Hello, dear reader, and welcome to my new story!

As stated in the summary, it's a prequel to "The Nettle and the Desert Rose", in the sense that it means to establish what really happened to Harun. Those of you who've read TNatDR may remember that upon their first encounter, Mehreen accuses Elladan of having killed her brother. This story aims to shed some light on Harun's fate, for those curious about whether there was some truth to Mehreen's accusation. Originally, this story was planned as part of TNatDR - woven into the main story, as it were - but following the wise counsel of my beta-reader, Alfirineth, I've decided to make it a standalone.

Alfirineth: without you, neither this story, nor TNatDR, wouldn't have existed as I know them. Thank so you much for your hard work, and the hours spent fighting me on plotholes and characterization!

Also, some of you might've noticed that the rating of this story is stronger than that of TNatDR (M instead of T). This is due to the adult themes explored in this story (never in detail, but they are very present nonetheless), such as violence of various nature and discrimination. This story also contains same-gender relationships (more specifically, how they are viewed in a realm such as Harad), so if this is something that bothers you, I'd strongly suggest not reading further.

This story isn't a romance, and it's rather short in comparison to TNatDR, but I've grown very fond of the main character, Anwar, and I'm told by a dear friend who's read this story and gave me some precious feedback, that she has, too.

Nurayy: thank you so much for your unwavering support!

Please keep in mind the following disclaimers:

- As usual, nothing you recognize from the Professor's works belongs to me.

- The beliefs described in this story, though constructed from real-life elements, are purely fictional, and no parallel with existing religions or cults should be sought. Also, the characters' views are just that: fiction, and do not reflect my own.


Chapter 1

January 5th, TA 3019

"The North is a savage place. It will kill you, I know it."

Djamila's hands trembled. The servant holding the henna paste-filled cone threw her mistress a worried glance, unsure whether to resume and pretend she hadn't noticed her dismay, or interrupt the process, and risk the Valide's wrath.

As on cue, Aaliyah's eyes narrowed, marring her pretty face with a frown that foreboded a decline of her beauty in the years to come, but she dared not speak up. Not in the presence of Anwar, her husband's firstborn son and the crown prince of Harad. Lounging on a bed of silken cushions upon a pedestal carried by four eunuchs, her pregnancy deemed too advanced for her to fatigue herself with walking, she waved an indolent hand. One of the young slaves standing by the wall came running with a cup of sweet wine and, though the girl herself was meant to remain unseen, Anwar could not help but notice the scars that disfigured the left side of her face.

Under different circumstances, the employment of such an ugly servant would have passed for an act of commendable charity, but Anwar knew better. Having supplanted wives older than herself, and successfully plotted their exile, Aaliyah had come to fear a similar fate.

An unsightly woman was unlikely to catch the Sultan's eye.

Kneeling before the low table Djamila was sitting cross-legged at, Anwar seized her hands in his, careful not to smear the intricate designs drawn upon her skin. "Fear not, little sister," he consoled her with a confidence he didn't feel, "I shall return in time to see you wed."

Thus doing, Anwar willed some of his own strength to seep into her, and help her survive Aaliyah's scheming in his absence. Though Djamila was no threat to Aaliyah's position or that of her unborn child, the other woman's jealousy knew no bounds. Anwar's father the Sultan was yet in the phase where he granted all of her whims and desires, but even Aaliyah wasn't foolish enough to think it would last. If her child was a girl, as it had been the case for the wives who had preceded her in his bed, she would be cast aside and forgotten. If she did bear the Sultan a son, however, then only Anwar himself would stand between the boy and the throne.

How convenient was the war at their doorstep, he thought wryly.

Djamila returned a wobbly smile. "Do you promise?"

"You shouldn't question a man's word," Aaliyah pontified from her pedestal, plucking a grape off a plate held by the young slave girl and stuffing it into her mouth. "Our prince said he would return. It should be enough for you to stop crying and let Fatima finish your hands. Otherwise, they won't be done in time for your meeting with your betrothed."

"And you," Anwar snapped, bristling at the use of the word 'our', "should know your place, instead of presuming of what my sister should and shouldn't do."

He regretted his outburst at once.

Aaliyah gasped, dropping the plate and grasping her bulging stomach with a dramatic wail. "My child," she bemoaned loudly, tears welling up in her eyes, "my little one, how poorly we are treated, you and I! How I fear for your life, in this hostile place. They are plotting your demise, threatened by the greatness you are destined for!" And cast a baleful glance in Anwar's direction as the eunuchs came running to carry her off.

No doubt to the Sultan himself, where she would fill his ears with complaints.

Anwar sighed, resisting the urge to rub his temples as the shrillness of her voice reverberated under the vault, dripping with falseness and malice. This had been a mistake, and one that would cost him dearly. His father, may the One bless him with many a long and healthy year of life, wouldn't easily be persuaded into forgiveness. Everyone in Harad knew how ardently he desired another son, and how devastated he'd been by the successive miscarriages of all new heirs to his throne. Some vile tongues went as far as to pretend that Anwar himself had orchestrated their deaths, fearing for his own safety.

The truth was, Anwar would've gladly given up the throne, had someone ever asked him for it.

Let them have the long hours spent in training in combat, so as to be able to thwart an assassin's attempt to his life, and to lead his men – his brothers-in-arms – into battles of his father's choosing. Let them have the nights spent awake in waiting of said assassins, when he had still been young enough to fear they would come. The long afternoons in the stuffy hotness of the Council Hall, listening to old men rave about victories won well before their time, and preach about laws that slighted those Anwar loved most.

Those like Djamila.

And Sayf.

As Aaliyah's cries died in the palace depths, Anwar gave her sister's hands an apologetic squeeze. They shared a sad but knowing smile, aware that Anwar's temper would have consequences for them both, yet Djamila's expression was that of gratitude.

Born of the same mother – the Sultan's first wife – they had long remained his only offspring, the stillbirth of another child having robbed their mother of the chance of giving her husband another son or daughter. Yet the Sultan loved his wife. For long years, and against his advisers' wishes, he'd refused to take another, and so Anwar and Djamila had grown as the only children in the harem, as close as a brother and sister could ever hope to be, sharing their games and their dreams, unaware of their good fortune.

When Anwar had turned eleven, a war had erupted with Near Harad and the Sultan had discovered, for the very first time, a fear he hadn't known until then: that of losing his life and that of his only son, his heritage scattered by the desert winds, his name to be forgotten by the generations to come. And if his love for his wife had prevented him from seeking an heir from another woman, vanity had vanquished that resistance. Before Anwar had celebrated another year, his father had brought a second wife into the harem, breaking their mother's heart. As the months went by she'd started to fade, her long, wavy hair – which Djamila had inherited – hanging lank and dirty around her gaunt face, the eyes that were once filled with laughter and love for her children now sad and lifeless. No longer did her arms rise to embrace them; before the year was out, she had passed away from sorrow, her death eclipsed by the birth of Anwar and Djamila's sister.

And while Anwar didn't blame the child, he'd never forgiven the Sultan for abandoning her.

Now it was Djamila who was about to be married off to a man of whom Anwar knew next to nothing about, save for the wealth of his father. Sheikh Dawoud was rich, enough so to tempt the Sultan into an alliance that would help finance a military campaign as costly in gold as it was promising to be in men.

"Have you met him? This Harun?" Djamila softly asked as he rose from the floor to step onto the balcony that overlooked the city, yearning for the wind to cool down his anger lest he ruined the rest of her day. In the breeze that blew from the East, carrying the sands of the desert, the streets appeared hazy, their winding contours uncertain. "I am told he is a man of great valor, but…." He felt her presence beside him before even she came to rest her forearms upon the balustrade, her dark eyes wistful. "Am I wrong to fear that valor may not equal to kindness?"

The henna paste was already drying on the smooth skin of her wrists, the scent of eucalyptus oil used for the preparation reaching his nostrils. The same flowers had adorned Aaliyah's hands and feet, less than a year ago, when their father had taken her as a wife before the eyes of his people. The entire city had lit up with fireworks, the sound of music filling the streets for an entire month. Djamila's own wedding was hastened by the upcoming war; yet another slight, Anwar thought: to deprive her of the joy of a proper celebration for the sake of a man's pride.

Tradition demanded that the seven days of the wedding be performed sequentially, and the bride be treated like a queen. Gifts were exchanged, and unpacked in a flurry of cheers and congratulations from the women of her life; a hammam ceremony took place to enhance the bride's beauty, before the henna and the harkous were performed. Yet the palace stood empty and silent, as though unaware of the wedding taking place within its walls. No women's whoops of joy broke the stillness of the halls, no darbuka thudded under their fingers to lend rhythm to their dances. What gifts Djamila had received had been promptly stored away into chests, to be sent to her husband's home once he returned from the war.

"I would never let you marry a man who wouldn't treat you in the way you deserve."

A measure of equality would've been desirable under such a description, but Anwar knew it was unlikely to be found in a royal match. As a woman, kindness was all that Djamila could hope for. Had she been a man, she could've chosen to spend her life doing what she loved most without anyone objecting against it: painting and music, the mildness of her temper easily sated by such simple, harmless pastimes. Yet the same world that prided itself with its poets and singers, paying out their weight in gold to perform before Sultans and Emirs, quelled such talents in its daughters and sisters – unless, of course, they were used for the pleasure of a man.

Sayf had possessed a similar disposition.

A sudden grief gripped Anwar's heart with an iron fist, stealing his breath away before it moved to twist his guts into a burning knot. It'd been a year already, and still he hadn't discovered what'd happened, grasping at shadows and half-truths left unsaid, as the same world that denied his sister the right to choose her life still refused to accept the existence of people like Sayf…and himself. Anwar still carried the hollowness of that day, unable to fill the void Sayf had left; the loss and, above all, the utter incomprehension of his gesture.

A light pressure upon his armored arm brought him back to the present. Djamila had laid her small hand over the gilded vambrace, yearning to return the comfort he'd given her yet unable to convey her compassion through the unyielding steel.

"You're thinking about him, aren't you?" Reaching out, she smoothed his hair in a tender gesture similar to their mother's, her full lips curving into a sad smile for the second time that day.

Anwar shook his head. "Forgive me. For everything." Resisting the urge to lean into her hand like the boy that he once was, he brought her hand to his lips, lightly kissing the painted knuckles. "I didn't mean to spoil this for you…."

He gestured to the apartments behind them, where the servant patiently knelt upon the carpets, waiting for Djamila to return. The tables laden with sweets attracted flies, their contents melting in the evening heat. Sweet wines grew warm, and the fingers of the players heavy upon the chords of their ouds.

"Oh, stop it. I'm glad you came." Wrapping her arms around her, Djamila turned to watch the horizon, the blue of the sea set aflame by the setting sun. "I just wish to someday be loved the way you loved him."

"And you shall be," Anwar vowed, his fist clenched in resolution, "you shall be. This Harun better be a man of honor, or I swear by the One I won't let him near you."

Djamila nodded, her gaze still wandering in the distance. "I know you mean it."

"Of course I do! I won't let anything happen to you, I promise."

"That's another promise you won't keep." He opened his mouth to protest, but she turned to face him, her shoulders squared and all trace of merriment gone from her face. "I'm no longer a child, Anwar. I know what war means. And I know my duty," Djamila added, her voice trembling, "as you do yours. I harbor no illusions, either. My life will be no different from our mother…and she was lucky. Our father truly loved her, if only for a while."

My duty is to protect you, Anwar wanted to say. He grasped her by the arms, intending to do just that, but she clung to him with sudden urgency, her beautiful eyes wide with worry. "Promise me you'll stay safe. I'll bear anything if I know you're still alive, somewhere, and that someday I may see you again."

"You will see me again, dear sister. This I promise you, and swear it on my love for Sayf."

"Don't…." she started, alarmed by the intensity of his pledge, but Anwar cut her off.

"No, listen. Even if I won't be here for your first encounter, and even if I have to crawl my way back from Gondor, I'll be there to lead you to Harun myself when the time comes."

In the courtyard below, his men milled about, sweating under their armor, their steeds prancing with impatience. Anwar had bid his generals to wait; none had questioned his decision. All knew that before nightfall, they would have travelled deep into the desert, heading for an oasis owned by one of the Sultan's Emirs, and where Harun and his men would join them in the morrow. His men were waiting, and so did the Emir; strong, powerful men, yet little did they know they were awaiting a woman's goodwill.

As his sister finally sighed in relief, resting her forehead against his breastplate, Anwar lay a gentle kiss upon her ebony hair. "He's not yet born, the man who can stop me from coming back home."


A.N.: the marriage steps in this chapter are inspired by a traditional Tunisian wedding. The 'harkous' corresponds to the 5th day, in which the bride is pampered and exfoliated using a sugar scrub. A 'darbuka' is a traditional type of drum used during the wedding (for instance, on the bride's way to the hammam).