The Arabian Desert.

Fierce plateaus of baked sand soldered into hills by the molten sun. Dry heat like a crackling force, warping the air into submission. The minute print of a scarab's trail, effaced by the sighing wind.

On paper, the desert, inscrutable mystic, febrile master of itself, had no business fostering life. It had no business doing much at all beside lolling in its own heat as time melted on its dunes.

And yet, it smiled in affronted pleasure at the challenge, and life was everywhere.

A traveler on horseback would need not go half a day before coming upon this bedouin tribe or the other. In the day, the shepherds herded their livestock in rangelands and the merchants mongered their wares. The blacksmiths smote sabers on anvils and the traders traveled to neighboring tribes, covering their heads and faces from the sun's kiss with shemagh scarves died in their tribe's color.

The tribe chieftains surrounded themselves with elder advisors and received guests and envoys in their goat-hair tents, offering them fresh milk or rayib, a drink of yoghurt and butterfat, and jameed, a soft cheese customarily eaten with olive oil and bread.

The weary rested under the shade of the man-planted oases of thick, resilient vegetation and date palms. The women exchanged pleasantries at the well, busied their furnaces, sold their stocks in markets, or taught grammar to tent-fulls of children.

The children played, tyrannizing the chicken coops and the fowl houses with their thudding feet and ringing laughter, sparring imaginary swords as they raced on imaginary steeds, talking, at the shade of a tent, of knighthood and adventure.

On the fringes of the bedouin tribes dromedary camels were posted like sentinels, then further into the uninhabited sand, desert birds and amber-eyed caracals and furtive red foxes flittered across the dunes, until the disruptive sprint of shemagh-obscured riders on sinewy horses tore through the scene, scattering the wildlife.

And in the night, the desert air cooled down and fire smoke curled up as bedouins retreated to their tents, hanging up lanterns and gathering on bestrewn wool carpets and sheepskins to imbibe qahwa, Arabica coffee spiced with cardamom and saffron, and the sky exploded with a symphony of stars, and communal prayer was established, and poetry was read, and praises were sung, and wives were wooed to bed. Unmarried young women whispered stories and combed each other's hair and drank za'atar, thyme infusions. Unmarried young men practiced their swordsmanship as the lantern flames cast long shadows of their desert-cut, saber-wielding forms onto the twilit sand.

And then, there was the hour before dawn. The melodic call to prayer, the believers crossing paths on their way to the mosque, the Pharaoh Eagle owls flapping away undetected as the desert held its hot, balmy breath in suspense. At the daybreak, quiet and spectacular in the unbarred horizon, bedouins were well up and busy with their morning tasks.

In tranquil times, the bedouins lived well. But tranquility was tenuous in the arid land, where blood boiled hot and gullets thirsted for the old deceptions.

As every chieftain came to learn, the preservation of peace and off-the-grid living rested on a thin thread that many wanted to twang.

Like the tribe of Al Sawad. It housed the bedouins estranged from their birth tribes, rogues and raiders, black knights and lawless spoilers for fights—a bad lot, the bedouins agreed.

Against them stood the white tribe of Yaqqut, a training nexus lead by Masshay, who dispatched his white knights across the desert on watch-keeping patrols.

The desert hid no one. Like the moon, all secrets manifested in the end.

But not all the situations that required Masshay's intervention were as black-and-white as defending a neighboring tribe against thieves and criminals and banishing them off to the western mountains of Hijaz or to the Red Sea.

When he learned that a Sawadi knight had been unjustly killed in his tribe, a bustling trade nexus of the Arabian desert, the chieftain of Al Ramad held his head in his hands, speaking a soft lament under his breath. The tribe's council were gathered at the fringes of his open tent, their heads bowed in grim cogitation. Years of overseeing one of the largest merchant hubs of the Arabian desert had given the chieftain a contained, solid temperament. He turned to his son, who was kneeling and begging at his feet, and wondered if it would be enough.

'You have wronged yourself. You have wronged us all.' The chieftain said with strained patience, his gaze trenchant like steel. 'Whomsoever kills one soul, except be it for another, or for the corruption of the land, it is as though he has killed the whole of humanity.' His voice was outwardly steadfast, but inside it bled. 'O my son, I have not raised you for this burden. Why did you choose to bear it?'

'O father, let them grant me an audience, let them hear me first—' The son trembled, his entire frame crimped and hunched.

'An audience? When you have killed a guiltless man in our market? When you have brought calamity upon us from the black tribe of Sawad, no less?'

'He had insulted me, father, he had looked down on me, called me thin and weak. Anger overtook me.'

'O my son, has life not taught you that anger begins in madness and ends in regret?'

'It was my mistake. I will repent it. But father, they are surely coming. Don't let them take me for I will be killed. Let the white knights guard me.'

The chieftain implored the one god under his breath.

'I am your heir, your only son.' His son pressed pitifully, his eyes streaming with hot tears. 'Protect me from a certain death.'

The chieftain lowered his eyes to the intricate patterns of his berber carpets, never having noticed them before. He wondered where he had gone wrong raising his son. He spoke more prayers under his breath, steadying himself as his dark eyebrows tilted in well-disguised anguish.

'Advisors. What do you advise?' He asked the elders.

'The tribe of Al Sawad must be pacified, ya sheikh.' A hunched old man with a scraggly white beard suggested.

'How?'

'We must offer them something that they want. A compensation.'

'Our coffers are dried by the tribe's expansion, and business is slow. The chieftain said darkly. 'Al Sawad live near the mountain, they have access to rivers and build clay houses and hunt with falcons. They are not as rich as we are, but they have richer resources. What can we offer them? What is worth a human life but another?'

His son flinched beside him, covering his face with his hands.

'Let us avoid bloodshed, ya sheikh.' Said the old man tiredly. His peers nodded in silent agreement. 'Our sons are traveling traders and we are weary elders who do not wish to lose them.'

'You speak as though we know whether they will want to negotiate. It is likely that they won' t.' Said a middle-aged man, the wealthiest merchant of Al Ramad. 'If the black knights of Sawad come raiding—'

'I hear the Sawadi chieftain is not thirty springs old and unmarried.' Said a small old woman with a sunny, wrinkled face and rheumy black eyes. 'We could offer a marriage truce.'

'I have no daughter to marry off, and no wish to form a marriage alliance with the Sawadis, but by the one true god, what woman would go willingly to live among men of vile repute?' The chieftain asked. 'We send criminals there, not frail girls who are used to an easy life in our tribe.'

'Then what is the answer to this impasse?' Asked the old man. 'We have nothing to concede and nothing to offer, and the night is fast approaching.'

'Whatever the one god wills.' The old woman sighed. 'Sabran jameela.' Beautiful patience.

She saw something move out of the corner of her eye. She rose with difficulty from her seat and walked to the tent's opening.

'The white knights are here.' She announced, hopeful.

Soon Masshay walked in, a prominent saber fastened to the belt of his white thobe.

'I bid you peace,' he said, placing a hand on his chest in greeting. 'We have been apprised of the unfortunate situation and have come to ensure that your tribespeople will not be harmed in case of an escalation.'

'May the one god reward you, ya Masshay. I have—'

A figure in a white shemagh and a hooded white tunic flurried into the tent, interrupting the chieftain.

'A'salam aleykum sheikh.' Behind the white attire revealing only the eyes, a brilliant light brown that seemed to glow from within, it was a woman's voice that had spoken.

The chieftain's eyes widened in recognition.

'Reyhanna?' He sat up, leaning forward. 'Is it you, child?'

'Yes, ya sheikh.'

'By the one god, I have no seen you in Ramad since you were a small girl in my late wife's orphan house.' He turned to her trainer. 'Why have you brought her to peril, ya Masshay?'

'As you can see, she is one of my knights.' Masshay responded securely.

'A female knight?' The chieftain marveled. 'I have never heard of it.' He looked at Reyhanna, her back snapped straight against the solar glow filtering through the tent's opening.

'She is exceptionally skilled, ya sheikh. Your wife was right to send her to me at a young age.'

'By the one god...' the chieftain soughed. 'Subhan'Allah. Indeed my wife told me about her indomitable spirit, but I had not imagined you would take her as a knight.'

'Neither had I.' Masshay said under his breath, with a barely-there smile that spoke of his own awe throughout the years as her trainer and now leader.

'It is thanks to your vast favor upon me.' Reyhanna said, her eyes lowering in gratitude. 'I am indebted to you and to your late wife, rahimaha'lah. You fed me and clothed me and gave me a name when I was no one. I vowed to one day repay my debt. By the one god, I will protect you.'

'Ten years at Yaqqut have done you well, child.' The chieftain said, the line of his lips softening at the edges. 'Still, you shouldn't have come. This young son of mine has stirred more trouble than we know how to handle.' He crossed his fingers, his eyes returning to the colorful patterns of his carpets. 'In the next world, no soul will pay for another's fault. But in this transient life, it is otherwise.'

'It is true that in this world, we may pay for another's sin, but it is also true that we may benefit from another's goodwill, as I have.' Reyhanna said determinedly.

'Have you ever fought a Sawadi before, Reyhanna?' The chieftain asked.

'No.' She admitted. 'I have not.'

'I do not wish it upon you, child.'

Reyhanna raised her chin.

'I do not fear them.'

The chieftain gave a curt nod. The patterns of his carpet blurred as a strange foreboding prickled his senses.

'If I may impart a word of truth,' Masshay said, squaring his broad shoulders and dipping his head pensively. 'The Sawadi tribe are in their right to seek justice. We are only here to protect the innocent from potential attacks. As for your son, his fate will be the result of your dealing with Al Sawad.'

The son in question shuddered and sniffed.

'Sit, sit, Masshay.' The chieftain sighed. 'The sun has not set. It will be a few hours before they reach our tribe, and they will be in their right to seek justice when they do, as you say, but for now sit, and have a cup of milk. You too, Reyhanna.' He looked at the man posted at the tent's ingress point. 'Take the white knights to the community tent and serve them food and drink.'

Reyhanna's hazel eyes caught sight of the small old woman who was watching her with a kind smile, beckoning to her.

Reyhanna settled down obediently by her side just as her elder grabbed a cup and poured in milk from a nearby jug.

'Thank you,' Reyhanna said, accepting the cup and loosening the shemagh around her face to drink.

'There she is.' The old woman laughed, her black eyes twinkling with an inner joy that nothing could dampen. 'Our small girl all grown up. Your face has refined nicely, masha'Allah. Do you remember me?'

Reyhanna nodded.

'Yes, you are the healer of Al Ramad. You took care of me when I was ill, I remember it to this day.'

'I was there when you were brought into this tribe.' The old woman said. 'The women were telling me Zakia, Zakia, come see what Abu Ali has brought us. You were in a basket with dried flowers, a tiny babe with your eyes wide open and a beautiful, toothless smile.'

Reyhanna's eyes widened in surprise.

'I was brought in inside a basket?'

'Yes, with the flowers around you. You smelled lovely when the chieftain's sickly wife, rahimaha'lah, took you in her arms. She named you Reyhanna then. It comes from Rayhan, which means good scent.'

'Where was I found?' Reyhanna asked eagerly although she had asked this question before. Perhaps Zakia knew what others did not. 'Were my parents there?'

'No, my daughter, nobody knows who your parents were. Abu Ali said he had found you in the desert, in the basket, left unguarded. It was a well frequented route for traders, however, so it seems that whoever left you there wanted you to be found.'

Reyhanna's jaw twitched. She imagined a dark figure walking away from her small form. Was it her mother, or her father? How had they felt? Were they ashamed of her? Did they think about it later? Did they regret it? Did they wonder what she looked like now the way she wondered what they looked like then?

Were they alive, somewhere she could reach?

A pucker marred her brow. She quieted the swirling feelings of betrayal, curiosity, and hope with the resolve of a life carved in physical, mental, and spiritual discipline. Al Ramad had taken her among them without a gain for themselves, and shielded her from harm until she was old enough to join the ranks of archers and swordsmen at Yaqqut as a young trainee. She should not feel sad, she had been found when she could have been lost. She should feel blessed and thankful. She honed her focus for what was to come, thinking that this was one of her life's callings and that these were her people.

In the quiet, the sun continued its downward slope, the chieftain's son continued to weep, and the old woman recited quranic verses in a hushed voice, soothing the nerves humming under Reyhanna's skin. She watched the bottom of her cup, wondering what the night would bring. Would there be blood? Would she be strong enough? A trickle of cold sweat ran down her neck. She centered herself, breathing deeply, bracing herself for the unknown.

After a moment, the soft sobs quieted. She looked up to find the chieftain's son watching her exposed face. She turned away, suddenly irked. How had this gangly boy managed to kill a Sawadi knight and stir so much trouble? She was sure he had taken him by surprise, while he was turning away, thinking him less than a threat.

Underestimating an unimpressive opponent was always a potentially fatal mistake. She prayed this would work to her advantage.

Outside, the wind twirled, watchful.

This plot is inspired by Faouzia's cover of Desert Rose ! Published on AO3.