So. The previous chapters have been kind of building up to this one, and let me tell you, it's not all sunshine and puppies. In fact, a warning is due about descriptions of physical (including sexual) violence in this chapter (nothing graphic, but very disturbing no less), and swearing.

I'm not fond of writing such content, far from it actually. But I also believe some things must be shown and not told, as a warning of what happens when people look the other way. If this is something that you'd rather avoid, then please skip to the end of the chapter for a summary that will allow you to understand the next chapter.

Chapter 4

March 3rd, TA 3019

Amir had been running…and he never ran without a reason.

Older than Anwar, more seasoned and jaded, he hadn't run even when the infamous Zor tribe had ambushed them in the outskirts of Washaiqir, intending to slay the prince's escort and capture him for ransom. "I refuse to die while sweating like a pig," he'd told Anwar, unsheathing his blade to stand the enemy down, regardless of their number. It'd been his composure that had bolstered a then-young Anwar's courage, providing him with the calm needed to gather his wits and organize their defense.

Now, at the sight of the beads of sweat staining the edge of Amir's turban, Anwar could not help but hate the man who'd caused him to forsake his dignity.

"My Prince," the general panted as soon as he stepped into the tent, "it's Rahim. He's…." He shook his head.

Anwar's heart sank. Rahim was a sweet boy, as ill-fitted for the army as his father, a nobleman with too much ambition, was for his post, so wide was the renown of his corruption. Seeing there a chance to rise in the Sultan's eyes, he'd pushed his son onto Anwar who, for fear of what'd happen to Rahim should anyone else – anyone with less compassion for his unfortunate meekness – treat him like one of the more hardened soldiers, had taken him under his wing.

Or that's what he'd kept telling himself, anyway.

The truth was that Rahim, with his doe eyes and his slender build, reminded him too much of Sayf; a pain and a comfort both, though the boy was too young for Anwar to bear him any real interest. He did play the oud exquisitely, however, his long, delicate fingers better suited for music than for murder and thus Anwar had taken the habit of having Rahim entertain his evenings, the soft tunes soothing his mind after the troubles of the day.

Dismissing his generals with a curt nod, Anwar lunged after Amir, their boots raising clouds of dust as soon as they stepped off the carpets leading to the entrance of his tent.

The men readily parted before them. Their faces were solemn, unsurprised, and Anwar understood that everyone save him already knew what'd happened. Amir led him to the waterhole that'd been dug on the outskirts of the camp, and where the men took turns in washing according to their battalion. If the rest of the plain was as barren as top of Sheikh Dawoud's head, here the bushes grew low and puny, stunted by the rarity of water in the soil. Someone's forgotten sash still clung to their gnarly branches, a garish red against the muted browns of the surroundings. As they stepped closer, it dawned upon Anwar that it wasn't a sash at all.

It was Rahim's arm, bloodstained and limp, caught upon the bush when his body had been thrown into the hole like a piece of meat for the dogs.

"What happened?" Anwar demanded, his voice terse with the effort of hiding his grief. It was best the men deemed him unfeeling rather than soft, though it cost him not to weep at the sight of such savagery.

Poor child.

Rahim was sprawled on his stomach, naked, his face immersed in water; there was something languorous about his position, and Anwar's stomach lurched with the realization that the boy been lured here under some false pretense before falling victim to hatred or lust. The long, velvety curls Rahim had so carefully maintained now floated around his head, their contour blurred by the blood that seeped from his many wounds. His arms and legs bore the sighs of restraint, his ribs black with bruises.

Turning around, Anwar stared down the men, his fists clenched in repressed fury. "Who did this?"

The crowd stood silent, growing ever denser as men stepped out of their tent to investigate the commotion despite the merciless sun that beat down upon the plain. Some of the soldiers found the decency to lower their eyes, others stared at Anwar like a curiosity, feasting on his powerlessness and rage. Many hadn't seen a prince before and cared little about the boy who'd been slaughtered before their eyes as long as they got a chance to steal a glance of their future Sultan.

"I demand to know who did this." He nodded at Amir, who was crouching beside the body. "Turn him around."

And regretted his order as Amir obeyed, for the sight of Rahim's ravaged face would haunt him for the rest of his days.

"I will have him lashed for this," Anwar vowed under his breath. "I shall have you all lashed," he called out once more, his voice rising, "down to every footman, I swear so by the One. I shall strip the skin off your backs with my own hands if I don't get the name of the one who did his."

No-one spoke.

Impossible.

Anwar staggered under the blow of their collective silence, the impassiveness of the men's stares – his men! – an insult to his rank and Rahim's memory. How many times had they fought alongside one another, protecting Anwar's life and he, theirs? How many times had they listened to the boy sing 'the Black Eyes of Jezah', their eyes wistful with thoughts of their wives? Now they faced him as strangers; even Salman, who'd used to ruffle Rahim's hair as though he'd been his own son, and even Bilal, who'd taught him to wield a spear, laughing at the boy's sluggishness. Anwar gaped at them, beseeching what remained of their humanity to remember Rahim as one of their own, and grant him the justice he deserved.

Some paces away, a man whose face Anwar didn't recognize spat onto the ground, shuffling on his feet in barely disguised boredom.

I own you.

"Amir?" Anwar croaked out in disbelief, his heart gripped with doubt.

"I'm with you, my Prince," his general said sadly, "but I fear the culprit to be some bandit from the desert. He must've fled a long time ago."

He was lying.

Amir, the man who Anwar had come to look up to like a second father, was lying through clenched teeth, sweating like a pig in fear for his prince's life.

"I see," Anwar whispered, drenched in the same, cold sweat.

I own you.

Everywhere he turned, he found Harun's words on the verge of their lips and Dawoud's gold in their pockets, along with the disdain for Rahim's effeminate ways and Anwar's own nature.

Rahim, forgive me.

He'd promised Djamila to stay alive. There was no saving the boy, no more than Anwar could turn back time and kneel before Sayf to implore his pardon for his present cowardice, but his sister needed him, now more than ever.

"Bury him, at least?" he pleaded as they made their way back through the camp, his men's bought contempt a blanket of silence around the one whom Anwar now knew without a doubt to be guilty of Rahim's murder.

Harun.

"I will, my Prince. You should return to your tent. It isn't safe, out here."

Anwar didn't have the heart to ask him how much Sheikh Dawoud had offered for his loyalty, nor whether Amir had accepted. He too had mouths to feed, and a lifetime of scars earned on a soldier's pay – the Sultan's gratitude had its limits, after all.

Anwar was alone.

oOoOoOo

"I bet he squealed like a woman."

Harun's dark eyes glimmered with malice over the rim of his cup, boring into Anwar who sat cross-legged in front of the low table, fighting the urge to smash Harun's teeth into its sharp, gilded edge.

Servants came and went, carrying silver trays laden with stuffed meats, the scent of which rivaled those served at the Sultan's table – a feat in itself, and even moreso here, in the middle of the desert. Seemingly oblivious of the tension between his son and his guest, Sheikh Dawoud helped himself to every dish; grease ran down his fingers and he licked it off his rings, smacking his lips in delight.

"My dear Prince, you must help yourself to the dolma. It's otherworldly."

His paunch pressed against his crossed legs so that he sat supported by two young, veiled women – his cousins, as he claimed – lest he rolled backwards.

"Thank you, Sheikh, but I fear I've lost my appetite."

In truth, Anwar had had little choice but to accept the invitation, each day more a prisoner in his tent than before – a comfortable, golden cage. Even Amir, who haunted his steps with a face as long as a breadless day, was starting to resemble more a gaoler than a bodyguard. He now stood by the door, along with the Sheikh's own men, all armed to the teeth while Anwar himself had been made to strip himself of his weapons, down to the throwing blades he carried inside his boots.

Harun sneered. "Lost it in some murky puddle, I wager."

"Now now, my son. Let's not speak of such things over such a succulent meal." Waving a glistening hand in the air, the Sheikh summoned a servant who filled their goblets with wine. "A tragic fate, truly. I heard the boy was one of your proteges?"

"His name was Rahim," Anwar ground out through clenched teeth. "And there's nothing tragic about his death. He was killed," he insisted, his hand moving to his belt out of its own volition before Anwar remembered he was unarmed, "and when I find the murderer…."

"Yes, yes. If he was, indeed, murdered. You'll have to concur, Prince, that such things can happen even to those we less expect to act in despair. What was the name of that boy who died in your father's palace, a few years ago?"

"Sayf," Anwar heard himself say from a distance, the rush of blood filling his ears.

Oh, Sayf.

Had he known that final moment together would truly be their last, Anwar would've held his beloved and never let go. He would've found the courage to forsake his status, even if it meant facing his father's wrath, instead of parting on words of anger.

"I heard he hung himself," Dawoud shrugged before biting into yet another slice; the juices ran down his many chins and between his sagging breasts, seeping into the saffron-hued muslin of his tunic. "Maybe this…Rahim also ended his own existence."

"Or maybe someone helped him," Anwar snarled, darting a venomous glance at Harun. His heart pounded against his ribcage at the sight of his smirk and, throwing all caution to the wind, Anwar added: "Just as you'll help me before this war is over. Tell me, Sheikh, how is it that you're planning to do it? Have me fall of my horse –" he held up his cup before taking a long, ostentatious swig, "– or poison my wine?"

A discordant twang sounded as the Khandi slave playing the harp in a corner of the tent startled at his words.

"My Prince! Such accusations! You offend me." His jowls wobbling in poorly faked outrage, Dawoud shook his head. "Why would I do that? You are my liege, and by soon-to-be son by alliance."

Simmering in his ire, Anwar clenched his fists. "If you think I'll let Djamila marry this monster…."

Harun guffawed – a slow, deliberate sound, laden with hatred and madness; a sound that he seemed to savor as much as his drink, stopping just as abruptly to narrow his eyes back at Anwar. "You already have."

Sheikh Dawoud, in the meantime, heaved a sorrowful sigh. "This monster, as you say, is your future brother, and you would do well to remember it." Wiping his hands upon a napkin of fine silk, he motioned for the slaves to bring in the sweets and remove the untouched plate in front of Anwar. "Besides, if this was truly what I wanted, dear Prince, you would've died a long time ago, before you'd even stepped out of your father's palace." As a servant girl presented him with a platter of dates, he took his time choosing a few while she quivered under the weight of Harun's stare, the bruises on her wrist almost indistinguishable against the darkness of her skin. "Or did you think my hand only reached outside of Jufayrah?"

Seized by a terror of unprecedented depths, Anwar froze.

Djamila.

"What is it that you want?" he hissed, shaking with cold under the heavy brocade of his kaftan.

"Nothing more than you and your father have already promised. I'm a man of my word, Prince Anwar, as I know you are as well. My gold in exchange for an alliance, no more, no less." Sheikh Dawoud popped another date into his mouth, chewing on it noisily before spitting the kernel into his palm. "An alliance that you will give your blessing to, in public –", he raised a pudgy finger to illustrate the importance of that particular point – "so that when our beloved Sultan is no longer, you won't be as tempted to rescind it."

"Unless I kill you first."

"And how exactly do you intend to do that?"

Looking around in mock wonder, Sheikh Dawoud paused, as though waiting to a rescue team to barge in. When nothing happened he nodded, satisfied, and opened his arms. "I suppose I should thank you, Prince Anwar. I'd underestimated you, and you showed me just how much when you last threatened me, back in your tent. But it's nothing that some gold cannot solve, and you know what? I think things should turn out for the best for all involved."

"Tell that to Rahim," Anwar shot back, smoldering with resentment.

He'd been a fool – an arrogant, overconfident fool, relying on his men's supposed sense of duty rather than the bitter truth of human nature. Had Man been virtuous, none of them would be here in the first place, in a One-forsaken, scorched wasteland, eating dates with the devil himself.

"Unfortunate, very unfortunate." Casting a pointed look towards Harun, who scowled, Sheikh Dawoud stifled a belch. "Now, you must forgive me. All this…ingratitude is upsetting my stomach."

He rose with the help of his 'cousins', each woman buckling under her part of his bulk, and shuffled towards the drapes that marked the entrance of his quarters. Soon the rumble of a flatulence reached Anwar's ears, and the stench followed shortly after.

Not bothering to hide his disgust any longer, Anwar turned to face Harun once more. "A real man, this makes you," he sneered. "Living off your father's money…." Two could play that game – a game that Harun had started, and that Anwar was intending to finish. He balled his fists under the table, relishing the twitch that contorted Harun's left cheek. "Killing little boys…."

Harun lunged forward, slamming his hands against the tabletop that groaned under his weight. His breath stank of liquor. "That whore," he snarled in a spray of saliva, uncaring of his father's men who'd stepped forward, their weapons at the ready, "he asked for it."

It seemed that Dawoud didn't love his son as much as he loved the thought of marrying into the royal family, Anwar noted dimly. If given the chance, this could well turn play out in his favor.

"You should've seen the way he looked at us. Like he wanted us to take him…" Harun continued, his teeth bared in a grimace of pure loathing, "…like a wench." He leaned forward; his eyes widened, voice dropping to an excited whisper. "So we did. Just like for that other sow, back in the palace."

Sayf.

The scriptures said that the One's land was a cold, barren place, with peaks as sharp and jagged as razors and, in its heart, a mountain spewing tears of molten rock. At that moment, no blade could've compared to the one that pierced Anwar's chest, the rage that flowed in his veins scorching him from within. He gasped for breath, stabbed by a burst of pure, primal pain such that he wished he would die.

Only one thought survived the agony – the wish to inflict such suffering in return.

"You!" Anwar leapt to his feet and seized Harun by the front of his tunic. "It was you! You killed him!"

Hearkening to the chant for vengeance embedded within his pulse: Sayf, Sayf, Sayf…, Anwar unleashed his fury. His fist collided with the side of Harun's face with a resounding crack. Harun toppled backwards, arms flaying to catch himself, and landed atop the table in a crunching of wood and broken glass. As he lay there, sprawled out in a widening pool of alcohol, tainted red by the blood that seeped from his cuts, Harun started to laugh.

"You should've heard him scream your name…. Just like your sister's going to, when I possess her."

"I'll be dead before I let it happen!"

Anwar grasped a shard of glass, uncaring about the sting inside his palm nor the hot wetness of his own blood running down his wrist.

"No, my Prince!"

Someone wrestled his arm backwards, prying his fingers open as another pair of arms hauled him away from Harun. Anwar screamed and struggled, landing another blow before both his arms had been pulled behind his back. A kick to his legs brought him to his knees, his hair tugged backwards to offer his throat to anyone willing to end his torment. The tent swam before his eyes, his chest burned.

Sayf, Sayf, Sayf….

"No, my Prince," Amir begged into his ear, positioning himself in front of Anwar. "Not now. Not like this."

The Sheikh's men, in the meantime, had helped his son up. Trying out his bruised jaw with a grimace, Harun spat out a glob of bloody phlegm at Anwar's feet. "I want you to remember this moment. This moment when I allow you to live, instead of finishing you off like that lap dog of yours. But you better watch your back, for I won't always be so merciful." He nodded at his father's henchmen who, with many a sniggering jest, wrestled Anwar out of the tent.

"Sweet dreams, Prince," he heard Harun call out after him. "Tomorrow we ride into the greatest battle of our time. Hate me all you want, as long as you remember what'll happen to your sister should we lose."

Summary:

Anwar is summoned out of his tent by Amir, who brings him to the waterhole dug by the edges of the camp, where many men have already assembled. There, Anwar finds the broken and defiled body of Rahim, a young boy whose father had foisted him on Anwar in exchange for his support, hoping the boy will rise up in rank. But Rahim was too soft and too young to become a soldier, and so Anwar had taken him under his wing, allowing him to play the oud for him in his tent, in the evenings.

Rahim's grisly murder painfully reminds Anwar of the death of his beloved, Sayf. As he commands the men to tell him who killed the boy under threat of punishment, he realizes no-one will speak, since Sheikh Dawoud has now bribed pretty much everyone in his camp. Much to his shock, he suspects that even Amir is not loyal to him alone anymore. He returns to his tent, begging Amir to at least see to it that Rahim is buried.

In the evening, as he (forcibly) shares dinner with the Sheikh Dawoud and Harun, conversation turns to what happened, with the Sheikh insisting that surely Rahim killed himself, just as Sayf once did. Anwar confronts him about intending to kill him, their heir to the throne, at some point, which the Sheikh denies. He says that had he wanted Anwar dead, he would have had him killed long ago, inside his father's palace (at which point, Anwar understands that his sister isn't safe back in Jufayrah, either).

The Sheikh retires, and Anwar and Harun are left alone together. A fight ensues, during which Harun admits to having raped and killed Rahim, just as he'd raped Sayf, years ago. Anwar then understands his beloved's gesture, and means to kill Harun then and there, but is stopped by the Sheikh's men and his own, including Amir.