ᛅᛁᚱᚴ: Ever Ruler
Stowe ran into the muddied streets, his pursuers hot on his heel.
Moonlight illuminated his path, for which he was grateful. This part of Lunden was less populated, located on the outskirts of town—which was why the smugglers he'd been investigating must have chosen it as a base for their operation. They had been a thorn in Governor Tryggr's side for many moons now, disrupting his hold on trade and eluding capture at every turn.
Stowe grit his teeth, stifling a curse as he heard one of the men shouting invective behind him. A Dane, it seemed. Of course. Many of the northmen had turned to a life of banditry rather than accept the peace brokered by their Jarls upon Lunden's conquest, five years ago. The situation had only grown more unstable when Tryggr's predecessor, Jarl Bodil Bodilsson, had died of the plague along with many of his clan. Why else would Tryggr have been desperate enough to recruit Stowe—a mixed-blood mongrel of the lowest extraction—to act as his hands and eyes?
It had been Stowe himself who had proposed to draw the brigands out of the open, and follow that lead from the docks in hopes of discovering their hiding hole. Tryggr had agreed, but…
"Take someone with you," the governor had said, clapping the shoulder of the man next to him. "Erke will serve as your partner for this mission."
The man in question had turned to offer an easy grin to Stowe, but the latter had not smiled back. Erke Bodilsson, the last surviving son of the previous governor, Stowe's fellow reeve—and a clearcut example of one who had gotten a position that they did not deserve. Like many of his fellow Danes, Erke revelled in fighting and drinking and other debauched deeds that Stowe did not dare dwell upon; truly, there was not a subtle bone in the man's body.
Which made him a piss-poor representative of the governor's justice, Stowe had thought, hiding his clenched fists behind his back. One look at Erke's cocksure grin and laughing blue eyes was enough to tell him this was a man who coasted on his good looks and family name to get through the vagaries of life. Stowe had to scrape for every bit of good fortune, rising from the mud to earn himself a place among those who had happily trodden upon him when he'd been a starving street rat.
Like Hell he was going to let that cocky bastard let all of these efforts go to waste.
"Right," Stowe had managed, coolly meeting the other man's gaze. "Let's get to it, then."
The two of them had been separated during the chase, Erke having led the major part of the band away from Stowe. A brave, but careless move. He'd been grinning even as he had run. Stowe almost pitied the poor fool; he'd soon learn that life was no song in the darkest depths of Lunden's streets.
Stowe turned a corner and grinded to a halt. His heart pummelled in his chest. Broken bits of stone towered in front of him: a part of one of Lunden's many Roman ruins. Stowe knew these streets like the back of his hand, yet in his panic he'd rushed right into the mousetrap. He let out another curse through grit teeth, turning to meet his three pursuers with his fists raised and ready.
"Finally have your back to the wall, eh, cocksucker?" drawled the man at the front.
At that word, panic briefly seized Stowe, and he thought, how can he know? before he realized, no, he cannot know, no one knows. It was a common insult, especially among Danes, who seem to view the crime of being unmanly as an unspeakable, unforgivable sin. Stowe did not answer, even as the man's companions chuckled darkly.
Before they could jump him, however, a shadow surged from behind them. There was a blunt sound, and one of the brigands fell face first, letting out a gurgle. Standing in the silver moonlight, out of breath, was Erke. His hands were grasping tightly the haft of his spear. Three other men clad in the colours of the city guard rushed past him, engaging Stowe's pursuers.
Stowe barely saw the battle unfurl; one minute, he was hearing the brigands crying out in alarm, seeing them reaching in vain for their weapons, but in the blink of an eye, they were lying sprawled in the mud, arms pinned behind their backs by the men Erke had brought along. The latter wiped sweat from his brow, a smile breaking on his face as he beheld Stowe. It was not the cocky grin he'd learned to recognize from the man. It was… softer, somehow. Genuine. Stowe felt a knot forming in the pit of his stomach.
Later on, after they had escorted their prisoners to the garrison at Bodilsburg, Stowe led a protesting Erke to have his wounds treated by a healer. "They're just scratches," the man said, with a forced laugh, "I've had worse just tussling with my brothers when we were younger and fools still."
"If you do not get this looked at," Stowe said, motioning to the deep gash on Erke's arm, "then you are still that fool from your youth."
"Fair enough," Erke replied, rolling his eyes. "You worry too much, Stowe of Lunden. Your heart must be like an anxious sparrow straining at the bars of your ribcage. That's not healthy."
Stowe did not answer. He watched the healer work on Erke's wound in silence, not quite understanding why he stayed in the cramped space of the infirmary. He could be interrogating the men for information about the smuggling ring. He could be resting. Erke did not need him hovering about like a concerned parent—or lover. Stowe's stomach did another somersault at the intruding thought.
When the healer was gone, Stowe rubbed the back of his neck and said, "I must offer my apologies, Erke."
"Apologies?" Erke huffed out a laugh. "Why?"
"I miscalculated the situation, and you were… you were hurt." Stowe took a deep breath before continuing, "Why did you lead them away from me?"
"So you wouldn't get hurt," Erke answered, as if it was the most evident thing in the world.
"I can take care of myself."
"I never said otherwise." There was the edge of a smile tugging at Erke's mouth. "Besides, things turned out in our favour. If I hadn't run into that patrol…"
For a moment, they were both silent. Then, Stowe said, "I might have… I might have misjudged you, Erke."
The man shrugged. "Eh. I'm used to it. No harm done, right? Let's just put all this behind us."
"Wise words," Stowe agreed. He extended his arm. "Let's start anew, shall we?"
Erke easily took it. His grip was strong, but… the tip of his fingers brushed against the thin skin of Stowe's wrist, warm against the blue of his veins. Goosebumps rushed along Stowe's arm. Erke's eyes widened slightly, and his mouth hung open. Words seemed to have failed him. Stowe held on to his gaze and then –
Pain shot across his arm, and Stowe retracted his hand, shouting in shock. Erke cried out as well; he was clutching his own arm, as if he'd also been burned. In flash, the pain was gone, leaving Stowe panting and looking at Erke in disbelief. A bead of sweat dripped down the other man's brow.
"Stowe…" Erke breathed, "there, on your arm…"
Heart pounding, Stowe looked down. On his underarm shone a few runes written in fresh, black ink. Stowe met back the other man's gaze, brows furrowing in confusion—until he saw the dark symbols peering from under Erke's bracer. Only two letters showed: ƿ, and e.
Stowe shook his head. No. No, no, no, no…
Erke had grown pale. "Is that… oh by the gods, is that what I think it is…?"
Stowe did not answer. He felt as if he'd suddenly been pushed underwater; he was losing air, and fast. "I…" he finally managed, "I have to go."
He ran from the infirmary as if the place had caught fire. Erke called his name, but Stowe ignored him, heart hammering painfully as familiar, hateful words rang in his ears. Unnatural. Unclean. Sinful. He'd never heard these words directed toward him—he had been far too careful for that—but Stowe had been on God's earth long enough to know how his fellow Christians perceived men such as him.
Stowe ran until he'd reached his quarters, which were located just outside of the garrison. His bedchambers felt even more cramped than the infirmary, sinister in the lack of light. He fumbled to light a candle. There, in the flickering, lonely flame, Stowe looked upon his arm.
His fears were confirmed. Stowe knew enough about Dane runes to know whose name it was. He let himself fall into his cot, face drained of all blood. The name upon his skin felt as loathsome as the mark marring Cain's brow. Stowe remembered, hand trembling over his heart, breath caught in his lungs—oh, he remembered nights spent in shame and self-hatred, wondering, what is wrong with me, why has God made me that way. As a youth, he had looked into Father Cuthbert's kind eyes and feared, would he hate me if he knew? Stowe had fled the happy life he'd led in the monastery rather than find out.
And now the old sin was haunting him once more, this wretched temptation of his flesh. Stowe pictured the blue eyes, the crooked grin—and grit his teeth, telling himself, no, I am not weak, I am not so easily led astray. God's ways were ineffable; this was surely a test of some sort. And Stowe would prove himself worthy. He would stand strong in the face of sin and prevail, a soul deserving of divine grace.
Still, that night he dreamed of callused hands, of the feather-light touch of Erke's fingers upon the bare skin of his arm. And in the morning, Stowe woke up sobbing, shameful of his weakness.
ᛋᚠᛅᚾᛒᚬᚱᚴ: Home of the Swan
Little Hunwald, heir to the ealdorman of Lincolnscire, proud son of the House of the Swan, last in the long line of the ancient kings of Lindsey, enjoyed nothing more than to hear his father's stories. Every night the man sat him on his knee, eyes sparkling as he wove tale upon tale of gallant warriors and the wise kings they served. But Hunwald's favourite story concerned his parents—how they had met, drawn together by the will of the wyrd.
"Oh, she was a true-blooded beauty of the Lindisfaras," Lord Hundbeorht had once said, "with hair like gold wheat and eyes the soft green of the first spring leaf. You have her sweet, round face, my dear boy."
Hunwald giggled when his father had pinched his cheek. "I wished I'd known her!"
A cloud of sadness passed over his father's face at these words. "I wish that as well." Hundbeorht rolled up his sleeve, showing his upper arm. "You might not see it, but her name shines still upon my skin. Mildrith. The moment her father presented her to me—that her lovely lips uttered that name, the name I'd read on my skin every morning since my eighteenth year, I knew she was the one I had been waiting for. The one God, in all of His wisdom, intended for me."
"You must have been so happy," Hunwald said.
"Not as happy as in the moment when she gave me you, my son. To see our proud line continued, to hold the very physical proof of the hallowed love we shared, your mother and I… why, there are no words to describe such happiness."
Wistfulness darkened his eyes again, and Hunwald waited for the man to continue, kicking his legs a little.
"It has been so long since she was taken from us," Hundbeorht said, in a slightly strangled voice. "My advisors believe I should marry again. But as long as this mark shows upon my flesh, I will not make such a vow again. This, I have sworn upon her beloved name." With one finger, he playfully poked the tip of Hunwald's round nose. "And someday, you'll love a lady just as fiercely, my son. I'm certain of it."
At this, Hunwald gave a dramatic, overwrought sigh. "Oh, I sure hope so! Will her name be written on my arm? That would be ever so romantic!"
Hundbeorht squeezed his shoulders. "Perhaps, if God wills it so."
That night, Hunwald dreamed of a great oak in the middle of a sweeping field of gold, and of two swans meeting across a sunlit river. In the morning, he rushed into his father's bedchambers to shout, "Father, Father! I've got a mark on my arm, same as you!"
Hundbeorht wheezed as his son launched himself at him with all the grace and care of a battering ram. "Oof! What is this you're going on about, boy? The sun… the sun is not even up yet…"
"I've got a soul mark! The name of my future ladylove is written upon my skin!"
"But…" Poor lord Hundbeorht seemed utterly befuddled. "But you've seen just eight winters, how…"
Hunwald frowned. "The letters are odd, though! They're not like the letters that Raeganhere is teaching me."
His father sighed, rubbing the bridge of his nose. "We'll ask him later, won't we, lad? For now, will you please allow your poor old man a bit of respite?"
Later that day, Hunwald transcribed the strange symbols on parchment as his father's servant Raeganhere prepared his material for their daily lesson. The man beheld the name, grey brows furrowing.
"Runes?" he said, and if Hunwald had been a tad more perceptive, he'd seen the paternal condescension in the man's smile. "You wish to learn how to read ancient runes? You've… well, it would be more efficient to focus solely on Latin letters, wouldn't it?"
Ancient runes. So these strange symbols could indeed be read. "No! I want to learn about them today!"
"Some of these runes are utter nonsense," said Raeganhere. "Both of these for example." He pointed at the two symbols resembling a cross. "Are you sure you've not dreamed them up, my boy?"
"I haven't!" Hunwald replied with some irritation.
"Where have you seen these? Would you show me the original text?"
Hunwald crossed his arms over his chest. "There isn't—ugh! Fine, let's do something else, then!"
In the days that followed, the boy questioned the household on their thoughts on soul marks. "A sweet story for children," Abbess Acha had said, with a roll of the eyes. "Pagan nonsense," Bishop Herefrith had said brusquely. "You've best focus your energies on more godly matters, boy."
Only Lord Hundbeorht truly believed his son had been marked by the kind hand of God. "This will stay between us, then," he had said, one night when tucking his son in bed. "You will find her, I'm sure."
"I can't even read her name," Hunwald pouted. "How can I find her if I don't know who she is?"
"God will help. Our Lord wants nothing but our happiness. Why else would he have marked your skin with the name of our soul's other half?"
Why else indeed? Hunwald kept on to that hope, because he was a bright, easy soul—and because he had never quite understood that he was not the plucky protagonist of one of his father's tales. As he grew into manhood, he wondered often, would she be tall, short? Would she be sweet as a sigh or sharp of wits? Would she be dark-haired or, as he'd once heard in a bard's song, have a cascade of chestnut curls?
(Hunwald would rather like that; it sounded quite romantic to his lovelorn ears).
As he neared two decades of existence, Abbess Acha began to ask Lord Hundbeorht, shouldn't you find a match for the boy? You must assure your line in these times of uncertainty. Meanwhile, Bishop Herefrith scoffed and said, your son has never left the confines of his home, what manner of heir are you raising? He's a silly boy, prone to flights of fancy. He will have to wake up and face reality, someday.
So upon Hunwald's nineteenth nameday, Lord Hundbeorht took him out of Lincoln, and together father and son toured the verdant expense of their shire, meeting the workers in their fields, the artisans at their craft, the king's thegns in their halls. They visited Botolphston, Louth, Aelfgarstun—and even the northernmost settlement of Grimby. Hunwald was most intrigued by this town of Dane—that is pagan—settlers. From the stories he'd heard, he had half expected them to sport fangs and horns and devil's tails. Instead, he found people in Grimby—ordinary people leading ordinary lives, tilling the fields, fishing in the nearby river, selling their wares in the marketplace.
The stalls easily caught Hunwald's eye; he had never seen such fine earthenware, such well-made brooches and bracelets! And those fabrics! As his father made for the village chieftain's hut, Hunwald approached one young woman at her stall, fascinated by the embroidered patterns woven upon the cloaks and tunics she was selling: swirls like waves, leaves caught in the wind, even a ferocious dragon, jaws wide open to swallow his tail whole. As she finally caught sight of him, the young woman startled, then immediately dipped into a curtsy.
"M-M'lord," she said, barely meeting his eyes. "My apologies, I had not seen you standing there…"
Hunwald smiled at her, as he smiled at every lady he met. She was pretty, with pleasant curves and apple-red hair. Her clothes, however, were rather drab compared to the richly decorated fabrics she had on display. "Oh, there is no reason to apologize, my dear!" Hunwald said, making a bow as well. "I was simply subjugated by the beauty of your work. It is your work, is it not?"
She blushed a little, tucking a strand of red hair behind one ear. How delightful! Hunwald thought, endeared by the dainty gesture. "Yes. Though m'lord is too kind. I've still a lot to learn."
"You should not be so modest," Hunwald answered. "Why, if I had but half your talent, the people around me would tire of my boasting!" He thumbed one of her wares, a deep blue fabric with a purple and gold thread embroidered at the trim. "This is lovely! I would very much like to purchase this for my father."
Her smile was as bright as the sun. "Of course!"
"This would make for some very lordly garments, fit for an ealdorman, wouldn't you say?"
Her smile wavered a little. "Oh. You are the ealdorman's son."
Hunwald motioned at the servant accompanying him. "Here. Pay the good woman for her work." He beamed at her, unaware that her own smile was quite forced. "What is your name, oh most noble and skilled of seamstresses?"
"Sva—" She stopped, bit down her lip. "Helga. My name is Helga."
Helga! An exquisite name, fit for a woman of her talent and beauty. However, it certainly was too short to be the name written on Hunwald's arm. Still, he said, with another bow, "And you may call me Hunwald, son of Hundbeorht." To his great delight, she giggled a little.
That night, he often thought on the encounter, remembering her bashful smile, but other things as well. Her hands, rough and coarse, nails worn by hours spent weaving. Her arms, toned with the hard labour of a manual artisan. Her voice, accented with the musicality of her mother tongue. She was not the first lady that he had fawned over; Abbess Acha japed that he fell in love with a new lass every turn of the moon. Still, Hunwald wished he could see her again.
That wish was granted when Lord Hundbeorht announced that he would return to Grimby, having made friends with the taciturn village chieftain who had given his name to the town. Hunwald's father was surprised, but delighted that his son wanted to accompany him once more.
Hunwald had gathered sweet berries on the way to Grimby, and Helga had been enchanted by the gift. The next time, he brought her flowers, then, it was a handkerchief embroidered with his family's sigil. By now, Hunwald was writing parchment upon parchment of love poems. In between visits, he tasked one of his father's couriers to bring them to his sweet lady in Grimby. Surely she was missing him as much as he missed her?
The next time Hunwald visited the town with his father, he led a giggling Helga by the hand to a more secluded spot by the river. Together they lounged in the grass, feeding each other bits of bread dipped in honey. Hunwald wondered if that would make her kisses any sweeter.
"I've never had so much honey!" Helga said as she licked her fingers clean, and oh, wasn't that a lovely sight, Hunwald thought, heart fluttering? "Gods, it feels as if my belly is about to burst! Thank you for such a kind attention, m'lord."
"You don't have to call me 'my lord'." Hunwald leaned back, giving her the most devastatingly charming grin he could muster. That smile had earned him laughter on the part of the receiving lady only once or twice—though there was that one time where the girl he'd been attempting to woo had thrown his flowers back into his face instead… "I'm no lord."
Helga smiled, red tinting her cheeks. "All right. Hunwald, then…"
"I mean, my father's the lord, not me!" Hunwald added, cheerfully.
Her smile dissipated. "Y-Yes… that is certainly…"
"What did you think of the poem I sent you, my muse? I find myself… inspired when I think of you. Your cheeks, red and round as the sweetest apples. Your eyes, piercing blue orbs that struck at my soul. Your biceps, so strong you could break me in half in your loving embrace!"
Helga's eyebrows rose up far up her forehead. She seemed unable to speak. Ah! Hunwald thought, she must have been beside herself with emotion from his words!
(In truth, she was stifling an urge to laugh.)
Eventually, she admitted, a bit bashfully, "No, I have not read your letter."
"Why?"
"I, erm…" Why did she look so miserable? Hunwald's heart broke at her expression. "I cannot read…"
"You cannot read?" Hunwald said with a bemused grin. "Why?"
If he'd been a tad more perceptive, he would have seen the flicker of annoyance on Helga's face. "I've never had the opportunity to learn."
How strange that her parents had not taught her. Still, that gave him an idea. "Or perhaps," Hunwald said, waggling his eyebrows, "you've just never had someone to teach you."
"Oh, no," Helga said, "I could never—you are already wasting precious time with me and—"
"Wasting precious ti—oh no, on the contrary, my scrumptious little cabbage! Every day, every hour, every second passed with you is a dream! I would be ever so glad to be of use to you, my lady."
"'Of use', he says," Helga said, and Hunwald's heart gave a delightful little start at her playful tone. "Well, since it's so sweetly offered…"
Thus, the following summer was filled with illicit meetings spent savouring the bounty of the warmer months: wild berries plucked from the fields, fresh cheese dipped in honey and, best of all, red apples so juicy it made all their kisses the sweeter. Their secret place was located under a lone oak tree on the way to Grimby; Hunwald's father had often taken him there on picnics while they went on hunts. The tree's great branches offered shade from the sun, while its roots served as perfect seats for bouts of snogging. Helga was a curious, eager student, and Hunwald's lessons also helped her practise her language skills. She still had an—utterly charming!—accent whenever she spoke in the Saxon tongue, but it was barely perceptible now. Hunwald's beloved was as bright as she was beautiful; whatever had he done to deserve such a woman?
Today, Hunwald was teaching her how to write her name. "Here is how I would write it," he said, taking his hunting knife to carve it into the bark of the tree. "Although… your people use runes to communicate, don't they?"
"We write them upon monuments and sacred objects, yes," Helga answered. "I know a few runes, but not all of them." She drew nearer, her smile enticing. "How would you write your name, dear one?"
"Here," Hunwald said, putting the tip of his knife to the bark. "H. U. N…."
He did not see her smile dissipating. The blood drained from Helga's face as Hunwald finished carving the last letter. She reeled back, as if struck with sudden fear. Hunwald looked back at her, brows furrowed. Above their head, grey clouds were gathering, hiding the bright summer sun.
"My love?" he said, very softly. "Are you all right…?"
"I…" Her blue eyes darted back and forth between the knife-carved mark and his worried face. "I just remembered—I really should be going…"
"Already? But we've just started…"
Helga stood up. "My uncle will be wondering where I have gone," she said, precipitately. "Oh, this was a terrible mistake, I shouldn't have—we should not see each other again."
Hunwald's stomach did a painful somersault. "But… but…"
Her eyes were filled with tears. "It's better that way. Goodbye, Hunwald." And she turned on her heel before he could place another word.
Hunwald watched her go, unable to budge a muscle. Eventually, she disappeared into the tall grass over the horizon. She had not been the one; God himself had tried to warn Hunwald through the message etched on his skin.
And yet, Hunwald wondered, tears streaming down his cheeks, how could a loving God ever do such a cruel thing to one of his flock?
A chill breeze swept the air—summer was ending. Shivering, Hunwald hugged his knees, feeling ever so small and young and alone.
A silly boy, prone to flights of fancy. He will have to wake up and face reality, someday.
فرح : Joy
Basim could not move. His eyes burned as if someone had poured acid over them. His ears thumped with the sound of his own heart. Where was he? Ropes dug into the thin skin of his wrists—no, not ropes. He seemed to have been tied to a rock with something viscous and warm—someone's viscera, almost. He panted, wrestling against these bonds.
Help me! he attempted to cry out, but his voice had dimmed to a painful rasp. Help! Someone! Anyone!
Then, there was the soft caress of a pair of hands cupping his cheeks. Oh, love, my love, said a woman's voice. How diminished you are. What has he made of you?
He. This was the first hint concerning Basim's current predicament. An enemy wanted to do harm upon him. And this woman wanted to help him. Who…? Who are you…?
Our sweet children, my love! the woman wailed. With you gone, they are in danger. They have lost their great protector.
Children. She spoke as if they had had many. But Basim only had one son—from the dim depths of his memories he summoned the image of the boy's sweet face. Basim's frown deepened as he spoke his son's name aloud.
Oh, hope is lost, dear one, the woman lamented. The one who will murder our son walks free, while you are chained for a crime yet not committed. I must help you. Then, you will find him and take revenge for our sons and daughter.
What sons and daughter, Basim wanted to ask, but already the woman was pulling away. The loss of her warm hands was worse than the pain upon his eyes. Come back! he cried in the darkness. Do not leave me alone!
On his arm, a familiar pain burned. Basim screamed again; the agony was too much to bear. Come back! Oh, love, I cannot be without you! His cries were so loud that he did not hear the voice in the distance, gently calling his name.
Or was it his name? It sounded all wrong…
"—sim. Basim." A woman's voice, stern but kind. "Wake up, habibi."
Basim opened his eyes with a gasp. He was lying upon silk sheets, body propped upon dozens of cushions. A light breeze came from the open window, and Basim could hear the familiar sounds of the waking city of Baghdad. Already the merchants were crying about their wares in the nearby souk. A woman's face hovered above him, face haloed by morning sunlight. Light brown, painted eyes, a playful smile. Farah.
Then, something surged into the bed, jumping on Basim's stomach. He let out a wheeze, which was echoed by a giggle somewhere around his midsection.
"Baba, you slept in!" Amal said. The boy bounced enthusiastically, prompting more winces from his weary father. "The sun is already up, and you are still in bed!"
"A grave crime, is it not?" Basim said. He exchanged a glance with Farah, who rolled her eyes. "You know I work in the nights sometimes, don't you? That is why I sleep late."
"But today you said you would take me to see the ships on the riverside!" Amal pouted. "You promised!"
"We will, we will," Basim said. "And we'll skip stones, too."
"Good," Amal said, and both of his parents stifled a smile at his grave little nod.
"We should let your father prepare for the day, isn't that so, ya albi?" Farah said to Amal. "Let him dress, at least… unless you want the poor man to amble through the streets in his nightclothes?"
The boy giggled at his mother's jape. Basim looked at them, heart overflowing with love. Farah and Amal. Joy and hope. Two simple words, yet never a lovelier poem had ever been written by the hand of man. Basim brought them close, breathing in Farah's perfume—oudh and rose and musk—and kissing his son's soft curls.
"Nooo," Amal protested, squirming in Basim's hold, "I'm too old for kisses, Baba. That's for babies."
"Who says so?" Basim said, while Farah hid her smile with her hand.
"Everyone says so," Amal said with much emphasis. He wrinkled his little nose. "I'm not a baby. Not anymore. I'm grown, Baba, almost a man."
"Of course," Basim answered, again sharing a look with his wife. "Now go, and please do give your poor ailing father some time to properly freshen up, won't you, alsaqr alsaghir?"
When they were gone, he rose from the bed, groaning as the crick in his back flared up. Basim yawned and stretched, making for the small basin beside his mirror to splash water on his face. A tired-looking man stared back at him through his reflection. Basim thought back to his dream, already half-forgotten—and to the strange pain he had felt on his arm upon waking. It had been similar to the sensation that had plagued him the night he had met Farah—when he had infiltrated the library in which she worked as her father's assistant.
He had been a novice, then, and had slipped from the rafters and crashed into a table—right where Farah had been reading by candlelight. Immediately, she had drawn a knife and pointed it at his throat. He had seen the fear in her eyes, then, and the shock, but her gaze had been ferocious as well.
"Give me one reason, thief," she'd hissed, blade at the ready, "why I should not cut open your throat?"
Basim had been young and foolish then—and quite star-struck with the young woman now holding the thread of his life in her ink-stained fingers. Her eyes were a pale amber, as if a fire was lit behind the space of her irises. "I…" was all he had managed to blurt out, "I think my leg's broken."
She'd scowled. The blade had wavered. Later on, Basim would understand that this moment perfectly encapsulated everything that made Farah, well, the woman he loved. She was ever pragmatic, the daughter of scholars who preferred the music of numbers and the dance of the stars to poetry. But she was the soul of kindness as well, loving all creatures who lived under Allah's light. Eventually, kindness had won, and she had brought him to her father's office, where her mother, a healer of some renown, had tended to his wounds. Farah had stood, tense and wary, while the older woman has worked; Basim had quickly understood he would not live for long if he'd attempted something foolish.
In the morning, his soul mark had appeared, bright and beautiful. Still, Basim had not needed Allah's guidance to understand he had fallen deeply in love with the woman who could have killed him, yet chose mercy. He had put aside his blade and his creed to build a family with her—and had never once regretted that choice.
With a frown, Basim inspected his arm. On his skin was not the familiar, beloved curved script that formed Farah's name. Instead there were strange letters—all hard edges, as if carved by the uncaring point of a knife. He should not have been able to pronounce them aloud. Yet, the sounds fumbled out of his mouth, soft as a first breath.
"A-le-the-i-a," Basim enunciated, and somewhere, someplace, a thread stretched taut and snapped.