XX. Denial
You've been proposed to… oh, let's just say, many times before. Married a few times, too. You're a veteran at this.
And so you manage to avoid laughing in his face. You're not drunk enough to say 'yes'. Maybe if he'd pulled this on you at some time last night - ah, but he was also so drunk that he'd probably have said things that would have angered or annoyed drunk-you.
Drunk-you might be usually pretty cheerful, but in the cold-and-hungover light of the day, you have to admit that she can be tetchy if someone sets her off. Or she's bored. Or denied something she needs, like a handsome man or another drink.
The simple fact is that you don't want to marry this little boy who you barely know. You had a loving marriage once, and all these years later it was still the happiest time of your life, for all that it ended in tragedy. Haitham could never be that to you. And the Cahzori are clearly desperate for dragon children, so you'd be expected to produce an heir quickly and you just don't feel like it - not when you have other plans for the next few years. Amusingly, if he'd wanted you as his mistress, he might have stood more of a chance. That kind of short term arrangement would have been useful, and potentially agreeable - especially once your money starts getting lower.
But married to this man? No, no thank you. Not with the rumours you heard about him at the party and how many people think ill of him.
So really it just behoves you to do the proper, lady-like thing and make full use of his attentions to see how much you can get from him. Marriage? Heavens, no. But if he thinks that's on the table, you should be able to keep a grip on lover-boy's leash.
You sit up, mussed hair falling down in front of you, and cross your legs. That second motion leads to a groan from him. He's not a fan of that.
"Darling," you purr, reaching out to stroke his flushed cheek. "Don't you think that's a little fast? I barely know you."
"Does that even matter with love…" he begins.
"Love? Dear boy, that's a little presumptuous." You trace your fingers down the curve of his jaw, until they're pressing against his neck. Your nails rest against his bare skin. "You've been pleasant. I've had a lot of fun. But…" you remove your hand, "marriage is something else. A lady can't just rush into things. She has to think about it. She has to get to know her husband-to-be. She needs to be courted. Otherwise, think of what they'll say."
"Huh?" he blusters, clearly not quite used to the tack you're taking with him.
"Darling," you pat his thigh, "I'm older than you. You know how the gossips can be when the bride is more experienced than the groom. I really have to think of my reputation here. I can't let people say I'm a cradle-robber, seducing an inexperienced young man - perhaps with my dragonblooded wiles."
He puffs out his cheeks adorably. "I'm not a little boy! And no one will talk!"
"No, no," you shake your head, making sure to lean in slightly as you pitch your voice into a whisper, "we really couldn't rush into such things, even if I was sure. And I'm not. I might to be open to marriage to a
young, strapping,
wealthy man - but he'd have to win my heart. I'd have to fall for him. Marriage is just a special thing, you know. Not something to get into when we're both hungover and still not entirely sober."
Haitham runs his hands through his sweaty hair. "Why must the world complicate such things?" he asks, with a little catch in his voice. "Why can it not be love?"
You keep looking sympathetic, even though inwardly you're smiling at his act. Oh, this young man is used to telling women he loves them. Men who genuinely feel that way don't sound so heartbroken. But he's decades too late for that to work on you. "The world is not sympathetic to young lovers who rush into things," you tell him. "So, my sweet little boy, I think it falls to you to convince me to accept your proposition."
"Oh, Meira," he says softly as he leans in to kiss you. "I hope to prove I'm every bit the man you want. I will give myself to you; mind, flesh and spirit, in this great endeavour!"
What a silly little boy. You don't need him to
give you his souls. But such an extravagant offer deserves a response. You smile at him as you break the kiss, and shove him onto his back. He hits the bed with an exhalation, surprised at your sudden force.
"Well, then, darling," you say. You position yourself over his head, kneeling on his shoulders. "Perhaps your courtship could start by showing me what you'd bring to our marriage bed. Go on. Persuade me."
Strangely enough, his response is rather muffled.
It's nearly midday by the time you're out of bed. You shoo Haitham out of your room, admiring his tight behind, calves and the nail marks you left on his back as he leaves. It doesn't do much to banish the sticky heat in your room. The sun might be hidden behind the wyldstorm, but its absence doesn't take the edge off the Southern temperatures.
You are quite aware that you're in a state as you dress. Your hair is a mess that needs cleaning, you smell of two people's sweat and of your bedroom activities, and you didn't bring any real supplies because you didn't expect to be here for an extended period. You don't have any change of clothes. At least you have a comfier pair of soft slippers you can wear instead of your dress shoes.
Yes, you decide quite firmly, you are going to find where the Kinzira keep their bathhouse and have a soak.
This immediately runs into problems.
"What is this?" You whirl on the servant who had led you here, gesturing with the oil lamp. "Is this some kind of joke?"
The air is dry. Bone dry. The unlit baths here must have been grand once. But once was a long time ago. There is no water here; not in the baths, not in the pipes, and not even pooling in the corners of the room. The rich royal blue tiles trimmed in gold leaf are dusty under their lacquer, and gleam in the dark. The sea shells - Dragons, did they import them all the way from the coast? - are cracked and fragmented under their aged and cloudy varnish.
"These are the baths," she says.
A muscle twitches under your eye. "Why would I want you to show me dry baths?" you demand, thwarted by the rampant stupidity of the serving classes.
She even dares to stand up to you. "Milady, many guests like to see the artwork here."
"Really?"
Her stupidity continues, as she is apparently opaque to your sarcasm. Perhaps it's your accent in Firetongue. "Oh yes! You see, back in the olden days, they got some real expensive artists all the way from foreign lands to decorate all the changing rooms and the private baths."
Private baths. You see a ray of hope. "Do any of those smaller baths still work?"
"Oh, no, not since my mother's day. Y'see, the only one who kept them working was..."
"Well, what do people do for bathing here?" you demand. Quite annoyingly, the muscle under your left eyelid is still twitching. You're just a little… a little tense. Yes.
"Well, the family has a private place, but for guests, we take a tub to their room."
A tub? In your room? Like a
peasant? "Very well," you say, defeated. "Have one sent up to mine and…"
"Uh, milady? We can't be doing that, not now. With the storm outside, we aren't meant to-"
She trails away. Your eyes are slits of rage; your irises glowing; your teeth are showing between your lips. A faint green aura wraps around your skin and your hair writhes like vines in a stiff breeze. How
dare she deny you this!
You get your bath.
Though you're not happy about it. Huddled down in a wooden hip bath, you try your best to clean yourself off with the lukewarm water the servants provided.
A sob escapes your lips. It's not Haitham that means you
have to clean yourself. Not directly, at least. You just… you just hate being dirty. It was awful on the trip down south, and at least that was only dirt and your own sweat and grime. The stress and the
awfulness of being unable to be clean was probably partly why you weren't healing as quickly as you should have been. It's not like whatever madness or doctrine Fatin has that means he refuses to even touch you with his bare hands. It's just…
… it's just personal.
No.
You viciously rub your eyes against your peacock tattoo. No one would understand. Not without telling them things about yourself that you don't want to say. That don't really matter. Not to anyone other than yourself, and the tears they bring are like tiny gleaming knives held to your heart.
It doesn't matter why you need to be clean. You just have to be.
By the time you're finished, you've scrubbed yourself pink and you're feeling less fragile. It took long enough that you missed the lunch bell, though. It's irksome, but you'd rather be hungry than dirty. And now that you're clean, you're feeling much better and it's also helped with the hangover.
There's still some food left out, even though all the best picks are gone. A few others have crept down late and are grazing. With pride you note you, freshly washed and beautiful, are looking much better than they are. Matted hair, rumpled clothes, the smell of tobacco, spirits, hashish and poppies; the jansi are paying the price for last night.
Yet the party atmosphere still lingers. The stragglers are drunk or high, and seemingly refusing to sober up or come down. You're being a good girl so only have tea, as after all you've already drunk most of a bottle of dessert wine this morning. The two elderly gentlemen looking at each other with bedroom eyes are certainly not so restrained as they guzzle fine spirits.
You eat quickly, scooping couscous and lentils up onto the fried flatbread like you learned on the way down south. It would be lovely if you had some fresh fish, which you always like when you're hungover, but you doubt they'd even have put that out if you'd been here on time. The food is much less lavish than the feast last night. You wonder how many supplies they actually have here in this fortress. Doubtless there's no fear of starving, but maybe the Kinzira might actually lose some weight if they have to cut back on their meals.
That, or they'll resort to cannibalism.
Well, you don't have to worry there. If it comes to a brutal, murderous frenzy of starving aristocrats, you'll come out on top. No one is going to be eating you. At least in that sense. But honestly you really don't want to have to resort to eating the jansi. You'd probably risk the storm before you ate anyone as greasy and unhealthy as Boulos or Sadia's great aunt. It would just be a
disaster for your diet.
You have to hastily cover your mouth with your hand because giggling with your mouth full of lentils has the potential to be disastrous.
A middle-aged couple proposition you before you've finished eating. You turn them down, of course, but you exchange a few words with the husband and discover from him that there's a reason for the continued party atmosphere. The Cahzori accept some madness from people during a wyldstorm, and so there's a general loosening of social morals. After all - he tells you earnestly - it's not infidelity if his wife wants to watch him sleep with another woman. They've just been driven mad by the chaos-storm outside.
Weak. Very weak, in your opinion. The laws of the gods are mere chains on mortals and the Dragonblooded alike. Have the guts to break them if you want - and know that you're defying their uncaring rule.
For your part, you decide to keep away from others, at least until this evening. You're playing a complicated game with Haitham, and you need to keep your affairs more focussed so he thinks you're open to accepting his proposition. So you'll play hard to get - give him some time to miss you, and perhaps even search for you.
If he doesn't miss you and just moves onto another woman, you'll know he really wasn't serious in the first place.
So having eaten, you set off to explore the fortress of the Kinzira.
The innards of this fortified bulk are a chaotic mess. People have dwelt in this ancient citadel for a very long time, and they've built and rebuilt and demolished until the inside is stacked upon itself. You stroll through the halls in your soft slippers, climbing stairs and descending down into warrens of tunnels. The higher you get, the more oppressive the heat, but in the lower places of the building the cold stone takes the edge off the Southern temperatures.
You start to see the divide of some of the eras of construction. The newest stonework is the most decadent, made with mortar and often a mismatch of stones. You think they were plundering older buildings, and where they couldn't find the stones of yesteryear, there's the rough-cut sandstone of modern days. Things aren't quite flush in places. By contrast, while older sections are often still mismatched, the hallmarks of Pasiap's blood have smoothed over the joins. Such places are often tiled too, though there are whole sections of corridor where the tiles have been torn down and only the cement and traces of brightly coloured tiles show what was once there. There's a wing that's blockaded off, and still scarred by fire and stinking of smoke. The wind howls more fiercely by the blockade - you think that entire wing must have lost its roof when it burned and is now open to the elements.
Down in the bowels of the fortress, though, are the golden-yellow stones of Shogunate artifice, and though they often show damage, they also have weathered seven hundred and more years and remain strong. Running your hands along empty vaulted chambers which once once have held supplies for whole armies or taxes from the mighty city below, you shake your head. Even down this far you can hear the howling of the wyldstorm, but you bet these ancient walls have weathered worse. It's the newer structures up above which might be changed by the chaotic flux in the world.
You wrinkle your nose. Eww, that's foul. It's a barnyard smell, it's coming from that side. there's a faint noise, too. Pressing your ear to the wall, the faint sound resolves itself better. It is the grunting and squealing of swine.
Pigs, inside? You're surprised at first, but then common sense reasserts itself. There's a wyldstorm outside and this fortress is half empty anyway. Of course they'll have turned the basements into a barn where they can herd their livestock into when the wyldtide rises. Or maybe it wasn't even them. If Cahzor has long known about the danger of these wyldstorms then the fortress might have been built with a safe place for their livestock.
You don't like the smell, though.
"Well," you say out loud. "I guess I've done enough admiring the foundations of this place. I have confirmed it's not about to fall down."
"You know very little about architecture," an annoying voice says from down by your legs. "How can you say that with such confidence."
"Shut up, Sei. Or I'll lock you down here."
"How? There wasn't a locked door."
You shake your head. "Meddle not in the affairs of a sorceress, fae."
"Mmm hmm." He rubs up against your leg. "I'm surprised you're not part of the orgy."
"Wait, wh…" You trail off. "Oh, ha ha, very funny. You're just trying to get me flailing around and embarrassing myself by sounding desperate. Well, that's not going to work. And even if you're not lying, I got laid last night. I'm not interested."
He chuckles. "A few months ago, you wouldn't have said 'no'. Did almost dying make you more temperate?"
"Sei, it's too damn hot up there to be rolling around with lots of hot bodies," you say, feeling vaguely hurt. He doesn't have to insult you that way. "Well, Mister Clever-Paws, since you've been exploring, have you found any libraries of ancient lore or sorcerous books? I'm sure they've hidden them away somewhere."
"Not yet." He looks up at you, eyes gleaming many colours. "I did find their gallery, though."
Hmm. Could be interesting. "Lead the way, then."
You follow Sei up stairs and down corridors into one of the wings leading off from the central structure. The rooms here are dusty, but clean; the walls less yellowed than much of the rest of the structure. Older, too, by the stonework. The tiles underfoot are a bright arterial red. But you can see the signs of damage, and the ceiling is clearly a false ceiling.
That isn't your first reaction, though. Your first reaction is to the faces. Countless faces and busts, all painted stone made to look lifelike and lined up against the walls. You stare at them and they stare back with their painted eyes. The eldest ones are peeling and revealing the white marble under the paint.
So here it is. The faces of generations of Kinzira. Captured in time, their busts petrified for the ages with all the honesty they paid the sculptors for.
You shake your head. So clearly is the decline and fall of the Kinzira laid out in these faces. Boulos glowers at you from the nearest niche, as if he can read your thoughts. Or possibly that even his sculptor couldn't make him look good and that ridding him of his constipated look was quite beyond their meager talents.
But as you follow the passage of time back, you start to see the unmistakable marks of dragon blood in the Kinzira. Men with red eyes and ember-like highlights painted on their hair; women whose hair, like yours, sprouts flowers. They're never common, but in yesteryear they were more so. And even the mortals were thinner back then.
Chuckling, you shake your head. The Kinzira features do breed true, and so the kinship is clear even as the artwork becomes more crude and they become fatter and their dragon-blood dilutes to nothing. It is like watching the life of a man; the ancient, flaking busts of those young and vigorous giving way to obesity and dissolution.
Why do they not get the sculptors to lie for them? Why does Boulos not depict himself as a young, vigorous man - or at least an older man with wealth and gravitas? He could be anything other than what he is, but he chooses to be recorded as this rotten egg of a man. Hairless and round.
Do they take pride in their current state? Your nose wrinkles in disdain. Yuck.
Yes, that's quite enough of that. This is a silly family. You ask one of the servants whether there's a viewing point where one might be able to see the storm from safety. The elderly woman doesn't want to answer you, but when you get terse she tells you of the old observatory at the top of the Nasr Tower.
It turns out to be a taller climb than you'd planned, and your legs are aching by the time you've made your way up the narrow winding staircase made of dusty golden stone. Whatever magic Yasmine worked on your leg has worn off. The wind screams like a dying woman outside, and there's a cackling of unseen things on the gale. Sometimes when the wind surges you can feel the stone shift under you. The only light is the oil lantern you borrowed, which barely reaches the other wall of the blocky square tower. At least you can't see how far you'll fall if you slip on the steep stairs and roll all the way to the bottom.
But it turns out to be worth it, because at the top of the tower is a delicate structure built in a style unlike everything else in the fortress. The walls are made from crystal taken from the city below, the roof is high and conical, and spreads out in an overhang to shield some of the area around from the burning sun. The telescopes and lenses are long gone, but their stands remain. A broken-down orrery sits in the centre of the room, thick with dust.
It is raining outside. In the heart of this wyld-tainted sandstorm, in this parched city, it is raining. The water hammers down from on high, leaving brightly coloured stains on the crystal windows. Strange achromatic rainbows linger in the sky for moments after a lightning flash. Sometimes you can see ghostly shapes of the buildings on the slopes and down in the valley, when the storm relents for a moment. Through the sand, you can see newly formed rivers running down the slopes, carving gullies through the slag and detritus, writing change upon the landscape.
It's beautiful.
Of course. Chaos is all things - that which are, and that which could be. The gods have spoken, and they have chosen to withhold the rains from this parched land. But chaos doesn't care for the laws of this world.
So when it washes across Cahzor, it brings its own impossible bounty in the form of this rain which hammers against the glass and runs in many-coloured rivulets from the rooftops and spires of this thirsty land. And when the wyldstorm passes, some of the water will remain, as chaos is calcified by the world. Perhaps for a few days, Cahzor will see a strange flowering of desperate desert plants.
Only a fool or a desperate woman would drink the water now, of course, laden with possibility. You're content to watch it run down the gutters and pour from the slanted roofs. This must have once been a tower of one of the sorcerers of Cahzor that Zia told you about. You want a tower like this. Something that rises above the landscape, where you can stand behind crystal, at the heart of a storm.
You sigh, broken from your chain of thought by the sight of Sei outside the window, lapping from a puddle while hiding from the falling rain. That little shit. He complains at you when there's a hair in his water bowl, but will drink from chaos-tainted, sand-choked puddles. He does it to annoy you, you swear.
Lightning flashes, cyan filling the sky. In the sudden light, you can see there are figures in the screaming sand. For a moment, you think they've seen you. "Spirits of the air!" you call out. "Hear me! Parley with me!"
But none descend to your level.
Oh well. It was never likely that they'd hear you over the noise of the storm. Instead, you settle yourself down on the ground, crossing your legs in the lotus position, to simply watch. If you're lucky, you might be able to divine something in the patterns of the twisted omen-laden weather.
Alas, there's nothing you can read. The signs of this tainted sandstorm are different from the ones you've learned, and the opalescent fire in the sky and flashes of false-coloured lightning don't impart insight into your mind.
But there's something there. Something you don't understand yet, something that will take long study - but there are patterns in the madness. Things that one day you
will be able to understand. Sei pads up from behind you, and settles down on your lap, purring. He's damp from the rain, but you don't mind so much.
You're not sure how long you've been here, sitting and watching the sandstorm, when footsteps break you from your study of the mysteries of the world.
It's Zia, skinny and flushed in the face. He sags down, stooped over, panting with his hands on his thighs. "Oh… thank gods… you're here. Not sure… why are you… servants said you up here but… not sure…" He breaks into coughing.
You go to brush Sei off your lap, but he's already gone. You rise and take the young man by his shoulders. "What happened?" you ask him, looking down at him.
"I…" He gulps. "We've been trying to find you."
"We?"
"Everyone in the temple. I asked the servants and one said you'd gone up here and I didn't think you had a reason to be up here but…"
"What happened?" you ask again, because no one runs up steps like that if it doesn't matter.
"Sadia grabbed me and she said I had to help her find you because Haitham and Hilmi are going to duel over you and…"
"Oh." You sigh, straightening up. Silly boys. "Did she say why they were fighting?"
"Well… um," he blushes pinkly. "I think they both want you as their mistress. And… uh, Sadia said that Haitham said that you were going to marry him, but she laughed and said she was pretty sure you had better taste than that." He gulps. "It's not true. Is it?"
You pat his cheek, just to see that blush intensify. "He wants me to marry him, but I haven't accepted his proposition. I told him it was his job to give me a reason to marry him. So, darling," you trail a finger down the centre of his, flabby soft chest, "I think he's being very optimistic if he says that I'm certainly going to marry him."
Zia tries to say something, but just splutters.
"No, no, rest," you tell him. "I'm pretty sure you're in no state to head down the stairs like this. Now, where are they?"
"They're going to d-d-duel, so they'll be in the temple. It's… um, well, it's not very far from where we had dinner last night."
"I see." You sigh. "Well, I better see to this."
"You can't marry
him," he blurts out, voice high pitched. "He broke it off with Sadia and broke her heart and he's… he's just the
worst kind of man and… I'll stop him from m-m-making you cry!"
You raise your eyebrows. "Darling," you say quite firmly, not impressed by his presumptuousness. "I'm not a little girl. I can handle myself. I've met young boys who think they can play with a woman's heart before."
"But-"
You press your finger to his lips. "Shh. Rest."
You turn on your heel, and walk calmly out, glad you chose to wear your slippers rather than your heels today. Once you're suitably out of hearing range, you start taking the stairs two at a time.
Young men! There must have been a reason they were made so stupid and often you appreciate it, but honestly, you leave Haitham alone for an afternoon and he starts getting into fights. And being
rather presumptuous, no less. You're not pleased he's taking his success as a given. Confidence is attractive in a man, but there's a difference between confidence and suicidal overconfidence. Which is, yes, also sometimes very sexy, but that's more to do with men declaring they'll fight a giant murderous monster for you and less with assuming you'll just give in to a frankly unimpressive courting.
The family temple was once perhaps a great training ground when this was a fortress, or maybe even a command centre of the Shogunate. The architecture is old stone, even if it's blackened by soot, but it was built for functionality, not to be imposing. The Kinzira have tried their best to conceal those origins. Looking around, you can see various idols of gods and goddesses - and likely other spirits, djinn and thunder-birds and river-snakes. They have their offerings, appropriate in kind. Clay bowls that are blackened with fire; no doubt where they've burned spirits. Scraps of food laid out for them. Traces of burned tobacco.
But as you lurk at the entrance, you think one god gets the majority of the offerings. And his golden statue is larger than every other god here put together. It dominates one wall, and is grotesquely fat. It is very Kinzira that way. The entire family is overweight, but this is more extreme than even the elders of the family. The god depicted is male and naked, but such prodigious obesity brings sexless androgyny. His rolls of fat take form as breasts; his features are so rounded there is nothing really human in them; his genitalia is a useless afterthought, a hanging thing lost under his colossal paunch. The gold leaf is flaking off the underside of the belly, revealing bronze below.
In his bulging face, he has five eyes - an extra pair set above the normal ones, and a fifth in the centre. They're set in a quincunx arrangement. Upon his head he wears a golden crown, each prong shaped like a tooth. His mouth is too wide, but is toothless.
No, you realise. That's not just a mouth. That's a chute. And if that's a chute, then that bulging immensity of his belly is an oven. A furnace. Offerings to their god are shovelled into his mouth, and there they are consumed by the flames. Their form reduced to ash and soot, their spirit released from shape to pass to the palaces of the divine.
These Kinzira have made consumption their religion. Oh, there are other god-shrines in this temple here, but they are tiny things compared to the towering furnace that sits at the head of the table and leaves the ceiling blackened with soot. Getting the choicest cuts of any offering. They probably pour spirits down his gullet to light the furnace, before they toss in marrow and offcuts to feed him.
And the duelling circle is here, in front of this obese five-eyed god. The blood shed here is an offering to him, you can feel it. Taste it in the smoky air, with just a hint of old blood behind all the other odours.
You focus, looking for irises. There's no signs of the watchful god around his statue, though there are some small iris-silhouettes around the other lesser icons. But still, two men fighting for their 'honour' in front of him? Yes, he'll slurp down the blood they offer.
"Pray, would anyone care to explain what is going on here?" Your voice rings out through the temple, and the cluster of jansi aristocrats who've gathered here. You can almost smell the excitement in the air, unless it's the incense and sandalwood.
Sadia turns and beams at you, carrying a pair of sheathed swords in her arms. "Oh, Meira," she says, approaching you before anyone else can. "So glad Zia found you. As this concerns you, you should witness this." She lowers her voice. "It's probably as bad as you think," she whispers, still beaming at you. "Those two boys want to stab each other for your favour. Hilmi has challenged Haitham. If he wins, Haitham is obliged to stand aside. Haitham accepted, and has Hilmi wagering that fancy new knife of his."
Your face is a mask. "Really?" you say between clenched teeth. You're offended. You're clearly worth more than a knife, even if is ancient jadesteel. "Don't I get a say in this?"
She rolls her eyes. "It's a fight between men."
"I see." You crack your knuckles. There are several other jansi in the crowd that you recognise - Yasmine is there, but Fatin isn't, and so is Zia's sister and Munir is there with a faint grin.
Saida gives you a puckish smile, and leans in. "So, is Haitham telling the truth when he says you're considering his offer of marriage?" she asks softly. "Because he's an adequate lay, but I really think you could do better."
"He offered," you say. "I turned him down as I barely know him. If he wants to marry me, I think he'll have to do better."
She smiles in sudden, genuine relief. "My dear, I was afraid I was going to have to shun your taste." She takes your arm, and leads you to the ring that's carved into the centre of the room.
"My love," Haitham calls out. He's stripped to the waist, and everyone can see your handiwork on him. Between the love bites and the nail scratches on his back, it's fairly obvious what happened last night. "I'm glad you came."
"Your love?" you ask. "A little presumptuous, my boy."
"I only shower my endless affection to feed your radiant self."
"Why are you fighting him?"
"He was rude," Haitham says with a shrug. "And offers insult to your person. If I was your husband, I'd always be here to protect you."
You snort, though you don't mean to. "Darling," you say firmly, "now you're being more than a little presumptuous."
Hilmi paces back and forwards, also shirtless. The difference in their builds are clear to see; Hilmi is solid and stocky, while Haitham is lean muscle. "Indeed," he growls. "You're going to bleed, you arrogant dog." He inclines his head to you. "Meira, I dedicate this victory to you. I didn't insult you! His touch is an insult to you! When he's bleeding, you'll see I'm twice the man he is."
"She's already seen how much of a man I am," Haitham says with a fake yawn. "While you are a yapping dog."
The onlookers jeer, and Hilmi grinds his teeth. "She'll be much happier with me when you're spilling your guts out for Kamis," he snarls. He paces back and forwards, shoulders hunched, strutting like a cockerel. "A real man, rather than some yawning fop!"
You can hear the innuendo in his voice. You glance over at Sadia. "I thought you said it was merely that Haitham had to step aside."
"That's what they're fighting over," she says with a shrug.
That's not what you hear in Hilmi's voice. He's simmering with rage; he can see you've slept with Haitham. He doesn't think he's fighting over merely getting Haitham to step aside in the contest for your affections. He's fighting to hurt Haitham - and he seems to think you'll be the prize he'll win.
Hmm. You're not so sure about that. He's dark and brooding and built like a fighter, with many scars on his stocky body. And maybe he would even be handsome - if his face wasn't twisted by hate every time he looked at Haitham. You remember him mentioning that he was favoured son of a Demio. Well, you suppose hypothetically if he did kill Haitham here, he'd be no less powerful a man to have courting you.
And yet...
Do You Try To Intervene?
[ ] No. They've already made it clear they want to fight - and you're not going to embarrass them (or yourself) by stepping in. Regardless of who wins, you'll handle things in your own way. Plus, you like men fighting over you.
[ ] Yes - you'll fight Hilmi yourself. Hilmi's attitude offends you. You're not some trinket! And the jansi might respect you more if they see you can fight.
[ ] Yes - you must put a stop to this silliness. You don't want Haitham dead or badly hurt; that'll get in the way of your plans. And you didn't come here to fight. People just need to calm down!
