The Storyteller
By: IMBSA and KAHMBG
Summary: There was once a King named Andrew. He had a wife, but she betrayed him and with her dying breath cursed Andrew, ridding him of his ability to trust someone enough to love. Andrew decreed that each night he would wed a woman and the very next morning, behead her. The vizier's daughter, Aisha, formulated a plan that might save the women of the kingdom—and Andrew himself. Andy/Aisha AU
IMBSA: Yet another A/A ficcy from me. At first I was going to write this for Mwu/Murrue, but as I tried formulating ideas, I kept coming back to Andy/Aisha. Thus, it is now A/A. And to all my fellow M/M fans, don't worry; you'll get your chance once I find a story for them. I'm sorry if it's a bit jerky and out of order. Forgive me!
Disclaimer: "A story can fly like a bee, so straight and swift you catch only the hum of its passing. Or move so slowly it seems motionless, curled in upon itself like a snake in the sun. It can vanish like smoke before the wind. Linger like perfume in the nose. Change with every telling, yet always remain the same." –Shahrazad, The Storyteller's Daughter
IMBSA: I am retelling the book The Storyteller's Daughter which in turn retells Arabian Nights. So, without further ado, I will commence with the story.
Once, so long ago that even the oldest of men will only remember their stories, there lived a king who had two sons: Andrew and Martin. This king was a wise man. While other rulers raised their sons in jealousy and competition, Andrew and Martin's father raised his sons in harmony and love. As a result, they had no quarrels over petty, material things.
When the king died, Andrew inherited not only his father's lands, but his entire court and palace, which included courtiers and advisors. Among them, the highest and most prized was the king's vizier.
When the king had been a young man, he and his vizier had led the forces of the king to a great victory in a distant place. When they returned, the vizier brought with him a wife, daughter of a people both fierce and proud. Instead of living in cities or any such settlements, they traveled from place to place, having no true home on this earth.
Among them, the ones that were the greatest of the honored were the drabardi—story and fortune tellers. Juma, the woman the vizier took for his wife, was rumored to be the greatest drabardi of those who had come before. But at her birth, it was prophesied that her child would be the greatest drabardi of all. Greater even than Juma herself.
The vizier, closer to Andrew's father in age, was also a good man. He had two beloved daughters who were as close in love as they were far in age. The younger was a child of ten. Her name was Jazira. The elder was a young woman of 17, and her name was Aisha.
Jazira's mother had once been a great lady at court. But Aisha's mother had been Juma, the vizier's first wife. Many tales had been told of Aisha's mother, since she was from a strange land.
Juma possessed an intellect as keen as the blade of a knife, and beauty so terrible that few could bear to gaze upon her. But she never had to pass the test of gazing upon her own features. She was as all the truly great drabardi were:
Juma the Storyteller was blind.
The vizier and his wife lived quietly, attracting little attention from anyone. In their second year of marriage, Juma presented the vizier with a daughter. They named her Aisha.
Though her husband was loved and trusted, though she proved to be quite virtuous and true, few who lived near her gave any love to Juma the Storyteller. She was a foreigner, and the fear of one who was not born in the same place was too strong.
Though Aisha was born and raised in the palace, not to mention very beautiful, she kept herself shut away from the pomp and circumstances of the court. For as the parents did not trust and love the mother, so they taught their children to do the same to her child. Though Aisha had never seen nor lived among her mother's people, she grew up like them. She sought, yet could never find her true place in the world. Aisha grew up lonely.
In the palace of the king there was a fountain that Aisha loved above all others. It was a small pool shaded by a beautiful pomegranate tree, tucked away in the corner of a secluded garden. In it swam exquisite goldfish. It was tiled with stone that was such a piercing blue it made looking into the water the same as looking into the sky.
It was there that was Aisha's favorite place; it was there where she felt like she belonged. And it was there, when she was eight years old, that she was taken by surprise.
A group of courtier's children ambushed her, throwing her into the fountain she loved so much. The force of her fall was such that the tree's branches shook. As she fell, Aisha struck her head on the rocks that lined the pool; her red blood mixed with the pool's pale water, staining the water like the encounter stained Aisha's soul.
The children, afraid of Juma's wrath, fled, not wishing to be at the scene. They left Aisha lying in a pool of bloody water, sobbing as if her heart would break. That was how her mother found her.
"Why do they do these things to me!" Aisha wept when she saw her mother. "I don't do anything to them! Anything!"
Despite the fact that her own heart felt like shattering, Juma replied calmly, 'That is all you need to do, my dearest daughter. Being yourself is enough to make them hate you. You are not like they are; they cannot forgive that. Nor can they forget." She paused, remembering her own troubles coming to court. She continued, "Come now. Dry your eyes and we shall go away from this pool."
But young Aisha had been hurt. Angry feelings, as well as rebellious ones, welled up inside her. She stayed right where she was. "Why do I have to be different?" Aisha wanted to know. "I want to be the same!" She splashed the bloodied water, furious. "I'm not leaving until you tell me why I can't be the same."
Before Aisha could react, Juma stepped into the pool with her daughter, wading to Aisha's wet and blood-spattered form. Juma tore one of her sleeves and bound Aisha's bleeding head with the cloth. How Juma could do so without seeing the wound, Aisha could not answer.
"Get up." Juma commanded. "And change into dry clothes. Then go to my chest and bring the cloth you find in there.
Though still aching, both physically and emotionally, Aisha obeyed. She knew that the only way her mother would answer her would be through a story.
While Aisha was gone, Juma stood in the water, eyes downcast, as though she could see the water—tainted by her daughter's blood. From her eyes fell two tears, one from each eye. When they hit the water in the fountain, the pool was instantly cleansed
When Aisha returned, her mother was standing by the pool. At the sound of her daughter's steps, Juma turned and held out her hand.
"What have you brought me, my daughter?" She asked.
Aisha wordlessly placed the piece of cloth into her hand. It was silk, so like strands of gossamer, and the same blue of the stones in the pool. She watched intently as Juma slowly brushed her fingers across the cloth
Hidden between each fragile thread was a story waiting to be told, if only one would take the time to find it. And that was the storytelling art. To tell the story one found in the cloth was a secret only known by the drabardi.
"Aha." Juma said when she had finished. "Excellent choice my youngling." Aisha gave an unlady-like snort and sat down beside her mother, crossing her arms across her chest as she did so.
"What choice?" She replied. "That was the only cloth in the whole miserable trunk." She was still quite angry. Even the prospect of being told a story did not cheer her.
Juma nodded, as if expecting this. "That is as it should be." She answered a small smile upon her lips. "For it is your story that you have picked. Will you hear it?"
"I will," Aisha responded after a moment's deliberation.
"Then I will give you its name. It is called..."
IMBSA: So ends chapter one. Now, I am aware that Andy/Aisha is not a common pairing. However, I think it is a wonderful one. Don't you guys get tired of hearing the same old thing every time you read a story? I bear no offense toward anyone who writes about Kira and the other main characters. I'm not trying to insult you. It's just that, IMHO, some of these characters are waaaaaaay over-rated, and I choose not to write about them. If you choose to write about them , then I'm not stopping you, nor am I judging you. So please don't flame me or think anything bad about this story simply because of the characters I choose to write about. Thank you. That being said, R & R. - Please. I've already been over this with Feral Claw, my ego is, like, a dying flame here. And when my ego's like that, down goes my creative ability and—
KAHMBG: Quitcher whinin'. I'm the one who has to write the next chapter!
IMBSA:...So? I still need an ego boost too!
KAHMBG:rolls eyes: Whatever.