It's just after noon of the following day, and everyone has been called to the courtyard. Farielle stands at the front, her guard behind her, her face white and set. The inhabitants of the tower stand in rows, watching, wondering. Whispering together and staring at the Gondorian girl. Feeling their stares, her shoulders hunch a little, and she holds herself still straighter and stiffer.
For the corsair Bahazaid, known to himself as 'the Magnificent' and to others simply as 'that drunken sot', the day has not been going well. Payday and a night spent at the dice and the bottle resulted in an unintended late rising and an aching head to boot. Now, as he staggers out of the barracks, he definitely looks the worse for wear. His shirt is creased and stained, his flabby jowls unshaven and his bald head shining. Oh, and did I mention that his steps are wavering? When a pair of burly guards grab his arms it takes him a moment to grasp what's going on. "What'sh it?" he mumbles blearily. "M'I wanted for shomething?"
the inhabitants of the Tower gaze upon the courtyard waiting for something to happen, the sound of marching feet is suddenly heard from the direction of the Tower's main gate. It takes only a few moments for the armed column to appear within the courtyard. Dressed to the nines, the men are led by non other than the Fleet Master himself dressed simply in comparison to the House retainers at his back. Scanning the courtyard, the Lord of House Sikkiyn quickly spots the women Farielle and the accused man Bahazaid being held by the pair of burly guards. Nodding to himself he steps forward to address the man.
"Bahazaid. You are charged with afronting a Lady's honour and personal possessions. Previously to these dishonourable actions you also made Seaward and in fact the entire City look weak before the paleskins by attending your match during the festival drunk. While I waved this latter charge in the name of mercy, I am now reinstating it due to this recent reckless behaviour. As punishment for these actions, I deem you to be given twenty five lashes."
Turning to the burly guards, he motions for the man to be brought forward.
Farielle swallows, and shuts her eyes. Then she opens them again, staring straight forward expressionlessly. In the folds of her dress, her hands slowly clench.
Farielle is, at first, ignored. There are pale faces enough amongst Seaward's slaves, after all. But the sight of Seaward's Fleet Master is enough to rouse even someone in Bahazaid's unhappy state. "Lord Sikkiyn," he manages by way of greeting, bowing from the waist (and with the guards to stop him falling over). "I can exshplain. I-" And then the import of what's been said hits him. "I- I- I don' remember Gondor," he manages at last. "Surely thish ish all a mishtake."
Yet the guards pull him inexorably on. As they drag him past Farielle his gaze fixes on her pale one and the blank look changes to fury. Clearly he at least remembers her. "Paleshkin trash," he manages in Common, and tries to spit.
It looks as if the Fleet Master is about to dismiss the mattter and leave the scene and Bahazaid to his punishment until the accused responds to Mirdanath's words. "A mistake? There were witnesses to your actions in Pelargir, Bahazaid. Your fight did not go without attendees. They saw your stumbling mess that you gave for a fight against that Blue Squire. Every time you step off Haradaic soil, you represent Umbar. You represent Seaward! You are to do us proud! Not make us look weaker than the worms which crawl beneath one's feet." The Fleet Master's words are full of fury and he seems on the verge of shouting but he restrains himself into a cold toned anger.
"This woman standing here today bore witness and suffered from your actions. Unless you question her honour as a Lady, which is a serious accusation, there can be no question as to your guilt." He pauses now for the moment and then raises a finger. "Do you have /anything/ to say for yourself before your punishment is dealt?"
To all outward appearances, Farielle ignores Bahazaid and the spittle that lands at her feet. But a fine, imperceptible trembling has set up, though she still stares straight forward.
"Lady?" Bahazaid repeats, incredulously. "She'sh a Paleshkin!"
Mirdanath's final question gives him pause; he looks at the Fleet Master with an abject puppy expression, as though he were about to grovel. But then they reach the newly set up whipping post and he swallows hard, then straightens. "Can take thish like a man," he mumbles and then, as the two guards begin to bind him to the stout wooden post, he adds plaintively, "Where'sh the rum?"
As the drunken Corsairs speaks to the Fleet Master, Mirdanath begins to walk towards the man being strapped to the wooden post. Once he is within an arms reach of the man, he leans forward. "I am your superior, Corsair. My word is law. I am your own private God. What I say is, is how things are. And so when I say she is a Lady. It doesn't matter if she is an shark, lion or a monkey, shes still a Lady because /I/ said so. Are we clear, Corsair?" Without waiting for a response, he now turns away and begins to walk towards the gates of the Tower. But not before...
"Corsair Bahazaid has asked for an additional five lashes. Athir, Asad, give the man what he wants." As the words are spoken by the Fleet Master, the two largest figures step forth from the column with wound up cat-o-nine tails and grim expressions upon their faces. "I won't lie, mate." The man known as Athir speaks up as he and his accomplice approach the tied man. "This is going to hurt... a lot..." And so the two begin to deal out the punishment to the wayward Corsair. Lash...after...bloody...lash...
Bahazaid raises his head to stare miserably at the Fleet Master. His hopes that this might all be a bad dream are dissolving rapidly. "Y-yesh," he manages to get out.
And then the Fleetmaster's henchmen are stepping up, and the first lash is swinging ...
Bahazaid has plenty of spare flesh to take the blows. At the first lash his eyes start to water, but he does not scream. Rather, he gives a soft moan. Another lash, another moan, a little louder ...
Farielle's fingernails dig into her palm, and she stares at the air in front of her - facing Bahazaid, but not actually quite looking at him, though no one looking at her could tell. What little color there is in her skin is gone, and she swallows. Swallows again. And does her best not to listen or to see.
It's hard not to listen. Each moan is just a little louder: aagh ... aagh ... Aagh. But then, of a sudden, blessed silence. Athir and Asad have not yet finished their task, but the lump of bloodied flesh before them sags at the post, held up only by the bindings at the wrists. Bahazaid the Magnificent, weakened by blood loss and the alcohol still running its course in his veins, has quietly fainted.
The girl clenches her teeth as well, and the faint tremor grows - but not enough for any other than the guard behind her to notice. Unseen by any around, he moves closer, and takes her arm in a grip that is almost cruel. But the pain of his fingers digging into her skin helps Farielle keep from fainting herself, until Bahazaid is silent, and she can stare over his body as if he isn't there.
And finally, it is over, and she can return to her room. She manages not to run; to walk with stately dignity.
Seaward's name was apt, and its location offered those who dwelled in its tower a luxury coveted by those who dwelled among the lower building in the city: Breezes from the sea. All the Towers caught the coveted breezes; but Seaward was the first. Old Numenorean works dotted the city still, but stacked between were the less sturdy mud-brick buildings which absorbed the day's sun and radiated it at night. Even at night; even in the autumn, the city sweltered in places where no breeze could enter.
As Farielle climbed the stairs, holding herself back from running up them - running and never stopping - one of these small winds cooled her face and seemed to brush away some of the turmoil of emotion.
And that pleasant sea-born wind - warm in fact, but cooler in comparison to the earlier heat - enters Farielle's chamber, fluttering the curtains gently. The lady herself is not here, but another occupies the room nonetheless. Amestris of the Bazhani sits on a chair near the window. Sitting with back against the chair-back, her legs swing in the air slightly and she kicks her heels idly as she glances around the room...waiting. A covered basket (set carefully to not disturb the lady's things) sits on the table.
Soft footsteps can be heard without, and then Farielle enters her room, stopping in the door as she sees someone there before her. "Oh," she says, smiling a little - it doesn't reach her eyes; the small muscles there are tense and unhappy - "Hello. Ames - Amestris, yes?" She comes in farther, the guard - who had stopped outside, coming in after her when he hears her speak to someone.
Amestris' dark gaze rests thoughtfully upon the fine gowns hanging from pegs. Her thoughts are rather rapt, it appears, for the lady has opened the door full and seen the girl ere she reacts.
Amestris jumps up quickly and bows. "Lady Farielle," she greets, with perhaps a subtle edge of excitement in it. She glances to the guard when he enters but pays him no mind, shifting her gaze back to the Gondorian lady. "I have brought you more paint," she explains, reaching for her basket.
"More paint?" Farielle sounds surprised, but she glances at the basket and nods. Her eyes slide up to the girl's face, then away again. "Thank you." She hesitates. "I - your father came here," she says after a moment. Her face is very still, almost wooden in its control of expression. "He said he does not want you speaking to me."
Nodding and smiling when her words are echoed, Amestris lifts the cover of her basket to reveal two small clay pots as well as a number of fruits, cloth bags and something leafy. The fragrant aroma of spices fills the air until she drops the cloth once more, having removed the clay pots.
Then she pauses, frozen in place (though that metaphor would have no meaning for her). Worry shadows her eyes when she lifts them to meet the lady's gaze. "My father visited you?" she asks, her voice smaller. "And he said that?"
Farielle reaches to take the two pots, and put them on the table near the others. She turns, meeting Amestris' eyes. "He said he didn't want you to come here, and I told him I have no say in who comes or who does not; that he should speak with Lady Farside. He said he would not." She hesitates, her tension that of someone bracing herself. In a low voice, she says, "I am glad you came. I - I like talking to you. But I don't want you to get in trouble."
The pots, it might be noted, are of far lesser quality than those brought before. These are simply clay, unglazed on the outside and instead of a ceramic lid, they are covered with ragged squares of stained oil-cloth, tied on with a bit of roughly twisted hemp.
The hint of worry in Amestris's voice becomes obvious upon her dusky features. "My father said nothing to me." She bites her lower lip. "But why doesn't he want me to speak to you? Is because you are from the north?" A petulant note enters her voice with those questions.
The older girl looks down, running a finger along one of the pots. "Are these yours?" she asks. Then, "I don't know. He didn't tell me." Amestris may sound petulant - Farielle is trying to hide any emotion at all.
"No, they are not mine," Amestris replies, rather absently, "They are for you."
"This is ill news, Lady," she says, twisting one of her fingers fretfully and staring off into the air. "I came to help you but it is a terrible thing to disobey one's father."
Farielle nods, looking down at the pots. "Then... then, you must go," she says, barely above a whisper. "You must not get into trouble because of me." Despite herself, a note of wistfulness creeps into her voice. "I wish you might have stayed. I have no one to talk to here."
With furrowed brow, Amestris appears deep in thought as the lady speaks. It is a few moments after she stops before the desert girl responds. "My father did not forbid me himself," she says, slowly, and glances towards Farielle. "But to know his wishes..."
The worry gives way to a sort of resolution and the girl stands up straighter. "But nor would my father wish me to break my word," she says, her voice stronger. "It would be dishonorable. I said I would help you and I will. Then I will speak to my father and if he still wishes me to stay from your company, I will obey."
"But..." Farielle's face looks lighter, despite her broken-off protest. She smiles almost shyly. "If you are sure." And now that she can relax a little, curiosity tilts her head to one side. "Help me with what?" Her fingers still trace the curves of the small clay pot; she isn't thinking about what she's doing.
"To help you convince Lord Alphros you are a worthy wife," Amestris answers brightly, her own manner and mood lightening now that a decision has been made. "It must begin with the goat. The kitchen yard is behind the tower, I will bring the goat and the means to slaughter it there at the appointed time; but you must invite the Lord himself, I can think of no way to lure him there. It should be in the morning because it will take most of the day to butcher and cook the goat. I will help you with that as well."
"After you have fed him the liver, invite him to return that evening for dinner. You should put on your best gown to serve him."
Farielle's fingers still. She stares at Amestris, her mouth half-open. "I ... you ... I ... You are serious?" she stammers. "But.. but what if he doesn't like liver? Then he - he will only be angry with me, and I - I will..." She falters, and shivers, looking suddenly sick and rubbing her arms with her hands.
Her eyes move to the gowns, and a frown grows on her face, displacing whatever thoughts had made her so afraid. "I don't want to wear them," she mutters rebelliously.
"Why would he not like liver?" queries Amestris, genuinely puzzled. "It will make him stronger."
"Even if, by some strange chance, he does not like liver - he will be pleased with your ability to slaughter goats and your desire to impress him."
Amestris glances to the gowns, worry returning to her expression. "Lady," she begins earnestly, "You must accept your good fortune. Your sadness blinds you to it. You act like a slave already, so powerless. Is that really what you would prefer? To be the lowest of the lowest? To wear the mark of servitude until the end of your days? To be the woman of any man who wants you rather than the honored wife of one man?"
"If this is what you truly want then...then..." she throws her hands up dramatically, "the women of North are crazy!"
"I want to go home!" Farielle bursts out. "I want to see my parents and my brothers, and choose which man I prefer, not - not have to try and make one like me because if he doesn't I will be slaughtered like - like your goat!"
All the terror and loneliness and struggle to accept of the past weeks rushes out in one wild flood. "A slave. What do you think I am? What power do I have? The only reason I can walk around this tower is because Lord Alphros doesn't like to see me in chains!"
She stops, breathing hard, tears running unheeded down her face. "And he doesn't want me, anyways," she finishes unhappily, her voice much quieter. "Only my lineage." She blinks hard and scrubs at the tears.
Worry is still present in Amestris' expression but so is compassion. She steps closer to the lady, unconsciously extending her hands as if to comfort her. "Lady I know the source of your sadness, but it changes nothing," she says, her young voice softening, "Rage at the wind but it will still sweep your tent away, heedless of your desires. Will you sit upon the burning sands, bitter at the wind or will you find another place to shelter?"
"You have power, lady, but it seems as if you refuse to use it out of spite, a rebellion against those who brought you sorrow. But you are only spiting yourself."
"If he is interested in your lineage, then you have power. The merchant who possesses the precious jewel coveted by the buyer is in a powerful position. He decides whether the coveter will receive what he desires and what price he will pay."
"B-but if he decides he - he doesn't want me after all..." Farielle says, wiping her eyes with one hand and reaching out with the other, before letting it fall. "If I w-wanted him to like me, that is one thing, but - but to have to pretend be-because of what will happen if he does not... " She isn't weeping any longer, but her voice still shakes. "If the merchant can only sell the jewel to one person, and if he cannot convince that man to pay the price, he will be thrown in prison and lose all of his goods..."
"Do not think of what will happen if you fail," advises Amestris, "Think only of what you need to do to make your life better."
"I only remind you of what will happen if you do not marry Lord Alphros because you seem reluctant to save yourself and I hope it will inspire you to act."
"You are full of too many excuses. What does it matter if do not want him to like you? You hold yourself in pity and are so consumed with it you cannot see what is before you. Any woman in Umbar would be giddy with her good fortune even if she were merely his /concubine/ and here you are angry and bitter that you might /have/ to marry him and even angrier that you must to avoid a worse fate - instead of rejoicing that you have a way to avoid such a fate."
Amestris sighs heavily and steps over to the table, reaching out for her basket. "It is difficult for me to hear this. I would take a husband like Lord Alphros in a moment, even if he only wanted me to create an alliance with my father. But if you are certain you wish to do nothing for yourself, I abandon my plans and obey my father."
The shock of being in a place filled with cultures all so very different from her own is nearly as great as that of being jerked unwillingly from one life to another. Farielle is doing her best to cope. She swallows hard, and tries a wavering smile. It doesn't last long, but it was there. "Wh-which day should I ask him to come? For - for the goat."
It is with sadness that Amestris' hand clasps the handle of her basket, but when the lady asks her question, she leaves it. Forgetting herself, the desert girl throws her arms around the lady to embrace her (or attempts to). Beaming, she says."You make my heart glad, lady!"
"Any day you and Lord Alphros choose; send me a message and I will be there with the goat and knife."
A pair of strong arms fling themselves around Farielle and slightly bemused, she hugs the younger girl back. "If I send it to Farside, will it reach you?" she asks, uncertainly. "You said you don't live there." She glances over Amestris' shoulder at the fatal dresses again, and asks rather abruptly. "Why do you think he sent me those?"
"You truly cannot guess?" Amestris says, pulling away from the taller woman. She glances to the dresses and smiles. "He honors you. You are beautiful for your kind and one of your esteem should dress in such finery."
"Oh." A little color tints Farielle's pale face. "I - I thought," she begins, but doesn't finish, instead smiling at the younger girl, a little more successfully than before. "Thank you, Amestris."
"What did you think?" asks Amestris, a half-smile answering the lady's first true one.
Farielle blushes a little more and looks away. "I don't know," she says vaguely. "That - oh, that he tried to buy me with them, like - like I was a ... one of those women." The blush deepens. "I know nothing of men. Not... not like that. I have only seen him once and all he said to me was that his food was good, and insults to my kinsmen."
Even Amestris blushes a little. "Those are things I know little of, as well, and do not need to know until I marry."
"But I see no insult in a man giving a woman beautiful gifts when he wishes to marry her. The women I see on the streets who are /that/ sort, do not look as if any men give /them/ such things."
"Yes," Farielle says, slowly. "That is true." She sits down on the bed, gesturing the other girl towards the chair. Or the cushions on the floor if she prefers. Hesitantly, she asks, "Do you know him at all? What is he like?"
"I have never even seen him," admits Amestris. "Mother and I did not join father in Umbar until long after he had left and his lady sister became ruler of Farside Tower."
"I have heard from those who once served him that he was a great lord though perhaps eccentric. Often he would disappear into secret vaults deep within the Tower to study - what he studied, I am unsure of."
"Oh." The older girl sounds disappointed. "I hope he is kind," she says almost to herself. Louder, "I wonder why he wears that cloth over his face."
"The veil?" asks Amestris, rhetorically, lowering herself to one of the cushions on the floor. "I have never heard a reason for this. But it is not uncommon in Harad for some to do so. There are some tribes where the women do by tradition. But why one of the Blood would do so? I do not know."
"I have heard," Amestris adds, speaking very carefully, "Some speculate that he is disfigured."
"But," she assures hastily, "It is mere rumor. He does reveal his face to his closest friends and his family and they deny this rumor."
"Disfigured?" Farielle looks horrified. "I hope not!" She is quiet a moment, trying to remember, but most of the first - and only - time she had seen the man is rather foggy in her memory. "I think," she says slowly at last, "that he can't be missing his nose, at least... the shape, you know." She moves her hand in front of her face, indicating the bump a nose would make under a piece of cloth. "I don't /remember/ it looking odd."
Amestris giggles, covering her mouth with her small brown hand. "I think if he were disfigured it would be a well-known fact, not a rumor."
"His lady sister is not beautiful but nor is she ill-pleasing. If they look alike, I think you will not be too terribly disappointed in his features."
Farielle is silent - by the frown on her face, trying to picture Azradi's features on a man. Then her face smooths out again. "It is silly, isn't it?" she says, not quite laughing, but smiling again. "There are other things of much greater importance than how a man looks, but..." She looks at Amestris, lifting her hands helplessly, her smile widening.
"No, it is more important if he is kind and can care for you and your children," agrees Amestris. "But one wants to be pleased when they look upon their husband's face, though, even if he is not the most handsome man in the village."
"My mother once told me that you will be treated as you treat others. She warned this was not always the way of things, that there are some who cannot be trusted - but often, if you wish kindness, you must offer it."
"It would be nice," Farielle admits. "I hope he is not /too/ ill-looking." A little troubled, she agrees. "And that he is honorable, and kind." Then she smiles. "My mother said something much the same, I remember. When I was a little girl. Your mother must be a wise woman."
"She is very wise," confirms Amestris with much pride. "As is my father."
She glances to the window, where the sky has now grown fully dark. She leaps up from her cushion, alarmed. "I must return home!" she exclaims, her face growing frightened and worried. "I am not allowed to be out by myself after dark!"
"My mother will be so worried."
Farielle's smile fades and she looks down at her hands where they lay in her lap. In a low voice, she says, "Do you need one of the guards to go with you? I can ask... " Her mother - worrying - something splashes onto one of her hands, but she ignores it, saying, in a voice that she manages to keep from wobbling, "Thank you for coming."
"Yes, I would," replies Amestris with relief, looking to the lady's guard. "Though he should not take me to my door else my family will know I was here. Best I be safe in fact and accept punishment for seeming to have gone abroad unescorted."
The guard, listening more carefully then he seems, nods his head. "Aye, I'll find someone to take you, lass."
Amestris plucks her basket off the table and while she passes the bed, pauses to place a comforting hand upon the lady's shoulder. "Be strong, Lady. I will come when you call."
Farielle nods, but doesn't look up. Nor does she speak again, perhaps not trusting her voice. And when the other girl has gone, and the guard is outside and the door is shut, she gets up and goes over to the window, and stares unseeing out at the dark.
Her mother. What was her mother thinking? And Father. Farielle swallowed, blinking hard, but tears slipped down her cheeks despite her efforts. 'Oh, Mother,' she thought despairingly. 'I'm so sorry!'