

Sinbad had naively assumed that the trek leaving Artemyra would be easier than the trek to that glorious, glorious matriarchal society. Fate, however, decided to prove him wrong this time - just for kicks.

He didn't have the mental strength to judge accurately but if wasn't the journey just as bad going as it had been coming then it was worse. And Sinbad wasn't used to being wrong about things. He wasn't used to being on the wrong side of scales. Safe to say, he quite disliked the feeling. They had passed through the mountainous terrain that shielded the Artemyrans from the rest of the world two days prior and now were making their way through the plains.

Strangely, despite the drastic change in terrain, the heat was just as strong as before.

Sinbad guessed by the intensity of the sun that it was a little past noon.

His tongue felt like a dry brick in his mouth. The muscles in his legs and arms burned as if he'd doused them in oil and lit them on fire using his own metal vessel as a spark. Baal, of course. Valefor couldn't do things like that. He had tried. The skin on the back of his neck was especially bad now, itchy and peeling away from the sunburn.

He growled lowly, glaring darkly along the horizon at the spec he assumed was Ja'far. It was his fault he was suffering like this. Threatening him with excessive bodily harm if he used his djinn. What kind of shit was that? Why make things harder than they need be? If he used his Metal Vessel, then maybe he could find them help, transportation, shelter, anything to ease the cruel sting of the sun. But no. Ja'far was set in his ways and Sinbad was forced to stay put with both feet planted firmly on the ground as a result.

Although now that he thought about it, he was probably still mad about that one time he'd snitched on him to Rurumu for cussing him out. But what else was he supposed to do in that situation? Not tell their unofficial adoptive mother that in one of his rages his best friend had called him a "shrimp dick eggplant looking motherfucker" to his face? It'd be different if he'd said it in his head or when he'd left the room. But to his face?!

Absolutely not.

Sinbad scratched absentmindedly at his arm. All parts of his body exposed to the sun were flushed red and angry looking. Layers of skin literally cooking in the noonday sun. The wind did nothing to ease the situation, seeing as it too was hot and made any stray scratches on his body sting irritatingly. His mind felt cloudy, as if all the thoughts that popped into his mind were made of honey. Sweet, sticky, delicious honey. He was barely even sweating anymore. Just panting and aching and burning like a slab of meat on a spit.

Letting the walking stick fall from his hands and lifting his head up to the heavens, Sinbad shouted, the loudest he could muster in his exhausted state, and sat himself down among the grasses.

Hinahoho blinked his tired amber eyes at him, unsure of what to say. "Uh?"

The violet-haired teen flopped onto his back, arms and legs dramatically splayed out as if he was a freshly murdered corpse in one of those crazy theater productions they put on in Reim. The grass poked at his neck and tickled his cheeks and ears.

"I refuse to take another step," he whined, "I can't take another step. I'll die. My lungs will collapse, my blood will boil and it will be the end of Sinbad the Adventurer."

"While I don't think that's too probable considering we've only been walking for three hours, I do feel your pain. But we have to keep moving otherwise we'll never catch up to those two." He nodded in the direction of the prince and the assassin.

And with those words of wisdom having been imparted, Hinahoho continued the journey although the struggle on his face was clear as crystal. What a brave man, Sinbad thought, gazing up at the cloudless blue sky. It was like the sea, the wide expanse of blue - the kind, which in spite of human perception, had no real end. The thought of something so large in comparison to his small self was oddly comforting.

Brave and absolutely right. It'd only been three hours today but in total they'd been traveling on foot for forty-seven hours. Sinbad rolled over onto his stomach and stumbled to his feet. Mystras was the one with the sense of direction and Ja'far was the one with the map. If the two of them got too far ahead then he would be lost out here. Then it would really be the end of Sinbad the Adventurer.

He couldn't have that.

Feeling pinpricks at the corner of his eyes from the dust that the wind was picking up, Sinbad walked on. He eventually caught up to Hinahoho, not that it was all that hard to do. They chatted tiresomely and about nothing in particular. Old stories and opinions to distract themselves from the heat and the burning.

Sinbad sniffed and rubbed at his bleary, teary eyes. Within five seconds he was instantly regretting the action, as his eyes began to water uncontrollably. Seeing his friend in distress, Hinahoho put a reassuring hand on his shoulder. "Argh. It's the dust," Sinbad clarified, rubbing away the tears with his shirt sleeve.

"I know, Sin. I know." His friend gave him a hearty clap on the back, the warrior's way of showing affection.

"No really," Sinbad said wincing at the pain in his back. "It's actually the dust." His response came off as embarrassingly disingenuous but Hinahoho didn't comment on it. The blue-haired man smiled knowingly in a vague show of either acceptance or teasing. Knowing the man's character fairly well, Sinbad guessed it was the former.

"What are you two morons doing?"

The two dots in the distance had grown significantly closer and were now distinguishable. Ja'far, who at this particular point in the day resembled a lobster with his all-over flush, had an annoyed yet worried look on his face as he approached while Mystras, in spite of his impressive heat resistance, had broken out into a cold sweat and seemed to be a minute away from an existential crisis.

"We were having a moment," Sinbad stressed with a flourish.

Hinahoho put the hand that wasn't on his staff onto his hip and nodded reverently. "Man to man."

Ja'far looked up at Mystras with the watered down version of his 'I cannot believe the words coming out of their mouths right now' look but didn't comment on it. For someone whose previous life choices would have damn near required impassiveness and apathy, he sure did have a wealth of expressions.

The white haired boy sighed once the four of them were grouped up with hands on his hips. He too was sweating. "You guys." He trailed off and looked down at his feet. "You guys have the map right?"

There was a moment of stiff silence where each one of them looked worriedly to the person to their left and then came to the same heart-wrenching conclusion.

"It's back in Artemyra then," Jafar threw up his hands. "Fantastic."

"We're going to die out here, aren't we?"

"We've been traveling for days. How did we get this far without the map?" Hinahoho asked both no one and everyone.

"Magic."

"Luck."

Ja'far cut his eyes to Mystras. "I fail to see how any part of this situation could be considered lucky."

The redhead shrugged. "Yes, well, I thought that if anyone out of this group should be the optimist, it should be me. So, just remember that it could always get worse guys!"

"I thought I was the optimist," Sinbad chimed in, his eyes having finally gotten rid of the foreign objects plaguing them.

"No, you're the surrealist."

Unaffected by the jab at his idealistic nature, Sinbad said, gesturing to the prince and the reformed assassin, "To be perfectly honest, I was following you guys."

"Me too," said Hinahoho.

"I...was following Mystras," Ja'far confessed.

"And I was following you."

"That explains it," Sinbad concluded, crossing his arms. "What now?"

"I suggest we start walking and find a source of clean water before we run out." Jafar held out the waterskin that was supposed to have held enough water for the three of them and shook it for emphasis. It sounded like there was barely anything left.

Instead of feeling frightened or helpless like a normal person, Sinbad felt an almost frightening surge of something akin to inspiration. Perhaps it was hope. Or the spirit of adventure, maybe? Sinbad went with the latter and with said 'spirit of adventure' coursing thick in his veins, he equipped Baal. "You guys wait here. I'll go scout the area and try to find a body of water. Any objects? No okay bye!"

He set to the skies before his irritable assassin friend could even open his mouth much less pull out his weapons to chop off his fingers like he'd promised.

She gave the man - no boy, he was still just a boy - a stern kick in the chest. Hs tumbled back, sword falling from his hand, and the back of his head smacked against the earth. A minor concussion, by her guess. Her tongue darted out and ran along her dry, cracked lips.

She tasted blood.

Just the same as she, the fifteen year old boy wore no armor. His body was wrapped in the standard mixture of cloth, leather, and animal fur. He sputtered, rolled onto his side, coughed, and wheezed.

She quirked a brow at him, as if to say "are you done" but did not break her stance. Her silver eyes flickered briefly over to their audience before returning to him. The boy's parents and a handful of passersby.

All looked displeased.

'It's too early in the morning for this,' was on the long list of things she wanted to shout at them. At the top of the list was 'why the sweet hell am I dueling your son?'

He twitched, sat up, tried to stand, and fell onto his backside. Fat beads of sweat poured down his face. He was ghostly pale and his arms quivered. Defeated, humiliated, and frightened. The fight in his eyes was gone.

She nibbled at her bottom lip, taking her eyes off him to look up at the sky in a moment of exasperation, and tasted more blood. Sheathing her own sword, she strode towards him and picked up his. She pulled him to his feet and forced the sword into his hands. Legs bending inward and quaking like that of a newborn fawn, he stared dumbly at the weapon and then at her.

Shaking her head, she spoke softly. "You challenged me." She hadn't expected the challenge from someone so young. And judging by the dismay shading his face, he hadn't expected to lose.

In three simple words, she voiced the will of his parents, the mantra of their people, and the core of her hallowed vows.

"You will fight."

The youth staggered to his feet, took his stance and clumsily went for a charge.

It had been an unofficial eternity since Sinbad took off.

And in that unspecified amount of time, the three of them had found a shaded shelter, Hinahoho had dozed off a couple of times and the prince of Sasan had gone through an encyclopedia's worth of nervous tics. In all honesty, Jafar was good at judging time spans and their fearless leader had been gone for thirty minutes at the most.

But when Mystras inquired how long Sinbad had been gone, the ex-assassin found that he couldn't help himself.

"An hour," he answered smoothly. The redhead was panic stricken and Hinahoho gave him a look. "Forty-five minutes?" The look intensified. "Thirty minutes, really."

"That's fine, I suppose," the redhead breathed a sigh of relief, drummed his fingers on his crossed arms, and then wiped the sweat from his brow. "What I don't get is how he's so calm about this. I don't how any of you are calm about this. We could die out here."

"We could," the blue-haired warrior shrugged, "but we won't."

Jafar found himself nodding his head in agreement.

"And how do you know?"

Hinahoho chuckled and put his massive hand on Mystras' shoulder. "Let me impart some wisdom. In war and in battles and most aspects of living that require risking your life, there are two things that keep the common folk alive during the hard times. Luck and faith. Sin is a lucky lad and I have faith in him."

Sparkles formed in Mystras' eyes, his mouth forming an 'o'.

Now that Jafar really took the time to think about it, it was strange. He pulled his legs out of the sun and brought his knees to his chest, wrapping one arm around them. They were an angry red and sunburnt like most of his body. Yes, he'd pledged to follow Sinbad and to help him achieve his vision of a better world. But in the time since that fateful day, the snowy haired assassin had come to a realization.

"I have faith in Sinbad," Jafar told Mystras. "He just has that sort of effect on people."

Just like the Northern warrior and the culturally isolated prince sitting next to him, like the knight king of Sasan and the warrior queen of Artemyra, he too had been blinded by him. Despite the absurdity of it all, (the idea of a fisherman's boy changing the world and becoming a king would make even the most humorless person bust their gut laughing) he had still left with him.

He still believed in him.

With the gentle guidance of time, they had all been seamlessly swept up in his rhythm. "We could have died in that trench in Artemyra too and you weren't half so worried as you are now," he thought out loud.

Mystras blinked and then after really pondering it for a minute, he flushed with embarrassment. "I know how to navigate mountains," he explained with frantic gestures.

"Pathways buried in boulders, dead-end caverns, trails that end going off the side of the mountain, and things like that. In Sasan you have to find ways to get around all those things to get where you want to go. If Sinbad couldn't find a way for us to escape that ravine, if need be, I think I could have. Eventually. Even if I had to climb to find it." Mystras sighed and ran a hand through his cherry red locks. "Things are different here."

The prince continued on hurriedly at the sight of Ja'far's arched brow. "As they should be, I'm not complaining about that. It's what I wanted. It's exciting. However, here, well, there's not so much as a hill here," he gestured to the sea of grass that surrounded them. "There's no way around this. What you see is what you get. It's sort of intimidating."

At the honest display at Mystras' feelings, Ja'far shifted uncomfortably, unsure of what to do with himself. Still severely lacking in social knowledge, he waited awkwardly for someone else to fill the silence so as to not say something inappropriate and offend his friend.

"I get it." Hinahoho spoke up in his gruff yet kind voice. "Where I come from, it's ice and snow and sea and not much else. Not even thinking about the weather, but the people." The warrior shook his head, sharp amber eyes gone wide with disbelief. "Folk down south are so damn different. So small and frail looking. Always afraid I'll bump into someone and something'll snap inside them. Whether it be an arm, a leg, their neck..."

Ja'far thought with a nervous jolt that the ominous note on which Hinahoho ended was a perfect segue for him to start talking. Despite his often long-winded cussing fits, which thanks to Rurumu had been drastically lessened, Ja'far didn't think himself to be a talkative person.

He let the conversation die.

He killed it off effortlessly with his own special brand of cold and stubborn silence.

As time ticked on and minutes blended together, the freckled boy found himself wishing desperately for Sinbad's swift return. And as it turned out, he had returned. Jafar squinted up at the cloudless blue sky.

"What the hell is he doing?" Ja'far made a mental note that he had been saying that a lot over the past few months. It was like his catchphrase now.

"I believe the technical term is a loop de loop," Mystras answered.

Hinahoho shook his head, fanning himself with his hand. "You shouldn't be making up words Mystras. It's in bad taste."

The redhead just blinked at the northern warrior.

"Why is he doing loop de loops?" Jafar asked, not having the energy to sound angry. In all actuality, him being truly angered by something was a rarity. Everything else was just shades of mild irritation.

"If you had the power to fly, wouldn't you do weird stuff in the sky too?"

He tilted his head, thoughtful. "Yeah, I would." He frowned. "But not while my friends are ten minutes from catching heat stroke."

"I don't think you can catch heat stroke."

"You know what I meant, Mystras."

Floating down like a feather on the wind, Sinbad landed in front of them, wearing a the kind of sunny smile that meant either something amazing or something life-threatening. He dispelled his djinn equip and motioned for them to follow him.

"Good news. There's a forest about two dozen miles from here and a river going along the edge of it. There are people there too. A whole tribe. If we hurry we can make it there before nightfall."

Ja'far narrowed his eyes dangerously at him and Sinbad flinched, holding up his hands in a defensive motion. Shaking his head at his friend, he said with a lot less humor than he had originally intended, "Lead the way."

Jezebel crouched beside the unconscious boy she had beaten black and blue, cataloging his injuries and estimating the time it would take for each to heal.

Broken nose, three weeks. Shattered eye socket, a month though he likely wouldn't be able to see straight out of that eye for who knows how long. Busted lip, a few days. Her mouth twisted as she stared down at his left hand. It had been broken so badly that he was likely to never hold a sword again.

Jezebel chewed on her lower lip.

The bystanders had congratulated her on her win, not sparing the boy a second glance.

"You should have seen this coming. Your parents should have seen this coming. Did they want you to ruin your future? Why didn't they stop you? Why did they just let you...?" She trailed off, hearing footsteps approaching, and prayed silently that the boy's family had come to collect him regardless of his loss.

The figure stopped behind her and appraised the boy. "A bit cruel, don't you think? Crushing his dreams like that."

The voice of her sister.

Jezebel sighed heavily, disappointed. "Depends on how you look at it. From his and no doubt his parents' perspective, I just obliterated the future of a promising young warrior."

Basira gasped. "His parents were here?!"

Jezebel nodded solemnly. "They saw the whole thing. Thanked me for taking him seriously and then left without even looking at him." At least the mother had had the decency to look distraught while doing so.

"Poor thing," Basira cooed. "But he shouldn't have challenged you of all people. Everyone knows how you work. 'Show no mercy' and all that. Wait a second. Isn't this the Patels' boy?" She bent over to study his face, dark hair sliding off her shoulders and obscuring the side of her face like a curtain. Basira straighten up and confirmed. "This is Ahmed Patel."

Jezebel frowned at her sister and then at the boy. "You mean I beat up the ex-councilman's boy? No wonder they left him here. Will you fetch the healers?"

"They're already on their way," Basira shrugged. "I passed them on my way here."

"They should have been here the moment Ahmed lost consciousness. Go tell them to hurry up."

"But why?" She whined. "He's the one who challenged you and lost. He should have been prepared to face the consequences."

Jezebel glowered, making good use of her 'scary face' as people called it, lip curling into a snarl.

Basira flinched, taking an involuntary step back.

Seeing the glimmer of fear in her elder sister's eyes, Jezebel forced the bubbling, caustic mix of emotions back down her throat. "Relax. I'm not going to yell or throw things. I'm not Mother, you know."

"I know."

"I need you to get the healers because," she drew out the word, "his hand is purple and three times the size it should be, it must be hard to breathe through that broken nose, he is most likely concussed, and I don't want him to die."

At the surprise on her sister's face, Jezebel felt a blush creep up on the edges of her ears and looked away. Shouldn't have said that last part. Scanning the area, Jezebel was relieved to see that anyone around was fortunately out of earshot.

"Alright," Basira consented softly and stalked off.

Jezebel sat, crossing her legs and scooted closer to the boy. Gently, she tapped his cheek in a feeble attempt to wake him. "I'm going to need you to wake up now. You can't sleep. It's not good for you right now."

He did not wake.

Jezebel stayed, trying relentlessly until he did.

The sun was halfway beneath the horizon and painted the world orange.

It wasn't so much the bickering that worried Mystras.

Even being the greenhorn of the bunch, he understood that that was the nature of their relationship. Good-natured bickering founded on mutual respect. Unlike most times, however, Ja'far's insults held more weight than usual and revolved solely around the unfortunate happenings of Artemyra.

"Are they alright?" He questioned.

"All in good fun, Mystras," Hinahoho answered smoothly. "All in good fun."

Mystras picked at a hangnail on his thumb and chewed on the inside of his cheek. He contemplated on whether he should say it or not. But hearing the assassin deliver another blow to their leader's pride, the prince murmured, "I know a power struggle when I see it."

Judging by the unsurprised look on the Imuchakk warrior's face, he saw it too. It wasn't intentional, that much you could see by his body language which was as closed off as usual.

"No worries."

Hinahoho patted him on the head, winked, and said rather loudly, "Ah, it was on a day like today."

Sinbad stopped mid comeback. "What was?"

The giant feigned surprise then nervousness and batted away the question with his hand. "Nothing for you to worry about, Sin." He sighed, looking off longingly into the distance. "Wouldn't believe me if I told you."

That piqued both their interests.

Mystras watched in amazement as he instantly lightened the mood and seized control of the situation. Sinbad pestered him relentlessly to tell his tale while Ja'far, trying to maintain his façade of disinterest, said nothing but tossed expectant glances at him.

Hinahoho groaned, scratching his head. "Fine, fine, I'll tell you!" He consented with a knowing look at Mystras and began his story.

"This happened during the winter time, when the nights are long and you can go weeks without seeing the sun. I was just a boy back then, younger than Ja'far. It was dark out and I had had the brilliant idea of training outside, although seeing how bad I was it at the time it was more like play-training. It was snowing something fierce that day, to the point where you couldn't see anything more than ten feet away. Manatoto, one of our clan's most celebrated warriors, had died the day before. The family was still mourning so he hadn't been put to rest yet. Even that late at night, you could hear the widow's wailing. In the days following his death, you'd have a hell of a time not hearing his family's cries.

"So, that's how I knew something wasn't right. Her cries, the widow's, they just stopped all of a sudden. They didn't peter out like normal, like they would have if she'd fallen asleep. She just stopped mid wail. Every sound in the world, save that of the wind, just stopped. At that point I was more than a little spooked. I turned to run home and that's when I saw her. Irura, goddess and guide of the dead, walking not ten feet from where I stood. I saw Manatoto too, trailing behind her, half his face sheared off, one eye popped from its socket. He smiled at me and I saw the muscles of his cheeks contract and stretch and nearly shit myself then and there.

"They were heading toward the sea. As they walked past, I really thought that I was just seeing things. That it was just a trick of the snow and the moonlight. But then, she looked at me. Irura. In that moment, I felt every bone in my body go ice cold, every hair stand on end. In the seconds that she looked at me, I heard her speak...in the most ungodly voice I've ever fucking heard. As soon as they had gone, I could hear the widow's wails again. That night, she told me...things. Things I still don't understand and things I am grateful I can't remember."

Ja'far blurted out a curt reply. "That's fucked." Then, realizing he had cursed, he went pale. "Please, don't tell Rurumu I said that."

Hina smiled. "I won't. Just so long as you don't tell her what I've told you."

"Why?" Sinbad questioned.

"Seeing Irura isn't exactly a good sign, let alone admitting to it. If you see a god or goddess, it's considered bad luck to tell. You'd be cursed. Way back in the early days, when the clans were busy killing each other, people would have their tongues cut out for telling as a sign of faith. Let's just keep this between us."

"So, in essence, you've just set an ancient Imuchakk curse upon us all by telling this story?"

"Yeah, that's about right."

"Well if we're talking curses then I have a story too. I never experienced it firsthand but my father did. Have you ever heard of a creature called Her?"

All three of them shook their heads. Sinbad sucked his teeth, looked down at his feet as he walked, and then fixed his gaze on the horizon.

"This is the story of my father's encounter with Her. He was a fisherman so naturally he was out on the sea much of the time. Well, Partevian Foundation day was coming up and someone had the bright idea of a joint fishing trip. All the best fishermen in the village would go out and bring back enough sea creatures for a feast. He wasn't the best of the best but my father was invited to go anyway. Eventually, after a good deal of my mother's pestering, he agreed to go. Soon enough, the band of fishermen discovered a problem. None of them had ship large enough to carry the lot of them. So, the chief of my village contracted a group of sailors and with the promise that they'd get half the catch, they set sail. The waters were calm that day. Not a cloud in the sky. It was a good day. They sailed along the coast and actually got a fantastic haul, enough to feed three villages. It was when they were coming back that things turned weird.

"All of a sudden, there was a voice. It was sweet, soothing, and more beautiful than any music or mortal woman. The voice called from somewhere beneath the waves and it was as if the Sea herself had spoken. It called the name of one of the sailors and unfortunately, he answered. Before anyone could process what the hell was happening, he jumped overboard. As soon as he was in the water, he snapped out of his trance. Started calling for help but it was too late for him. He was in the water, in Her domain. The thing in the water dragged him under faster than a wink. And in the midst of the silence, She called out again. In an entrancing whisper, She called out the names of every single sailor on that ship. All at the same time. She told the men of that vessel to do the same as the first had done.

"It commanded them to jump and only by the grace of the heavens did my father and the other fishermen manage to round up the suicidal sailors. Even though they were all tied up, the still tried to obey Her call. And when they found that they were unable...The ones bound to the mast bashed their brains in against the wood. They smiled as they did it, babbling nonsense. One man managed to slip free of his restraints only to hang himself. And the worst part, it didn't stop when they returned to port. It got worse. They went absolutely mad, screaming, howling, gnawing at themselves, and ripping one another's throats out. By the end of the ordeal, all sailors were dead, having mangled themselves in unspeakable ways, and any talk of the matter was strictly forbidden. And the next day, our village had one hell of a feast. Though the topic of every conversation was 'The Sailor's Curse.'"

His mouth twisted bitterly as his tale came to a close and he broke his stare to glance at his companions. None of them looked scared. Only mildly unsettled. His hands having gone ice cold, he folded his arms across his chest. Sinbad took in a shuddering breath, heart hammering in his chest. After all these years, he'd forgotten how much that story had terrified him as a child.

It was his mother who'd told it to him. That day, as a way of apologizing for scaring him so badly, she had let him eat all the sweets in the house. Admittedly, in comparison to middle class families it wasn't that many sweets. Not even enough to give him a stomachache but to a young, poor fisherman's boy it had been a mountain. He remembered the day fondly with a wistful smile.

"We have a creature something like to that up North." Hinahoho's voice cut through his reminiscing.

The Partevian teen's eyes nearly popped out of their sockets. "Really?"

Hinahoho, who had been holding onto the waterskin, took a swig and grunted, wiping his mouth. "Qallupilluk. Ugly things. Reek of sulfur and steal your kids. Sometimes you can hear them tapping underneath the ice. Pipirika says she heard it once and had nightmares the entire month after."

"I…"

The white-haired boy spoke up and all eyes were on him.

He gulped.

"I was pretty good at killing."

He gestured flippantly to the fisherman's son.

"Not counting you, there was only one job I ever failed at. It was the scariest thing, I really thought I was going to die that day. Everything went according to plan at the beginning. I killed him. Slashed his throat. Watched the bloody foam form around his mouth as blood spilled out onto the dirt and how he tried to stop the bleeding. Watched until he choked on it and stopped twitching. I left to see if we could dump the body anywhere nearby. That's when I heard Vittel scream. I went back inside and the body was gone."

"He was still alive?" Mystras had a skeptical look. "After you cut his throat?"

Ja'far carelessly shrugged off his skepticism.

"I really don't know. Ask Vittel. See what happens."

"A disappearing body frightened the stone cold, Fear-is-just-a-fabrication-of-the-mind-and-should-never-cloud-your-judgement Ja'far?" Sinbad joked, shaking his head in a disappointed manner. Payback for his earlier insults. "I'm shocked."

To everyone's surprise, the former assassin shook his head, his expression grim. "It wasn't the missing body that scared me," he said. "Whether because of our, um, proprietors? Yeah, proprietor is a good word. Whether it was by their hands or just by bad luck, Sham Lash assassins typically don't last long after a failed assignment. There's only so many times you can cheat Death out of lives that are rightfully His. I assumed my failure was a sign that He was fed up with my stealing. That's what scared me."

"The only thing the assassin fears is death," the prince mused. "Very poetic."

"What about you, Mystras? Have any Sasanian scary stories to tell?"

The smile ran away from the redhead's face. He grimaced, picking at the same hangnail on his left thumb, and replied.

"Erm, well, you see, most Sasanese scary stories involve foreigners and words like dirty and impure and are really quite offensive so I'd rather not." Mystras used air quotes around dirty and impure for emphasis.

"Understandable. I'd rather not be offended."

The quartet fell silent, each of them thinking of their own respective experiences. Particularly the ones which had had an unshakable influence. Mystras pondered what it would be like still living in that cramped palace. Not knowing anything. Not allowed to know anything but what others told him. If worse had come to worse, he might have done something crazy just to get some peace of mind.

And then it hit him.

The old fairy tale with which the nurses would read him to sleep.

"Oh!" He exclaimed, effectively startling the hell out of Sinbad. "Wait, wait, wait, I think I have one!" Holding his chin between he thumb and forefinger, Mystras scanned his memory of the story for anything particularly derogatory towards Partevians, Imuchakk, and any other nationalities. He was happy to recall no such things.

"Princess Kassandra and the Court Jester," he recalled. "It's more of a tragedy than horror but I guess it'll do. It's a fairy tale, a cautionary one, that everyone in Sasan tells their children. Back in the early days of Sasan, Princess Kassandra had just come of marrying age-"

"-Hold that thought, Mystras." Hinahoho interrupted, putting his right hand on his shoulder and raising his left to his ear. "Listen."

Ja'far got it first and sighed, all the tension melting away from his face. Sinbad heard it second and smiled confidently, hands on his hip with a look that said 'I told you so.' Mystras strained to hear but eventually picked up the sound of running water.

Making a visor with his hands, he squinted and could just barely make out the sight of a riverbank.

Mystras was about burst into tears right then and there but Hinahoho beat him to it.

The sun had just started its descent and the streets were as bustling noisily. Despite the noise, she heard him speak loud and clear.

"I'll never be a fighter now."

The statement wasn't shocking to hear. It didn't tug at her heart strings like it should have. It didn't set the guilt to eating away at her insides like it should have. Jezebel was the picture of calm, cool, and apathetic as she escorted the bandaged Ahmed home. Following his lead, she looked anywhere but the boy and chose not to respond.

"You were just doing your job, defending your title against some dumb kid. I get that. But could have just knocked me out. You didn't have to crush my hand."

"If you think I am half so kind as to allow a rival another chance at usurping me, then you are either one dim kid or you haven't been listening hard enough to what people tell you."

She stiffened as she heard him choke back a sob. Jezebel slowly inched her gaze back onto the boy. Fat tears rolled down his face which was becoming increasingly blotchy by the second. She tongued her cheek, sucked her teeth, and held her hands behind her back.

Minutes passed as the duo made their way to the village outskirts. She felt the urge to shrink away into the shadows underneath the hard gazes of the townsfolk as they paraded themselves past but she continued walking at her full height. Her eyes flicked from face to face, taking in the expressions of each, mind whirring at the things they were thinking and the things they thought she could not hear them say.

"Again?"

"He was a fool for fighting her."

"Dumb boy."

"Not even sympathy can get through to her? She'll be the best yet."

"Could've gone easy on him."

"Our Jezebel is amazing as always."

"It was his father who made him. He didn't want to fight. The coward."

"Fucking heartless whore."

"Poor boy."

"Apple doesn't fall far from the tree. They're idiots. Father and son."

"She'll be our salvation."

Jezebel blinked and nudged the devastated boy lightly as to not cause him any further pain. "Stop crying," she whispered. The boy gingerly wiped away his tears though it didn't do much good because they kept on coming.

"It'll only make it worse. If you want to cry, do it where no one can see you. When they can't see, they can't judge nearly as harshly. Better to risk being seen as heartless than to live out your days being called weak."

The boy sucked up his tears as they stopped in front of his house.

"Fighting isn't as fun as the Elders make it out to be," she told him before making a move to knock.

She paused when she heard him say, "They don't want me back."

Jezebel nibbled on her lower lip and replied with as sweet a voice as she could manage. "Your mother does."

Then, she knocked, the door creaked open, and underneath the hateful glare of Ahmed Patel's mother, her heart nearly stopped. Under the unforgiving gaze that only a loving mother could give, Jezebel saw her handiwork in play.

She saw every person she had hurt and the hate they had for her because of it. Any semblance of calm shattered as that same unholy mixture of emotions from earlier washed over her and she did the only thing she could think of.

Before Ahmed Patel's mother could even open her mouth, Jezebel ran.

She ran as fast as her legs could carry her.

She didn't stop when she reached the opposite end of the village.

She didn't stop when she reached the forest.

She didn't stop running until she was forced to stop.

When she reached the river.

She stood there, panting and wheezing and filled the silence with the ear-splitting sound of all her pent up frustrations.

CHAPTER ONE: The Haven By The Water's Edge

A/N: This has been a long time coming. Even in spite of the events of the manga, Sinbad remains my favorite character to this day. The whole deconstruction of the "fated hero" thing really stuck with me for some reason so naturally I wanted to write a story with him in it. This story takes place right after the events of Artemyra so Mystras is still pretty new to the gang. I always wondered about the trip back from these different countries and how they even found them in the first place. I mean it's not like they had guides or anything so they would probably get lost a lot. And that's how this happened. But enough of my ramblings. Hope you enjoyed.

-CW