Hullo, everybody! I'm sosososososo SORRY about the holdup! But, these two are some of the biggest most telling chapters yet! Your wait was NOT in vain! Please read and review, and I hope you enjoy! -LR
When I walk in on Shazza, it is to the sight of his bare back.
It is to his greatest shame.
It's a beautiful back, to be sure. Heavily muscled, with wide-set shoulders and a straight spine; smooth and golden-skinned. A prince's back . . . If you don't mind his chain, that is.
It's pitiful. Only seven links trail upward from the clasp that pierces his sacrum, reaching desperately towards the back of his neck. And, if that still doesn't put you off, those sad, seven circles of ink have all been burned away.
His father's own work, I remember. I was there when he did it, me and the rest of Hegathe. It was my duty, as the heir of Barak-dur to burn the chain off of any member who had acted against it. But, while his actions cost me my father, Shazza also cost Giaz his son and his closest friend. He felt that was a crime that needed to be answered for. What's more, Giaz knew that I didn't have it in me, to burn Shazaa.
So, he took it upon himself to savage his son.
Even now, when I think on his name, or hear it, I can't dissociate it from his screams.
From his disgrace.
My eyes fall downcast from his chain; it truly is all my fault.
I hear Shazaa exhale a breath I didn't realize he'd been holding, before shrugging into a wool, knit shirt, tugging it down roughly over his torso. For the longest time, neither of us says a word.
"Do you remember?" he asks, and clears his throat. "Do you remember, how it used to be? Before anything?" He gives a short laugh. "Before everything!" Shazaa pauses, no doubt thinking back himself. "Do you remember, Rontu?"
I release a breath of my own, my brow knitting with the weight of our memories.
"You know that I do."
Next to Paia, she was the most beautiful child I had ever seen.
Her hair was long, in two big, black braids that were weighted down beside her shoulders by golden clasps around their ends. Her clothes consisted of finest silk in majestic purples and royal blues, and sandals woven from the richest of tanned leathers.
She had the most gorgeous eyebrows: thick and dark and neat, resting above eyes that changed color- gold to emerald from one moment to the next. Dimples sliced deep into cheeks the shade of baked sweets and when she spoke, it was in a soft, tinkling whisper.
She was everything I'd never be.
I imagined how I must have looked to my uncles, my father and especially to the little Golden Girl, with my dirtied, fine white trousers, my freshly torn, fine sage-green housecoat and the smears on my ivory shortshirt. My face wasn't any better, what with how it was streaked with dirt and scratches.
I openly gawked at the Golden Girl, in awe of her prettiness, even though my father's council stood around her, openly gawking at me.
"Rontu," said my father, his voice measured, "Child, what's become of your clothes?"
He towered over me, dressed almost entirely in white, from his pristine trousers, to his Alik'r hood, with a beautiful broad, golden sash tied about his waist.
Before I could answer, my least favorite uncle, Aisir, took the liberty of answering for me.
"Clearly been in some sort of trouble, the little devil," he groused. "Look at that housecoat, all ruined! Those trousers, too."
"Brand new, were they not, Raigatz?" Sira'at added snidely. "Once white, and now what?" He shook his head, lips pursed. "Truly, I think this look is far more suitable."
I lowered my head and eyes in shame, as my seven uncles all began to laugh around us.
"Bide your tongue, Sira'at," my father said, his tone even. "Bide it, before I cut it from its roots."
The silence that followed was immediate.
My eyes shot up to see his expression; stone-like. Beside him, fifteen-year-old Adjin watched me carefully, his visage just as stoic but his eyes full of sympathy and question. Jarsha was next to him, in fine ivory clothes and navy housecoat to match my green and Adjin's red. He studied my clothes and face, fighting to hide a grin.
He knew what our father and elder brother didn't - that I'd been fighting some boys from the alley. Children weren't like adults, you see: wealth wasn't proof of status. Strength was. As a result, even the youngsters of well-off families - like Adjin, Jarsha and I- tended to get a little dirty when the occasion called for it.
That day, it happened to be during an extremely formal visit from my father's friend, the Magistrate, and his little Golden Girl.
I watched her, awestricken.
The most beautiful thing I'd ever seen, ever.
I had the presence of mind to bow low, from my waist.
"My sincerest apologies, Baba, to you and your Company" I assured my feet, as respectfully as possible. "Magistrate Rahaim, please accept my humblest pardons."
"Very well-mannered, indeed," commented my father's elaborately adorned guest. "Apology accepted. You may rise."
I straightened my back, and took in him and all his regalia.
Giaz Ibn Rahaim was dressed in the longest most extravagant housecoat, in deep purple, embroidered in gold, with stark white robes upon robes layered beneath it. A golden pauldron was strapped to his left shoulder, welded into the visage of a sabrecat while ice wolf leather sandals encased his feet. He had the longest hair I'd ever seen on a man, in maintained, ink-black dreadlocks, clasped randomly with golden bells and clasps while a purple headwrap covered the crown of his head. An onyx hung down on his forehead from a golden chain beneath the turban and his brown eyes were lined with coal. The man kept a neat moustache and goatee, his skin a deep brown, like tree bark after rain, and his ears were pierced with little golden studs.
The Magistrate smiled kindly at me, but I was too afraid to smile back.
"You raise your sons very well, my friend," he told my father. "All three will prove good men. This bad puppy here seems of an age with my own boy. I should like them to be friends, Raigatz. As we were."
My father chuckled.
"I'd like nothing better," he said. "But this 'bad puppy' is not any of my sons; he's my daughter. My Rontu."
Giaz was shocked.
"Daughter?"
"With all due respect, Baba," chimed the Golden Girl. I looked up to find her big eyes fixed on me. "I should like to be friends with her, regardless."
I felt the urge to stop her, before she made the mistake of sharing my reputation.
"Forgive me, Miss," I began nervously. "But, you should probably not make my acquaintance. I don't really share in the past-times of fine Redguard ladies."
Her eyes widened.
"Miss?" She echoed, incredulous. "Ladies-"
Both my father and the Golden Girl's burst out into laughter, along with the rest of my father's Company.
"You misunderstand, sweet one," Baba grinned, swiping weakly at a tear, "Magistrate Rahaim has but one child, and this is him."
I looked for a son, but my father was gesturing to the Golden Girl. My brow furrowed in confusion, inducing more laughter. She was blushing furiously, dark brows drawn in, eyes flashing.
"I am Shazaa Beni Ibn Rahaim," she blurted out, flustered. "And, I'm not a girl; I'm a boy!"
"We were such friends, you and I."
Shazaa still has not turned to face me, but I can hear the absent smile, on his voice.
My hand rises to press against my forehead; I'm feeling faint.
"Such friends," I echo hoarsely, and shake my head. "We were such friends, until we weren't."
"Very true. We became so much more. I loved you."
He's trying to prove a point, trying to take me off my guard, trying to make me lie.
"And I you, Shazaa." His shoulders tense, chin lowers. He sighs. "I loved you until it hurt. And, what's worse, you knew I did. You used it to hurt me."
"I loved you more than you'll ever know!"
"You used it to hurt me!" My voice trembles with tears that have waited nearly fifteen years for this conversation. "Maybe you loved me, Shazaa, maybe you did. But, you didn't let me know it until it was much too late."
"That's a lie," he hisses, "That's a lie."
"You knew nobody else would ever want me but you. That I was too strong, too boyish, too tall, too stubborn and too unruly for anybody else to ever choose me. And, you threw that in my face. You thought I was weak."
"I thought you were beautiful."
I scoffed.
"You never showed it. I never felt beautiful as a child, especially when I was with you." I'm trembling now with anger, anger at how much I'd hated myself and how the me of twenty-eight years was still unable to hug that child, and tell her how much she was loved. "You were the most beautiful thing I'd ever seen, Shazaa. It hurt me enough just to stand next to you; that much already said that you were much too beautiful for me."
"That's a lie," he snarls, "After a certain point, an age, you knew they all wanted you! You knew they did!"
"What are you talking about?"
"Do you think it was easy for me, not being stronger than you?" He laughs, humorlessly. "It quickly wasn't good enough anymore, just to have my father's name; I had to prove myself. And, I was weak. You were strong, and I was weak." He shook his head vehemently. "When we'd matured, they all began to see you, as I always had. They no longer wanted the perfumed girls, the girls in silks and jewels, the girls with musical instruments, the girls with dancing shoes, the damsels- THEY ALL WANTED YOU." Hands braced on his knees, he heaves his breaths. It's only now that I realize, he's waited years for this conversation, too. "They wanted the girl who could hit a bullseye at ninety paces. They wanted the girl who told dirty jokes that bested their own; the girl who from one split second to the next, could go from the dangerous stare as you faced off with her on the training field, to the gorgeous smile, as she offered her hand to help you up."
"Shazaa. . ."
He shakes his head.
"But, I had you." His own words strike something inside of him, and he shakes his head again. "They wanted what I had; you were mine. Taj. Khalo. Kematu. Daeras. All of them. Every last all-damned one." He turns a tortured golden eye on me, over his shoulder. "Who was I to stand against them? Weak, untrained me? I cared for you more and longer than all of them, all of them. What was I to do, when you outgrew me and my pathetic toys and jewelry and titles and remembered that you were taught to value strength?"
Eyes wide, lips parted, I shake my head, in denial of Shazaa's truth.
"No, no," I argue, "It wasn't me that got sick of you; you just started ignoring me and went after everyone else, even Paia! Why? Why did you do that?"
"I don't know!" he shouts, and his head falls into his hands. "I don't know! I had to show you- show you I had options. That if you chose any of them, I had my choices too."
"You hurt me," I tell him, and my brow tightens at the realization, eyes watering. "You hurt me, to keep me?"
"I know, and I'm sorry," he sputters; I realize Shazaa's crying. "I never meant to hurt you. I was just afraid of being hurt."
I'm stunned.
Breathless, I stare at him, unable to grasp any of this.
"Then, why did you propose?" I ask, before I can stop myself. "Why, after ignoring me at training, and flaunting other women at galas; why did you propose?"
"Because, I loved you. Because, confused as you were, you loved me, too. And, as afraid as I was of losing you to someone stronger and bolder, I was more afraid that I'd driven you off forever." He glances at me once again over his shoulder. "Needless to say, I already had."
I cast my gaze aside.
I remember.
It was Fiery Night, and I was sixteen.
The boyish, curveless, gangly girl who'd been smitten over Shazaa was two years gone. In her place was a tall, confident woman, still more handsome than beautiful, but that made no matter. I was charismatic, poised and graceful, unmatched on the field, cat-footed and quick-witted.
That night, I sat unsmiling on the window ledge of the Magistrate's attic. It was only the thousandth of Shazaa's elaborate parties I spent watching him spin yet another woman around me, in circles. I can dance, I wanted to holler, I can dance beautifully!
But, nobody would give me the chance.
Sweeping skirts were not my style; I had opted for ivory satin trousers, fine black leather slippers and a belted, navy blue tunic that bared my arms and back. The housecoat I wore over it was gold and sheer, with a sweeping train that hung at my knees and my hair was swept back into goddess braids that dropped down my back in two long ropes.
Jarsha and Adjin were both gone by now; I was all alone.
Two hunter's moons shone above me, overlapping in an embrace, and it was just like the party downstairs: the whole sky partnered and dancing while I looked on quietly.
All of a sudden, the quiet was broken by a high, piercing whistle, followed almost immediately by another just like it and a third one after that, and I whirled around, my grin wide and unmistakable, to see the figure standing in the attic door frame.
"Kematu!"
"Applehead," he grinned back.
The short and squat boy of my childhood had grown into a tall and broad man. Dark brown eyes looked on me warmly from where they sat in a ruggedly handsome face. He was brawny through the shoulders and the chest, his arms and even his neck corded with muscle, all of him shaking as he laughed with a deep voice that I didn't recognize.
I found that I liked it well enough.
"Well?" I asked, still smiling. "Come in, let me get a look at you."
And what a look I had.
He was brilliant, clothed for Shazaa's party in ceremonial Alik'r red.
"Told you I'd do it," he chuckled, turning on his heel so I could see the back of his armor. "I was fat and clumsy at the time, but I knew I tell you, I just knew that someday, I'd be Alik'r."
"I knew it, too," I laughed, drawing my knees up to my chest on the ledge. "I just wasn't about to let you know that I did." He laughed with me, leaning against the window ledge, his back to the world and his eyes on me. "Do you miss the Family?"
"Tsk," he shook his head, smirking. "You know I do. But, it prepared for the service, and that's more than I could have ever wanted." I nodded in agreement, and he raised his chin speculatively, brows pulling in. "Saw a lot of us downstairs," he said. "You know, everybody from our year. But, not you?"
I rolled my eyes.
"Not a very fun party. At least, not for me." Kematu's brow lifted, questioning how anyone could leave a Rahaim party unsated. I heaved a sigh, "How could it be, when the boy you like won't even dance with you?"
His eyes narrowed, "Shazaa?" I nodded. "How long?"
"All my life, it seems," I shrugged. "What's more, everyone's after girls in silkier clothes than I can stand to wear; no one will dance with me. So, here I am. I don't attend Ibn Rahaim galas, you see," I chuckled dryly. "I endure them."
Kematu's face darkened.
"Shazaa's a prick and a fool, what doesn't want to lose you, and is going about it the wrong way," he grunted. "The rest down there; they've lost their nerve, is all. There's nothing wrong with you. As far as silkier clothes go, it's what's underneath that matters, oge`?"
We both laughed at his crudeness, when I suddenly felt his hand on mine. I turned to see his expression, and it was deathly serious, his eyes trained on me with warmth and offering.
"Kem . . . atu?"
"You know," he said, after watching me a while, "I always did prefer you."
I was stupefied.
"Me?"
"Yeah," he chuckled. His hand rose to cradle my cheek. "A girl more like me. A girl who wasn't afraid to go to blows, who isn't like the rest. A girl who's just a little bit rougher." With that, he drew my face up to his, and he kissed me. When we parted, there was a hunger in his eye, the like of which I'd never seen before. "I told you once that I'd do that, too," he whispered. "I was fat and clumsy at the time, but I knew," Kematu smiled, "I just knew that someday, I'd be kissing Rontu O'Naharis."
"So, what now?"
His smile widened, "What, indeed." And, he bent to kiss me again.
Needless to say, that kiss turned into something else entirely.
"You saw."
Shazaa nods, "I saw. What's more, you and Kematu stayed on with us for three more weeks. I had to listen to your little jokes and innuendos. He had that name for you, Attic Flower."
I start to smile before I can stop.
"Because I was above being your Wallflower."
"Stenndar, did I hate you both," he sighs. "But, lucky for me, it wasn't love that you two shared. And, even if he'd already been your first, I loved you and I still wanted you."
"But I no longer wanted you."
He flinches.
Slowly rises to his feet. Turns around to face me.
There are tears in his eyes.
"We would have been happy," he says, his voice hoarse. "We would have been happy, if it wasn't for me."
"Maybe," I allow with a shrug. "Maybe we would have been."
My eyes have superpowers, I used to tell my father, and how right I was. I can see the slightest flicker of a man's jaw when he's lying. I can listen to my late mother's criticism of my cooking and I can pick off game up to a mile away in dense woodland. But, even then, I knew that none of these was the most super of my powers.
With purely white eyes, there is no color to tearstain, no tell of being on the verge of crying.
In my opinion, that is the best power of all.
I was crying for Shazaa. I was crying for what I had done to him. Yes, what I had done. Poor, beautiful Shazaa. What I had done. . .
"Maybe Kematu," he says, after watching me for a while. "Maybe Jarsha. Maybe the fool who gave you your son." He crosses to me, as I begin to slightly tremble. "But, not from me. You can't hide your tears from me."
He's very close now.
His hazel eyes have color and heat enough for the both of us. Neat dark moustache and beard circle his mouth, set and expectant as he watches mine; he's so close.
No, not at all, not a stranger at all.
A stranger wouldn't do for an affair.
But, I know these arms. I know these eyes, and these lips, this heart and mind.
I maybe could kiss him; I maybe could push him away, make him leave my home and my life. Instead I blurt out, unable to filter it:
"I'm so sorry, Shazaa."
That brings on more tears.
He doesn't make a move to comfort me and I know he knows that I need this absolution.
"I'm so sorry, Shazaa. I'm so, so sorry. I'm sorry that I didn't tell you yes, and I'm sorry that you loved me. If I had told you yes, we could have been happy, and you wouldn't have chased Iman, and Hegathe would be its own, and my house would still-"
Those great arms grab me, and pull me into his chest.
"None of this was your fault," he whispers. "I'm so sorry I hurt you. All these long years of pain and regret," he mutters into my hair. "After everything I'd done, you didn't let them kill me. I've never forgotten; I'll never forget. You gave me the chance to redeem myself. That's something I can never repay you for, as long as I live. But, I'll try. Rontu, with everything I am, I will try."
I barely hear the pitter patter of feet in the hall before the bedroom door is thrown open.
"Milady O'Naharis! Milad- oh!" Shazaa and I spring apart, eyes wide. "Am I- Was I-"
Danica stands there, staring at us, her eyes thrown wide like a doe's.
"What is it?" I ask, keeping my voice as controlled as possible. "What did you have to tell me?"
The woman shakes herself out of it, and focuses her gaze back on me.
"Your boy," she says, her smile wide. "Milady, your boy is back!"