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Chapter 5: Embrace

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There had been no signs of the girl attempting escape. I was rather pleased with myself, with the terror I had inspired in that little slave girl. And to no small profit, either! The bundle of notes sat safely within my pocket, and I patted it affectionately. That would buy me a fair amount of fun.

The sun had set some time ago, had tucked itself neatly beneath the bed covers of the horizon to sleep, and I was preparing to switch guard shifts, soon. I watched until just after sunset, and then someone else would take over. It wasn't the best of jobs, but it was better than being a muck-shoveler, or carrying around a sedan chair. I mean, it wasn't easy, working underneath the incompetent Daroga that had been appointed...but at least it meant that I got a decent amount of freedom. I sighed, twirling my sword easily and absently as I waited for my successor to arrive.

Presently, I heard footsteps approaching, and smiled as I stepped forward to greet my comrade. But it wasn't him at all; in his stead was a gaunt, masked man, striding wearily but with all the unstoppable purpose of a glacier. I quickly stood to the side; the Khanum's sorcerer! I had heard that beneath the handsome mask he wore, his face was rotting and filled with insects. That his eyes were glowing scarab beetles, and that instead of a human one, he had only a black goat's heart. He was said to be a Necromancer, to be able to perform feats that only the Devil was capable of, and I admit that even I was a little frightened of this beastly man.

"Master," I said, and afforded him a deeply respectful bow, but he did not even acknowledge my presence. "Master, your slave girl...I - "

"Yes," he said, now, and his voice was troubled with deepest loathing, "I know all ready. Do not bother to tell me."

The door was closed to me before I could even reply. Of course, it had been stupid of me to assume that such a magician could not foresee the future. And then, a sudden fear seized me: suppose he knew that I had taken the money? I could not be caught, it would certainly mean the end of me! I would have to leave...perhaps even leave Persia completely...I did not know how far this man's magic could extend, where it could reach me...but with the money that I now owned, I had sufficient to get me to Egypt, or further! Enough to start a new life...

With these thoughts filling my unhappy brain, I fled.

-

As I shut the door behind me, I wondered if the brainless guard had harmed the girl on her way out. I swore desperately that I would curse him to a life of utter misery, if he had. I was shaking my head and pressing my hands against my chest, now, as I wandered further into my apartment.

My eye caught the pile of money lying on my table, and my heart sank. That damned fool girl! Did she think she stood a chance out there, without that? But then, I thought to myself, did I really think she stood a chance out there, at all? She was more likely to be raped and robbed and murdered in these honourless streets than she was to find a place for herself. Perhaps I should have sent her to Nadir. That poor man could use a concubine, though as I recalled he all ready had a few. Nonetheless, I'm sure he would have appreciated such an honoured gift. But it was too late, now. I sighed. I had effectively killed three women in one night, and it weighed heavily on me.

But no tears were left in my eyes, no energy left within me to mourn what I would bitterly regret in the morning. I must simply surrender to my sucking depression, to my smothering self-loathing, to my immense and overwhelming weight of unending misery, and let myself slowly expire in my bed. And so I dragged myself, step by painful step, to my room.

-

In the darkness, I heard the door open. I woke up with the sound of it, terrified, and wondered if I should attempt to hide. It was useless, of course...he would find me, and that would be the end of me...furthermore, I found I was frozen with fear, still shamefully on a bed that was above my station.

I'd been told that he walked silently, like a cat, yet I heard footsteps - stumbling, weary footsteps - coming toward the bedchamber. Like a child, I grasped the blankets for security, bringing it upward to cover almost all of my half-sitting form. And then I waited, grimly, for what I knew was coming.

He swayed into vision, falling against the door as if wounded. He was pitifully disheveled, his shirt wrinkled and hastily buttoned, with dark stains on the sleeves that looked like blood in the dim blue light of the moon. When he looked up, it was directly at me, and the fear that I'd been fighting suddenly returned, full force, knocking the breath from my lungs.

"You're still here?" he cried, and his breaking voice told me of a man who had been through too much for one night. He seemed tried even by my presence, as if I was not more than another problem to be dealt with. A pang of shamed sorrow coursed through my fear, and I regretted that I was still alive to present a difficulty.

"I...have nowhere else to go," I whispered, justifying my presence though I knew I should not, "Death waits for me just outside the door."

"That's strange," he stated, though without emotion, "I would have sworn I was right here."

Tears stung my eyes and fell, as my terrified breath caught in my throat, and I pressed my hands together and silently prayed to my master to take pity on me. My heart beat like a drum in the tangible fright that infused me.

"Are you still afraid of me?" he asked, his voice cutting through the silence like the knife I had expected to cut through my flesh. Without meeting his gaze, I nodded hastily. Afraid was hardly the word for what I felt. I felt his weight depress the mattress beside me, close to me, and I flinched. This weary man, my master, sighed. "You have nothing to fear from me."

"But you said - I disobeyed! I should be killed for my insolence..." I recited, but my heart wasn't in it. We were taught to say such things, may they please our masters, but I could not really bring myself to want to die for the scant crime I had committed. I was too afraid to die!

"I know what I said," the voice beside me intoned, suddenly grieved beyond belief. There was a moment of silence, and a small noise that indicated that my master had removed his mask and set it on the bedside table. Then, he spoke again. "Since you cannot find it within yourself to...lie with me," he said, choosing his words carefully, lest he be pricked by their thorns, "Could you perhaps...open your arms to me, as no one ever has, and..." he spoke as if the words were being dragged out of him, and I felt my fear give way to poignant, unrelenting sympathy, "and simply...hold me, for a time."

The sentence ended, and I could tell that the man before me was too ashamed to even award it the question mark that an inquiry required. I was helpless before him; even if I had not been trained to do so, I would have embraced him willingly - if fearfully - and he lay his poor, unhappy death's head on my mostly bare chest. His hot sigh scorched my flesh as we lay down together in mutual, but not identical, emotion.

There was a long silence in the dark room, as our breaths syncopated and fused in the heat of the night, hovering above our still forms. My mind raced - the khanum's sorcerer was resting his head on my unworthy bosom! This powerful man, called a demi-god by the credulous eunuchs, this Necromancer, this evil genius attuned to murder...was lying tenderly beside a fifteen-year-old slave girl. But at this moment, he did not seem to be a magician, nor did he seem evil...at this moment it seemed he was little more than a terribly weary man. I did not know which frightened me more - his unnatural reputation, or his humanity. That a face like that could be human...

"You breathe heavily, are you afraid?" he asked me, and the suddenness made my breath catch in my throat, betraying my answer before I could put it to words. "Do not be. The woman you know as the khanum is dead. You have nothing to fear."

A chord struck in my mind, and I found myself almost recoiling from my master, "How-how do you know?"

"Nevermind that!" he snapped, with surprising force, but then he seemed to receive the bill for the sudden burst of energy, and fell weak again, "Just know that you will be taken care of."

"But...the shah," I whispered, trying not to sound too alarmed, but failing increasingly as my speech continued, "His retribution will be terrible! He would kill the entire harem, all the eunuchs...just because the khanum would have wanted it that way!"

"You will be spared. I will see to it."

"Yes, master," I said quietly, and somehow, I believed him.

"'Master'," he mimicked, with some modicum of distaste, "Please. Call me Erik."

The sound of his voice when he said his own name, infinitely sad and humble, almost self-deprecating, sent shocks through me as much as the breech of social etiquette did.

"I-I could not!" I stammered, in shock. Again, my heart was racing, but I did not know why.

"Even if I asked you to?" Eri - no, my master replied. Shamefully, I could not even think his name for fear of punishment. I closed my eyes in a gesture of humility, because I could not bow.

"I would never dream of treating myself as your equal!" I whispered, and while this was a line we had been taught to say, at this moment, I truly meant it. My master seemed to understand, for he nodded his head sadly and sighed.

"Indeed not. After all, tonight I am lower and more wretched than anyone."

"Oh, no!" I cried, and he jumped at my sudden vehemence and volume. "No, you shall never be lower - "

His hand moved to my mouth and one long, cold finger pressed my lips shut. My heart skipped a beat, causing me to feel nauseated for a moment, but I soon recovered. Who was this man? This...Erik, this magician? Why was he so strangely kind to an undeserving slave girl?

Sometimes I doubt if even he knew the answer.

-

Despite my exhaustion, I found that I could not sleep. I had thought of sending the girl away, but I could not bring myself to. I could no longer say that this was my first physical contact with a woman, but I wished that I could pretend. I wished to forget the khanum and her wily sadism; her crushing wet warmth. And so I began to speak, not truly caring what I said in my unreal state of mind.

I asked her a great many questions, that night. What she had heard of me, for example. The rumours, I must say, were some of the most inventive I had heard, in all my time traveling, and I had heard many. Apparently I kept a harem of dead ladies at my beck and call, while at the same time it was rumoured that I was sexless, just on the male side of androgynous. I was a little offended, honestly...even if it was not immediately obvious that I was a human (oh, hateful term!), I should have liked to think that I was at least apparently a man.

I asked her, in my delirium, how old she thought I was. She hesitated much before replying, protesting that she was a terrible judge of such things, and I continually reassured her that I would not be angry, that there would be no punishment, no matter what her answer. This seemed to be an alien concept to her, and I felt a flare of lacklustre anger in my heart at corrupt Persia. Eventually, though I felt it almost a waste of time to pursue such a ridiculous question, I coaxed her to answer.

"Perhaps," she began, and I could have drowned in the fear that deluged from her trembling and weak voice, "Perhaps...around...thirty?"

I almost wished to laugh, with rue, but it would have been cruel of me to do so. So easily, I could see the girl flinch and begin tearfully begging for forgiveness, and I hadn't the patience to deal with it. Instead, I merely smiled unhappily. "Younger than most people would guess," I whispered, "Yet still older than I am."

There was a pause, and I could sense her unspoken question. Though she did not dare to ask, I answered her. "Twenty-two."

Twenty-two years old a virgin, though no longer, I supposed. Twenty-two years old and unloved. Twenty-two years of life, and what had I to show but painful memories in a mind that could not forget?

"Do you have any fondness for music?" I asked, employing the miracle of non sequitur to break off my horrible thoughts.

"Yes, of course, master," she replied, and the honorary by which she addressed me bothered me greatly. I wished to be no one's master but my own, and yet, in this sweltering country, it was impossible. That I should be master over this young girl, yet not over myself. But then, that was untrue. The shah and the late khanum may have wished to lord over me, and to an extent I allowed it...but they were not my master. I would never again submit to a master, to serve and fear and call "sir."

"Perhaps," I said quietly, "When I have the energy, I will sing to you."

"I would be most honoured." By the awe in her voice, I truly thought she would.

"It would be my pleasure."

Damn this accursed weakness! I felt lost, devastated...feelings I was quite accustomed to...but on top of them, a strange overlay of...what? Of hope? How could I hope for that which no one could grant me? How could I dare hope that this ignorant little child, this sheltered slave, could love me? But yet, as much as I hated this feeling, as much as I willed it away, it did not subside. It must have been fatigue, must have been this uncanny state of mind which brought such a vulnerable feeling, such that I was loathe to admit it, even to myself, to my mind. I was, beyond question, a most loathsome creature...begging affection from someone who did not know any better but to give it. I was horrendously ashamed of my unthinkable deficiency, my fragility.

And still, my lips betrayed me. "I think I shall keep you," I said, and there was a sharp intake of air from the girl beside me which only served to remind me how wretched I was behaving.

"I...I am honoured, my master," she said, as hollowly as a bowl, but then added, with a tone more sincerity, "And grateful."

I shifted position, slightly, and my hand unwittingly brushed the soft, gossamer flesh of the odalisque's bare stomach. She flinched as I did so, repulsed no doubt by my cold, dead hands. A hurt anger lumped in my throat, and I snapped, "Were you trained to flinch every time a man moves?"

"Oh! No, no...I'm sorry! Please forgive me, I meant nothing by it, I was simply overcome..." she trailed off, and though it seemed she wished to say something more, she did not. I did not pursue the matter, but silently let the irrational anger secede from my heart, insofar as this was possible.

"So you have no name," I voiced heavily, hating the phrase, hating the idea.

"Yes, master," she replied, and that she could reply with such nonchalance, as if having no name were the most normal thing in the world, sickened me. Damn this backwards country! At least my mother had had the decency to name me, even if it was in the sake of an old Catholic priest whose name I would one day despise.

"A ridiculously outmoded concept," I continued, contemptuously, "You are a living girl, not some porcelain doll." I was ranting, to be sure...it was beyond helping. I hated Persia, hated the damned heat, the ancient customs, the mindless rulers, the abysmal architecture. As a matter of fact, there were but two things in Persia that I did not hate; my dear Daroga, and this little slip of a slave child.

"Yes, master..." She replied, but sounded quite hesitant, as if she were not certain that was the correct answer. She feared angry punishment at every corner, and I began to find it tiring almost to the point where I was tempted to blame her personally, and not her infernal "training."

"Well, then, what would you have yourself called?" I asked. If I intended to keep her - and how could I send her away, now, after I had promised to keep her safe? - I would not have her nameless. I would not call her "girl," though the mate to that term had been my name for some time, in my youth.

"I would have nothing for myself!" she insisted, and it darkly bemused me that the times this girl showed the most passion were the times when she was prostrating herself for my sake, "If it pleases you to name me," she added, more softly, "I shall accept whatever name you choose for me. I am yours to name."

"Mine to name?" I repeated, incredulous, "Well, perhaps I should simply name you Mia, then, and have done with it."

"If it pleases you, master," she replied, though surely she didn't know the reason. How on Earth would the girl know Latin? She merely blindly accepted the name, from a complete stranger. And so the little slave girl that I had unwittingly adopted became Mia. And now, perversely, since I had given her a name, I knew I could never think of her as a slave.

I'm sure I drifted to sleep at some point, because the next thing I knew, I had awakened again. The sun had not yet risen, and I therefore assumed that it was still quite early. I gave a small sigh, and let my still-blurry mind go over the details of the night previous, with a detached horror and shame.

I knew I couldn't stay in Persia any longer. Though my every muscle begged me not to, I dragged myself from the comforts of my bed, from the soft arms and bosom which had somehow held me all night. I parted the curtains, and found that it was still dark out. That suited me. I rather wished I could have awoken earlier, but as I looked at the sleeping child on my mattress, I knew that I couldn't have forced myself out of bed even a moment before I did. The poor thing hadn't any idea of the monster she'd cradled in her arms last night, or she surely would have begged for the death that I had promised her. But if nothing else, she seemed even more afraid of her own mortality than she was of me. If only she had felt that way, earlier...

Brushing away the bittersweet thoughts that threatened to consume me, I immediately set to work on packing. I did not have much to bring with, just a few trinkets I'd somehow found the time to invent, my stash of money and various jewels, and a small suitcase of clothing. I left these items, thusly packed, in my bedroom, locked the door, and set out to procure a means of escape.