Chapter 2

"In front of my mother and my sisters,

I pretend love is cheap and vulgar.

I act like it's a sin–

I pretend that love is for women on a dark path.

But at night I dream of a love so heavy it makes my spine throb.–

I dream up a lover who makes love like he is separating salt from water."

Salma Deera

oOoOoOo

May 13th, TA 3020

As far as she could remember, Mehreen had always known she wasn't her own person, but someone else's. It wasn't something she'd been taught – not explicitly, anyway – but rather impressed upon her and her sisters ever since she was old enough to understand what her position entitled. As someone else's possession, she was to be protected, kept hidden so as to avoid the concupiscence of those who didn't own such women in their harem, and may be tempted to steal one.

When she was still a little girl, Mehreen had wondered what anyone could possibly want with someone else's daughter. After all, she couldn't dance as prettily as Gamila, nor could she recite Haradric poetry like Hanaa. Her brothers did possess some enviable skills, such as climbing up the trees that grew inside the gardens to fetch fruit whenever they felt like it; why did no-one ever bother to steal them?

"Always with the questions," Lalla Zahra had once complained in a mutter.

She was Father's younger sister; the circumstances of her arrival into the harem had long remained a mystery for Mehreen, along with the barely veiled contempt that the older woman had to endure from her brother's wives. Still, it had fallen upon her to instruct the girls in the customs of Harad and its history, lessons which were inevitably interrupted by one Mehreen and her insatiable curiosity. Lalla Zahra hadn't been consoled in the least to discover she wasn't the only one whose teachings failed to find a proper place inside Mehreen's mind, as though it'd been a magnificent shelf built by someone who'd failed to read the plans beforehand: too short or too narrow to hold the books it'd been intended for, so that they either didn't fit in, or tumbled out at the first given chance.

"More decorative than useful," Lalla Laila had once sneered under her breath. The comment, spoken in a corridor renowned for its echo, had been intended for Mehreen to overhear. It had stuck with her, along with Lalla Zahra's exasperation, so that the questions had grown more scarce over the years while the shelf remained half-empty.

A pretty piece of furniture, which presently belonged to Mehreen's father.

But not for long.

Perhaps would Lalla Zahra have found a form of vindication in Mehreen's current predicament, but she'd died from a fever years ago. At times, Mehreen almost missed her: the subdued sadness in her eyes as she tried to make herself useful by teaching someone else's children after having failed to produce her own, the unassuming softness of her voice. Her husband had sent her back to her brother, Mehreen had learnt a year after Zahra's arrival to the harem, loath to encumber his home with a vase he could not fill. At the time, Mehreen had mused that if Zahra had been as dull a company as she was a teacher, no wonder her husband had grown tired of her.

Now she understood, but it was too late to apologize.

"You must content them…if you can."

Mehreen startled at the sound of Tareq's voice, abruptly summoned back into the present. Tearing away from her contemplation of the bustling port that lay outside the salt-encrusted window, she saw that he, too, was watching the city, his stance as rigid as his voice was cold, the fingers of his right hand wrapped around his left wrist behind his back. Tareq glanced over his shoulder, making certain she was listening, before he spoke again: "Never give them a reason to hurt you…or they'll kill you, as they killed our brother."

More warning than prayer, his words stressed the unspoken ramifications of her possible failure. Not that she'd live to see them; those who had slaughtered her father's firstborn wouldn't spare a woman, like a spoiled child breaking a new toy within hours of its unpacking.

"I'll make our father proud," Mehreen murmured, and turned back towards the view, huddling deeper into the comfort of the bay window.

Had Lalla Nafiyah still lived, she could've discouraged her son – Mehreen's father – from such a poor choice, but Lalla Nafiyah was dead as well, and none other than Lalla Laila had risen to the rank of Mother. It had been Laila who'd pleaded with her husband to grant Mehreen the honor of being chosen. An onlooker would've thought Mother Laila truly cared about her, but Mehreen held no such illusions.

Gamila had been married off but a month ago; a rare celebration in times of war, for the men in age to marry had grown scarce and the women with daughters old enough to be chosen, desperate. Even the crown prince, Anwar, had gone to lead his people into battle, never to return. With Gamila gone, Mehreen had stood next in line for a viable offer and Laila's move, motivated by a mother's love for her only daughter, was as expected as it was implacable.

A man's decision, guided by a woman's hand.

And why not? After all, the war itself was said to be a woman's fault. Had Galadriel not led Celebrimbor astray, planting the seeds of rebellion into his heart, along with the desire she inspired in him?

If not for her, if not for Lalla Laila, Mehreen never would've left the safety of her father's home before she was duly married. In the twenty springs of her life, she'd but seldom set foot outside of the palace and despite the prickly alliances, the rumors and the petty squabbles, the harem had been a sheltered place, filled with as much love and friendship as there was resentment. Now she was thousands of miles away, in a land as strange and dangerous as a scorpion's lair.

Pelargir.

Such was the name of the harbor the Maryam had docked in. The baghlah was a long, two-mast ship that belonged to her family, with an ornate prow curling upwards in the form of a spiral, and luxurious living quarters at the stern. It was the biggest ship Mehreen had ever seen, the apple of her father's eye and yet, as she craned her neck to look outside the bow window she now sat at, the shadows of larger brigs and galleys dwarfed it.

It would've been tactless to state it, however, so Mehreen held her tongue.

A few paces away, separated from the baghlah's living quarters by a stretch of foaming sea water lay the quay which, to Mehreen's surprise, was bustling with life despite the late morning. In Jufayrah, the heat of the desert engulfed the city well before noon, growing unbearable until the sun set beyond the tall, slender towers and bulb-like domes of the temples. The squares and plazas grew empty of crowd, businesses and trades held in the twilight of alcoves and narrow, shady streets screened by brightly dyed fabrics.

Adding to Mehreen's chagrin, Pelargir possessed none of the vividness of her home city. Instead of turquoise, saffron and cobalt, the colors were dark, muted; no doubt a consequence of this war she'd heard both so much and so little about. The predominant color was a drab grey, with touches of brown and cream here and there, in the cooks' aprons and the bared forearms of boys helping load and unload the goods. Sailors, servants and merchants hurried to and fro, carrying crates, barrels and baskets filled with produce. A scrawny, black cat wound between their feet, no doubt seeking to trip some unsuspecting help and run off with a sardine.

Mehreen giggled at the image then abruptly stilled, expecting Tareq's condemnation for the oddness of her glee; but Ahlam's hacking cough, as loud as it was unexpected from the otherwise discreet woman, covered the sound. Both she and Tareq turned to look at the maid, who lowered her head in apology, hiding her face as she busied herself with the packing of a large, gold-rimmed chest.

Mehreen could've sworn she'd seen the older woman smile.

"You must forgive Ahlam, brother," she exclaimed as his nostrils flared in indignation, "the air is humid in here, and I feel bothered myself." Thus speaking, she fanned herself with a hand, relieved to see her brother's stern demeanor soften, his anger steered away from Ahlam. "How much longer are we to wait?"

"You'll wait for as long as I see fit," came the sudden, terse reply. "I'm waiting for the Captain to return with men to take you and your household towards Minas Tirith." Tareq studied her over his shoulder, his fingers drumming a slowing rhythm over his wrist. One-two-three-one-two-three…. "It is a fortnight's journey, but I suppose I shouldn't expect you to remember such things."

Tearing her gaze from the crowd, Mehreen offered her brother a demure look as the fog of her breath waned upon the glass.

"You are so very wise to have thought of that."

How much of Lalla Zahra was in her now, in the well-practiced obedience and the acceptance of her fate? She was no longer a shelf; she was a mare, long-legged and well-trained, being led over thousands of miles towards her new master; and no more than a horse could imagine to speak up for itself did Mehreen think of protesting. At least, there was a purpose to her life, unless she, too, failed to fulfill it; Mehreen refused to think about what would happen if she did. The fate of her family now rested upon her shoulders, its weight omnipresent even when she slipped in and out of her dreams, like a coverlet too heavy for the season, one that made her break out in sweat in the middle of the night.

Her eyes wandered back ashore, where a flock of washerwomen marched onto the quay, their headscarves a splash of life in the milling crowd. One of them threw her head back and laughed at something another had said, unabashed by the stares of the men around her, the bared skin of her cleavage gleaming like ivory in the sunlight. Behind her window Mehreen blanched, her fingers entwined to tightly that her knuckles grew as pale as the foam below.

What were they thinking, flaunting their charms so impudently?

No sensible man would ever allow his womenfolk to roam unprotected, if only from the sight of others, which could only mean that the unfortunate souls had been left to find their way in life without a proper guidance. Mehreen's gaze flew to the men around them, searching for the moment one of them would drop whatever he was doing to take one of the women for his own.

Nothing happened.

Carpenters kept on planing the railing of a nearby galley; sailors boarded their ships, blacksmiths hammered on their anvils in general indifference.

How could that be…?

"…you should."

"What?"

Bewildered, Mehreen snapped back to the dimness of the cabin in time to see Tareq's lips purse in annoyance. One-two-three-one-two-three…. The rolling of his fingers left pale marks upon his skin. For a moment, Mehreen wondered whether he'd seen the women as well; yet if Tareq had noticed anything at all beyond the look of guilt on Mehreen's face, he seemed determined not to show it.

"Have you been listening to anything I've said?" He heaved a long-suffering sigh, stilling his nervous hand with a squeeze. "Of course not. For once in your life, could you not pay attention? Our family is depending on you and here you are, daydreaming. Has the One stuffed your brains with clouds?"

A woman's words on a man's lips. Tareq truly was his mother's son.

"I'm sorry. I won't let it happen again."

Thus speaking, Mehreen cast one last, worried look towards the window where the washerwomen blended into the crowd, unharmed. The sun glanced off the water, glinting on belt buckles, sword hilts and the golden tresses of one of the women, which had slipped from under her coif. Mehreen's heart jumped to her throat as she pressed her hands against the windowpane, her nose brushing against the glass, but the woman was gone before she could see her face.

"Do you still remember your speech?" Tareq's tone betrayed his expectations of the opposite.

Mehreen reached into her pocket, to the folded piece of parchment holding words of gratitude and obedience towards the King of Gondor she couldn't trust herself to memorize. "Of…of course I do." The small square was warm under her touch, well-worn through countless verifications in moments of terror where she thought she'd lost it. Her fingers rubbed against the surface as Mehreen willed the contents to seep into her mind…and stay there.

"Good." He didn't believe her. "Try not to forget it, then, in the fortnight to come."

A fortnight…so soon! And then she'd be in Minas Tirith, and then….

Mehreen swallowed.

Minas Tirith wasthe capital of Gondor; therein lie the entirety of her knowledge about her future home; if given some time, perhaps could she be compelled to recall a stream or a peak. A fine wife she was making, ignorant of all about her new country and people but their name! Lalla Zahra would have torn out her hair in shame, having failed her brother once more.

Mehreen fingered the square of parchment under the folds of her trousers, running the flesh of her thumb over one soft, rounded corner. The sensation grounded her, anchored her in the present, and the sudden desire to become more than she – and everyone around her – had ever thought she could be. There was still time to learn; a fortnight could well be an eternity for everything that could happen in such a span. Harun had lost his life in less than a day. A fortnight was a life well lived in comparison.

A rap on the door of the cabin pulled Mahreen back to the present. Tareq moved to shield her from the view of whoever was standing behind it as she hurriedly drew her veil across her face. "Who is it?" he called out, a hand on the scimitar at his waist.

"'Tis Naeem, my Lord." Mahreen recognized the voice of the Maryam's Captain. "I've hired four strong men to carry your sister up North."

"Good." Tareq turned towards Ahlam, who swiftly resumed the packing under his scrutiny, folding Mehreen's tunics and trousers and wrapping them in muslin with strands of lavender in between. "Hurry up," he snapped, "and then leave us."

"But, my Lord…." Ahlam darted a worried glance towards Mehreen, who shook her head so faintly that the sequins that lined the veil shivered without so much as a chime.

"Go!"

The maid curtsied. Her nimble, capable hands lay the last of her mistress' things into the chest and closed it. When the door shut behind her, Tareq unclenched his grip on his wrist and sank into a nest of brightly-colored cushions on a nearby sofa. In the light that filtered through the window, Mehreen saw that his brow glistened with sweat. Her first thought was that the never-ending pitching of the ship had troubled his stomach, despite the fact she'd seen him endure the journey from Jufayrah without so much as a bout of sickness.

"Brother? Are you unwell?"

Tareq wove his fingers together in front of him – his hands were rarely free, as Mehreen knew by now – and rested his forehead against his knuckles.

"Shall I call Ahlam back in? I can ask her where the potion for sea-sickness is, I know Malika had prepared a few…." Rattled by such an unheralded display of weakness, Mehreen rose from her seat. "Or perhaps I can find it myself. It must be in here, somewhere…." She was babbling like an old woman, but anything was better than the heavy silence that seemed to have slithered into the cabin when Ahlam had left.

Anything to keep the bad news at bay.

Lifting the lid of the chest that stood closest to her with trembling hands, she was dismayed by the sight of countless layers of shimmering cloth.

"I will accompany you until the city comes in sight," Tareq said, "but no further."

"I know I can find it," Mehreen croaked. The heavy lid slipped from her grasp, slamming shut on the hem of her caftan.

"Have you heard what I said?"

"In here, perhaps…." She lunged forward, towards the chest that stood in the corner, deaf to the sound of tearing fabric.

"Mehreen!"

She froze. The sofa swam before her eyes, the cushions like blots of pigment spreading on wet parchment.

He was going to abandon her. Just like her mother, and Lalla Nafiyah, and her father as well.

"Cover yourself." Tareq stood, frowning, his mouth curved into a grimace of distaste; his hands had found themselves behind his back once more, pulling his shoulders backwards and his chin up high. "What did I tell you? You mustn't disgrace our family."

Mehreen shivered as she pulled the caftan closed around her, the torn hem trailing in her wake, tickling her ankle. "Forgive me, brother." Out of sheer memory, her legs found their way back to the seat beside the window before giving up. Mehreen reached beneath her veil to wipe her cheeks, glancing once more towards the crowdy quays. The crowd milled about, all to their daily chores and purposes, but not one soul looked up to meet her gaze.

"You understand why I'm doing this, don't you?" While his voice had mellowed at the sight of her tears, Tareq made no move to comfort her. When Mehreen didn't answer, he continued: "These people…they are not like us. They killed Harun –" Tareq swallowed at the mention of their older brother – "and even our father, in his great wisdom, has managed to escape but narrowly. I fear to imagine what they'd do to me, should they find out who I am."

And what will they do to me?

Tareq's voice was so condescending, so alike Lalla Laila's that she fought the urge to scream. Instead, Mehreen took a moment to smooth out the wrinkles on her trousers, finding some dignity in this simple occupation, before raising her eyes to take a long, hard look at her brother.

This could well be the last she ever saw of him. Was it this realization that brought a sudden clarity to her gaze?

Now that Harun was dead, Tareq was next in line for her father's succession. Standing before her in his jacket of purple damask, richly embroidered in golden thread, he embodied the kind of man Mehreen would've married, one day, had her father not decided otherwise. Only the crude light cast by a foreign sun betrayed the dark patches of sweat on his collar and under his arms, and the disheveled state of his hair, pulled into a sloppy ponytail at the base of his neck.

Her brother was terrified.

"Our father needs me, you must understand that. I can't…I must…." His tone had grown plaintive under her stare, like the boy he had once been, quick to run and hide in his mother's skirts as Mehreen suddenly remembered. Even now he fled, retreating towards the door, unable to meet her eyes. "It's important that I stay safe, surely you see that!"

The unfairness of it all hit Mehreen like a sandstorm, invisible grains prickling her eyes like the small yet countless slights she'd endured throughout her lifetime. How convenient it must be to be a man, to go where one pleased, and shirk one's duty if one so chose while she labored under expectations of perfection.

"Am I not important as well?"

"Oh, little sister…." Tareq murmured as he lay an eager hand upon the handle. "You are the most important of us all, and the only reason our father is still alive." He dove into the doorway, a stooped silhouette in shiny garb. "After all, a daughter is the greatest treasure a man can own."

A.N.: A few terms in this chapter explained:

- "Lalla" = honorific title for a woman of the household, approximately meaning "lady",

- Inside the harem, the Mother (of the Believers) was mother of the harem owner, or his first wife at the death of his mother. In the Ottoman harem, this would be the equivalent of the 'Valide'.