The Persian Empire's vast expanses of scrub and rocky desert were no place for a misplaced Norseman. The unit Grimmjow was part of knew that even before falling prey to the Persian riders patrolling the desert's rough borders, but the point was driven home more when his unit was nearly obliterated.
It wasn't easy to survive that massacre, but Grimmjow had, and as the reign of Artaxerxes carved its iron notch into the world's timepiece of history, Grimmjow did what he could to survive. His tall and muscled looks were out of place in an otherwise shorter, dark-haired, dark-complexioned people. At least, what he could see of his semi-nomadic captors. Most of them were heavily-clothed, the women swathed in robes and sarongs, with himations encompassing almost every inch of flesh.
But he did survive, and within two months of his capture by the nomadic tribe simply known as Sultan Ramijh's caravan, he garnered a little more trust from his captors. Mostly, he knew, it was for saving the life of the Sultan's ninth concubine from a pack of wolves.
He stood at the edge of the grass-fringed steppe where it met the great desert, watching his charges. His new position as guard for the Sultan's many bastard children was nothing more than glorified babysitting, but it was better than being chained to a camel for another month. Besides, a knife in his belt was as close as any of the other legitimate guards were going to get to letting him be armed.
His hand rested on the pommel of the curved jambiya. In the Northlands such a dagger would be either prized as a battle trophy or laughed at as an ornament. But, it had an edge, and that was all that mattered.
The children he watched ranged in ages from four to fourteen, most girls – somehow – and amused themselves by weaving grass 'veils' to wear.
"Not that they need another layer of clothing," he muttered to no one. While the children were less heavily-garbed than their elders, they were indeed fully-clothed. His blue eyes followed one girl.
Orihime.
He knew her name, had seen her play and talk with the other girls. She was one of the many children of the Sultan Ramijh. At least, that was who she was supposed to be fathered-by. Grimmjow wasn't so sure, not with her bright, copper-coin hair and gray-violet eyes.
The children moved marbles through the sand they had cleared of grass, playing games and winning marbles from each other. The marbles were the newest toy from their trading at the city a few days back. Most of the trade had been textiles and leather goods, but a few other oddities had been bartered. All the girls wore new sarongs and dresses, veils hanging loose to one side of their faces, smiles and giggles visible. Orihime was in periwinkle and lavender, her loose hair hanging with strands of amethyst-beaded silver chain.
Grimmjow watched her move, her play at marbles losing, saw the form of her sarong fold over her hip and bosom as she knelt at the game. She smiled despite losing, eyes flashing over the marbles shooting around the circle of clearing in the sand. Around her ankles, a young gray cat sidled, rubbing its side against her sandals, at its throat hanging a blue beaded collar. Orihime deftly petted the cat with one hand, watching the game. Grimmjow knew she was on the high side of age for the children's tent and would be moved to the young women's quarters soon.
He looked to the small entourage following the Sultan through the camp. He saw the man smile beneath his thick dark beard, saw the man's quick eyes fall on Orihime.
Perhaps she would be moved sooner, but not into the women's quarters, Grimmjow thought. By the way the Sultan's eyes moved over Orihime's bent form as she played her marble, he knew the Sultan was noticing the same things he had.
Orihime's bright hair was unlike the Sultan's and her eyes were unlike anyone's in the camp. No one could ignore those facts.
The children noticed the Sultan's presence. Each dropped their marbles and stood and bowed deeply to him.
Grimmjow bowed slightly. He'd come to terms with his new captor-master. He'd been spared the sword blade across his neck, but only because the right people deemed him trustworthy. He hadn't found the moment yet to take advantage of that situation. He felt the Sultan's gaze rest on him.
Grimmjow's northern appearance smacked in contrast to the rest of Sultan Ramijh's caravan. His Northland blond hair and strong build and blue eyes stood out as much as Orihime's appearance did.
But no one expected him to blend in; Orihime, however, was supposed to look like every other one of the Sultan's children. Apparently, her concubine mother had found time to dally.
Ramijh moved on and his entourage obediently followed, milling among the tent-city of the camp. Grimmjow looked back to Orihime, who had already crouched to play her marble.
Grimmjow and the Sultan had not been alone in noting Orihime's quickly developing female traits. Her body had run ahead of her fourteen years, endowing her with a pleasing form and rounded curves that turned every male head in the camp.
Concubine Number Eleven also noted the attention the girl garnered. She waited until the change of guards for the children that evening as the blazing sun streaked closer to the foothills at the desert's edge. She watched Grimmjow be replaced with another guard for the night, and then followed him on a parallel route through the many tents and ropes making up the camp.
Grimmjow didn't notice her until he reached the supply tents near the escort guard housing. He'd seen her before, knew she was one of Ramijh's top dozen concubines. He also knew she shouldn't be in that part of the camp alone.
"Here," she whispered hastily, clutching a cloth bag to her side. "Grimmjow!"
He frowned at her, unwilling to follow one of the Sultan's women anywhere. "Are you lost?"
"Of course I am not lost," she said, holding her veil closer to her cheek. "I have an errand for you."
He frowned, stepping closer. "My duties are limited –"
"I know what your duties are," she snapped.
He wove through the tents and hanging servant laundry strung on ropes between the supply tents to where she stood. She was older than most of the concubines, into her thirties, and not unattractive. But, beauty was what kept the status and ranking of the women in Ramijh's eyes, and Eleven had little time. It was inevitable that younger, more beautiful women would step between her and the Sultan's bed.
Grimmjow glanced over her, seeing the bag in her hand wiggle.
"Do you know the girl-child with the auburn hair?" she asked.
He nodded. "Of course."
She slipped her hand into the folds on her sarong, eyes steady on his as she stepped back into the shadow of a tent. "I've arranged a horse for you. Take the girl back along the trade road and kill her. I'll arrange for your freedom if you do this."
He shook his head. "She's a child."
"You're a killer," she snapped. "That was what your group was doing when Sultan Ramijh took mercy on you and spared your life. Killing a child should be easy."
Thoughts of a horse and his freedom hung heavy in the balances in his mind. "I could just take the horse and be gone."
She shook her head, eyes level on him. "Take the child back from the camp and kill her. If you don't return, I'll send the captain of the guards after you."
"I could tell them what you wanted me to do," he growled.
She shook her head, this time more of a sharp look coming to her kohl-lined eyes. "I'll tell them you tried to rape me. I'll tell them you stole the girl."
Grimmjow let one hand close over the nearest tent rope strung to the ground, leaning slightly to her. "I could strangle you here and no one would know anything."
"Then I'll come back and haunt you."
The words sent a chill up Grimmjow's spine, and he suddenly knew who the woman was. "You're one of those witches."
Her smile could be seen beneath the sheer blue veil. "Perhaps. Do this and I'll see to your freedom."
She pulled her hand from her sarong and held out a dagger, thinner and slenderer than his jambiya, but still curved. Before he thought, he instinctively took it.
"There's a horse at the last tent of carpets. You have 'til dusk to get back." She told him. "Orihime is at the edge of the camp near the scrub and rocks, looking for her cat."
Grimmjow glanced down at the sack Eleven held. It moved and a low mew came from it.
Eleven smiled more, stepping closer to him, bringing a warier stance to his posture. "Go now. Hurry back. Bring me her blood on the dagger and I'll get you your freedom."
Grimmjow looked down at the knife, watching it glint in the falling sunset.
Thoughts of going home to the Northland tipped the scales in his mind.
