Disclaimer - This is a work of fiction. Some violence. View at your own discretion. Kept within HiO rating for safety.

TABLE OF CONTENTS
Part One - Found
Chapter 1 - Flight
Chapter 2 - Born on the Shores
Chapter 3 - Anahita
Chapter 4 - Fracture

Part Two - Across the Empire
Chapter 5 - Intrigue
Chapter 6 - Babylon Calls
Chapter 7 - The One Who Sees
Chapter 8 - An Oracle is Born
Chapter 9 - The Prince

Part Three - Poura
Chapter 10 - Out of Time
Chapter 11 - Welcome Back
Chapter 12 - Trapped

Part Four - Worlds Collide
Chapter 13 - Fool Me Once, Shame On You
Chapter 14 - Up On The Ivory Tower
Chapter 15 - The Boy Revealed
Chapter 16 - A Fated Meeting
Chapter 17 - All In His Head
Chapter 18 - The Academy Year 1
Chapter 19 - The Academy Year 2

Part 5 - Tyre
Chapter 20 - Home Sweet Home
Chapter 21 - Reunion
Chapter 22 - The God of Time
Chapter 23 - A Last Chance
Chapter 24 - Save Bahman Farhad
Chapter 25 - She Loves Me!
Chapter 26 - Grow Up

Interlude
Chapter 27 - A Conversation

Chapter 28 - Whole, Again
Chapter 29 - Need to Know

Part Six - Nim Goes to War
Chapter 30 - Report, Recruit!
Chapter 31 - On the Way to Athens
Chapter 32 - Sacrifice
Chapter 33 - A Reprieve
Chapter 34 - A Fantasy
Chapter 35 - Sacrifice
Chapter 36 - Report

Part Seven - A Race to Rescue
Chapter 37 - Save Us All
Chapter 38 - Immortals
Chapter 39 - Rinse and Repeat
Chapter 40 - Nim to the Rescue
Chapter 41 - Survival
Chapter 42 - Escape
Chapter 43 - The Choices We Make

Part Eight - The Split
Chapter 44 - Home
Chapter 45 - The Temple of Time

PART ONE: FOUND

Chapter 1: Flight

A giant storm tossed around a small fishing boat on giant waves. The wind had already snapped the mast likes a toothpick. On board, several families were huddled in the hull praying to whatever gods would listen to them. In the pitch black of night, with lightning dancing across the sky as if the creator himself was seeking his vengeance, one of the families gripped a small statue of goddess fashioned from ebony as if their life depended on it. What was so horrible that brought them so far from their beloved home?

Their village, their land, had been peaceful. The trappings of empire and subjugation had not reached them and their existence was harmonious. Macrobia was the stuff of legends. Situated on what is now known as the horn of Africa, it was a collection of independent city states that prospered in trade with the Persian empire and Egypt. One time Persia, having successfully captured the Nile, sent messages to Macrobia demanding tribute. The only thing Persia got was an unstrung bow with the challenge that whoever could string it was worthy to challenge them.

With the Empire at bay, Macrobia was impervious to everything but itself. In fact, it started to think itself an empire. The leaders started to impose heavy taxes on the villages and institute arbitrary, and unnecessary, regulations. Some thought their beautiful land was becoming exactly like the people they defended it from. Failure to submit eventually escalated in raiding these small communities until they paid up. This led to the sacking of a small fishing village on a thriving delta. The carnage that ensued saw people push their ships out to sea in an effort to escape the tyranny.

As the boat nearly capsized, a woman rubbed her stomach as her husband held her tightly. Did she have any regrets? As long as the magic of their ship held and they crossed the channel, she thought everything would work out. However, what she didn’t know, what none of them could have known, is that this monster storm had knocked their boat off course and they were not sailing to find sanctuary in Arabia, but rather now on a set course for the farthest reaches of the Persian empire.

Magic in this time was a strange thing. No one possessed innate magical powers, or not anymore rather. The age of legends was millennia ago but there were still plenty of artifacts, talismans, and old scrolls that survived. These seemed to possess otherworldly powers. Some kept your crops from failing, others allowed a boat to sail straight and true, while still others healed, and some even were purported to decimate entire armies. You could find all sorts of soothsayers and tricksters that swore they had the real deal but more often than not they weren’t. Only temples seemed to have what everyone else wanted and of course you needed to pay a price for it. Still old Macrobian prophecies and legends told of a time where magic would flow through humanity once again.

Meklit raced toward the boats as fast as she could without harming her unborn baby, her husband, Askender, nearly ripping her off her feet as well. They needed to leave by any means necessary. Dying at see was a fate far better than having to deal with constant raids on their home. What was home now anyway? Their house was one of the first they burnt! Why not make an example of the village healer? That made a lot of sense. Well, where they were going there wouldn’t be any more of this insanity!

They boarded a boat with several families eager to have Askender and his wife with them. It was good luck after all to have the village healer. The boat they boarded had been a good one. The nautical talisman had proved effective at making this ship faster than any others they had ever seen. As they set sailed, everyone on the vessel knew that no matter what, they would never see their beloved village again.

The storm had passed with the coming of the light of dawn. Opening the hatch to look outside, the waters appeared calm. The families climbed out one by one, the others gently raising Meklit out of the boat. Some remarked she was crazy coming on this journey with a baby on the way, to which she snapped back that those corrupt money snatchers never gave her any other option. Of course she didn’t want to be on a boat lost at sea! However, the argument was quickly forgotten as one by one they all spotted the same thing - land! They had been at sea for 5 days now. When factoring the enhanced speed of the boat and how small the channel is between Moylos and Arabia they should have been there days ago. However, it was clear now that they weren’t going there anymore.

They got the oars out from the hull and started to trade duties rowing, except for Meklit and the elderly. They rowed with all their might and before long, their hopelessness turned to dread. For a few hours it looked like they were on their way back home! Did they really get blown off course just to circle back the way they came? What they saw was a river delta, lush with vegetation and it soon became apparent that this wasn’t their river but some other. There was hope to be had at last!

The magic had held, much to their surprise, after such a powerful storm, and they were within sight of actual people now. A boat had come out to meet them, people unlike them. They had weapons and armor that shone like beacons as the sun’s rays bounced off metal and their ships were not like the ones they were accustom to seeing. Not that Macrobia didn’t have it’s own advancements, but they just looked different. They used metal and magic for trade and economic opportunity, not as tools of war. The fear hit each of them almost at the exact same time. The apparent barbarism coupled with the lighter olive tones of skin, marked this boat approaching them as a part of the Empire. They had unwittingly sailed to Persia!

The Persian Empire was vast and their armies effective instruments of war. Such was their might that whole cities bowed to them instead of risk a siege. By this time Persia stood unchallenged save for Macrobia which was only safe because the Empire couldn’t hold Egypt long enough to seriously consider expansion south. The Emperor King Artexerxes II was, as all who called themselves a king or emperor were, obsessed with conquest. Persia was different from the empires of the time as they focused on infrastructure and allowing locals to have their own customs and religious practices. The practice before was to capture the local people and relocate them in an effort to assimilate them, in effect eroding both their cultural identity and their ways of life. Many people groups went extinct through the conquests of the Assyrians and Babylonians, but the Persian’s saw things differently. So long as you paid tribute, abided by the laws set forth by their local and regional officials and didn’t bring the wrath of Persia down on their heads, the people were allowed to live in reasonable peace. Exactly the kind of oppression our Africans were trying to escape.

The person who seemed in charge of what was now clearly some sort of war boat, hailed the small group. They all blinked at each other when the person greeting them was a woman. This confused them for a moment before the woman barked an order so fiercely that it made them all forget the discrepancy. Among the 4 families in the boat only two men spoke enough Aramaic to realize that they weren’t being attacked but asked where they came from.

“Macrobia” Askender yelled back through the wind. The boats docked and the woman and her male guards were on them in an instant. None of them attacked but they were searched thoroughly, not that that was difficult if they were wearing much at all it was in tatters and they were obviously harmless as their mast was still have stuck in the water.

She barked again in Aramaic, “State your business. Where do you come from?”

“Macrobia,” Askender over enunciated, defiant he would need to be talked to in such a way by a woman. He had other more colorful words at the ready in his native tongue but held it for fear that whatever these people wanted, he did not want them to harm her wife. “We are…” He continued when the woman wasn’t satisfied, unfortunately his Aramaic didn’t extend to explaining their current situation as refugees, “homeless.” It was the closest he could get.

She spat on the deck and took a look at the lot of them, unimpressed as if she were hoping one of them would attack. When no such challenge presented itself she relented. “Well, let’s get you onshore. You can explain to the council and they will decide what to do with you riffraff.”

Among other things, Persia was also widely known for its tolerance of women in leadership and military positions. In fact, a woman by the name of Pantea served as a commander who help to form Persia’s infamous elite Immortals unit. Women were allowed to serve in all areas though it was certainly rare enough. It was still not uncommon to see one or two, especially in areas where there were too few men to form councils and guards. This would not last long, however, as western notions took over when Alexander the Great rolled through, and the Seleucid dynasty sunk Hellenistic teeth into the region. But for a few fleeting centuries, women saw more avenues opened to them than were generally afforded them throughout history.

The families were forced to board the Persian ship, and Askender thought that the women got better treatment just to spite him - though he was grateful for how this woman took extra care of his wife as they stepped gingerly onto the deck. Now that they were on board, they could see that the ship was not only much larger than their fishing boat, it required a whole team to steer and keep the ship moving in the right direction. Why the need for a team? Did the Persians not have magic? He didn’t have much of a chance to think further on this as he was sat quite abruptly on the floor of the deck with his wife. Meklit looked so tired, they were all so very tired. So tired it no longer registered that they hadn’t eaten since they left. He shut his eyes…

…and the next he knew he was kneeling, arms tied behind his back in front of what seemed like the whole village with two men sitting on stone seats. Sand cushioned his knees and he looked around so sleep deprived he didn’t even know he was being talked to. He could see their boat docked at a harbor so they were still by the ocean. Maybe they could still escape.

A sharp jab in his back snapped him out of his delirium, and he fell face first into the sand. Two strong hands hoisted him up. “I said,” growled one of the men, heavy but with a face like stone, “do you, or do you not, speak Aramaic, child?”

Askender’s eyes flashed. Who dared call him a child. But he saw the man was indeed easily 3 times his age. He bit back his first reply and managed to say, “A little. I can understand you.”

“Why have you come here? Are there more? Is this an attack?” The barrage of questions did not come from the two elders on the seats but were spat at him from all directions not just one but as if the mob were waiting for the signal to rip him limb for limb. A hand raised by the other man, tall, lean and quite a bit younger than the other, but still older than Aksender by double, silenced the crowd. “Well?”

He wasn’t sure if this man was keeping his Aramaic simple for his benefit or assumed that the crowd spoke for him. “We are just a people. Lost at sea. Our village gone.” Askender was so tired, he couldn’t muster any more of a language he never wanted to learn. He passed out.

When the Macrobian man came to, he was not in a cell and neither was he left beaten and bloody. He woke up on a straw mat in a room. It was dark. No. It was morning. The sun was just coming up again. Had he been out for a whole day? He sat up, his ribs hurt so much and without the constant incessant need for sleep, he was starved beyond anything he had ever felt before. He thought he knew what hunger was, what ever that was, it turned out that was not hunger.

Meklit was on him in a flash as soon as she heard him rouse. In their mother tongue she whispered as if comforting a baby, “Easy, dear,” she held him and as if she knew his next question, “Do not worry. For now they have decided to give us sanctuary. They feed our people. They are actually feeding our people.” She nearly burst out in tears. “I don’t know what they say but they have not hurt us.”

Meklit insisted he recline and she ran to fetch a stew and some bread for him. When she left he shook his head, he couldn’t believe their luck. Was it magic or was it some god who saw favor in them? His eyes caught the ebony statue his wife had rescued from the fire. It seemed to gleam in the dim light of dawn. He reached out and took it to examine it more thoroughly. It was of a robed winged woman with a staff. He remembered his wife had bought it from some Persian traders and he thought it was nonsense, that she should rely on their gods for help. He swore an oath to that figure. If it was indeed a Persian goddess that saved his family, he would offer his first born to her to serve her. The statue, in that moment, felt warm, the kind of warm that filled your being. He scoffed and set the statue down. He was obviously delusional.

His wife came back with the promised stew and it was the most delicious and magnificent stew he had ever had in his life! With a full belly, and with help from some others, whom he tried to forbid Meklit for calling for, he was back on his feet and was helped out of the door.

Stepping out into the morning, Askender was dumbfounded. If he squinted it could have passed as his hometown! Palm trees, tended gardens, well cared dirt and stone streets. The houses were made of mud brick and thatch just like back home too. The people, though, they looked very different. Not just their skin, but also the way they dressed. The colors were foreign to him especially a lot of what he would later be told was purples of every shade.

The fertile crescent at this time really was fertile, as were the many lands and peoples who relied on the near infinite tributaries from the mighty Tigris and Euphrates. What is now arid land due to millennia of over irrigation and human factors such as dams and over engineering and expansive population growth, was once lush with vegetation and home to many kinds of naturally occurring flora and fruits. What might pass for an island paradise by today’s standards would have been the usual for most in Mediterranean and coastal regions.

“They tell me you are a healer,” came the voice of a familiar man sat just outside the door. It was the old man from before. Askender didn’t take his eyes from the view and simply nodded. “We need a talented one. It has been agreed that, so long as all able bodies work, you will be able to stay in our village. Everyone will also need to learn our language and laws. Are these terms acceptable to you?”

The African did not answer immediately. He was not yet aware that the others had already agreed to these terms and this was just a formality, not an actual offer. “It’s going to have to be.”

Word Count: 2776

Chapter 2: Born on the Shores

As days and weeks went by, Askender and Meklit learned more about their new home. They learned that they were in a province called Gedrosia, the coast of modern day Pakistan, about as far away from their home as they could be in the far eastern reaches of the Persian empire. They were far enough from the center of the Empire that the customs and people were not the same as the Persians, and their authority here was only loosely followed which often required heavier military presence in some of the larger cities to remind them whose authority is supreme.

The village that was now their home was named Aasha which, if the locals were to be believed, meant “Hope” in their native tongue. The village was not as big as the couple remembered when they were first brought ashore. Back then it seemed like a metropolis, with how delirious and starved they were. There was maybe 50 of them between 6 or 7 families. Their previous healer had passed several weeks before their arrival and Askender and Meklit were put to work immediately.

When asked about magic, as that was a source of healing when all other techniques failed, they were told that Persia kept a tight control on all magical artifacts and that the authentic ones were under the control of the priesthood. There wasn’t a Persian temple for miles but some of the local deities offered help as they could.

This was a small comfort to the Macrobians who’s city states were rich in magic, having successfully bartered for them in exchange for resources from surrounding areas. “If you really want magic, you go to Babylon,” Baruk, the eldest elder said, as if he was a child in a candy store. “Babylon is the heart of magic in the Empire,” he tapped the map in the council chambers which was little more than a storage room in the back of his hut. However, all the Macrobians were forced to learn Aramaic at least since learning the local language proved even harder. Baruk was also careful not to give his real name, as the people believed their real name gave the speaker power over them. Instead, the Macrobians were allowed to know their Persian names.

On this day, Baruk was covering the extent of the Empire, and not just Askender scoffed at the fact that Macrobia didn’t even feature. “Persepolis is of course the political center. The Emperor is rarely there it is said because he prefers to be hands-on in his campaign. He trusts a collection of priests, political and military advisors to run things daily. I think maybe he is confident that with the military at his back, no one is stupid enough to challenge him.”

“A peace won by violence is not peace,” Askender spat which Baruk only ever managed a shrug to. Persia was old and this Emperor was already the longest reigning king in Persian history. Baruk didn’t see much sense in fighting something that in the end didn’t matter to him.

“Anyway, then you have Tyre on the coast here. It is the economic capital. It is said to trade with the whole world and the richest city in the world!” Baruk resumed his childlike wonder at a map that the Macrobians still refused to see as anything other than tyranny. Though, they had to say in the months that followed they only saw Persian officials a handful of times.

As time passed, Meklit became less mobile and the wives of Aasha insisted on pampering her - exceedingly concerned for the health of the baby after the dangerous trip to their shores. She took it well, and Askender more than once caught himself gazing at her with pride - the queen he knew she could be. Even that soldier woman seemed to have taken a liking to her, even though any time Askender was around the brutal hag, Bahar was her name, had nothing but sharp reprimands for how he cared for his wife. He didn’t know what was so beautiful or blooming about that soldier (Bahar means “spring, beauty, bloom”), but as long as she loved his wife he was not too fussy.

The delta was quite a bit larger than their own. The city sat on its northern side but a clever series of bridges connected the islets together so that you could take advantage of the marshy area for fishing and other vegetation that requires a lot of water, such as lotus. The village, Aasha, was comprised of maybe 20 different huts of various sizes all linked to wealth and connectedness to the two elders. Most villages even here had one elder or chief but this one had two. They ruled their decisions from the two judgement seats sat immovable in front of the harbor. Aasha got a disproportionate amount of trade coming through for how small they were. It was often used as a waylay station onward to either India or toward the harbors that serviced Persepolis. For these travelers the villagers constructed accommodations for them in a series of rooms next to the boats. It wasn’t anything fancy and it kept foreigners away from their people.

Life proceeded along at a leisurely pace as the Macrobians slowly assimilated into their new way of life - learning the language, the customs, the Persian laws that would keep them out of trouble with the Empire. Meklit was a quicker study than her husband and showed a propensity for learning that outstripped many. More than once Askender caught Bahar joking that she might soon be the village elder if she kept learning like she had! Often she had to translate difficult circumstances to her husband, especially when someone came in with a peculiar illness or rather nasty accident and needing to know exactly what happened. Then, in the fall, Meklit gave birth to a son whom they named Nim. At the behest of Baruk, they begrudgingly gave him a Persian name: Bahman Farhad. Because of the local beliefs, the pair only called him by his real name in their own language but to everyone else he was Bahman Farhad.

After his birth, and while they were swaddling him, Askender looked over on the table where his wife kept her idol, whom they now knew to be a statue of Anahita the Persian Goddess of water, fertility and healing. For a brief moment, as he stared at it, he could have swore it glowed a faint almost imperceptible blue hue. He asked his wife if she saw it too and she just shook her head as if he was crazy and went back to cuddling her cute baby boy. Surely, there was no way, this thing had nothing to do with them. His vow came to mind and as he looked at his boy with the eyes of a proud father, he deeply regretted his words. He wished he never uttered them but a vow made was a vow kept unless you wanted to really bring the wrath of a deity on your head.

In Persia, especially favored by Artexerxes II, and so enjoyed more favorable status, were three deities that became staples in the Persian pantheon and chief among the worshipped in Babylon (and therefore the rest of the temples by royal decree): Ahura Mazda (the creator), Mithra (the Sun god of justice and truth), and Anahita (the goddess of water, fertility, and healing). These three gods were responsible for working both order into the world (Empire) and keeping the magic alive in the artifacts from the Age of Legends. Whole schools in Babylon are focused on not only correct worship of these deities but in studying how to manipulate magic. Since human ability to perform magic was only given, supposedly, to the high Priesthoods of the three deities, there has been no native born magic user in millennia but that was bestowed upon someone rising to the title of High Priest or High Priestess.

The boy Nim grew as those months became years. He was a precocious boy, as they all were at that age, constantly getting into trouble but having a strange knack for getting out of it unscathed. He loved climbing trees and swimming in the ocean and things that might have done other boys in, even grown men, falling, getting caught in undertow, and the like, he never suffered any sustained injures. He definitely hurt for days after a particular nasty episode with a palm tree and a dare as a 6 year old, but he healed with ease. This natural ability to escape death lent him the reputation of being lucky as if he himself were a magical statue. He was often encouraged by fishermen to board their boats when fish were scarce, and Meklit caught even Askender wanting Nim beside him for difficult healing sessions.

Nim grew up never understanding his parent’s distrust of Empire. They led good lives, had friends they loved and trusted, and aside from some rather difficult visits from officials he’d never seen anything bad happen. 6 became 7 became 8 and as he grew he quickly mastered Aramaic, the local dialect of the village and his Macrobian tongue. The Empire, thought Nim, along with the rest of the Aasha, was something to be trusted.

The people of Aasha slowly started to suspect the same thing as Askender, that Anahita herself had something to do with the boy’s development. Fish were bigger when Nim was aboard, the seas smoother, the weather fairer. Whenever he through a tantrum, there seemed to be rain the following day regardless of whether he calmed down or not. Whether it was superstition that drove the people, or the desire to see a miracle and magic born into the world, the rumor spread that Anahita walked among them. By the time the boy was 10, it was an open secret that he had some kind of influence over both the weather and the ocean, not at will, and not on command but it was hardly an accident at all.

“Bahman, come with me today,” came a gruff fisherman, one that Nim had frequent encounters with and none of them good. The curly haired, dark skinned youth tried to slip around the large man to play with his friends but was caught by his wrist. “Come now, boy. It’s just a small trip. You will be back in time to play with your little friends.”

“No!” Nim shouted and tried hard to pull against the man to no avail. “It has nothing to do with me! I don’t want to go!” The shouting drew a crowd and in the confusion there was some misunderstanding that Nim didn’t want to bless the village anymore and the mob all but forced the boy into the fisherman’s boat.

When the fishing trip yielded no fish, the fisherman, after giving the boy a beating on the boat, threw him to the ground when they made shore. The same crowd it seemed gathered around at the spectacle. “These foreigners hawk this boy as a miracle worker. THEY say he is Anahita reborn. But look, behold, I have no fish. These foreigners have scammed us with this child!”

The murmurs quickly grew into rage. “No no no. I don’t have anything to do with this. It isn’t me!” The bruised youth begged for mercy now surrounded by angry adults shouting at him.

“Quiet!” Came the command as Bahar and Baruk waded through the crowd. “I said quiet,” she growled at the fisherman who tried to protest but her double-edged sword was at his throat in a flash. No one messed with Bahar when she gave an order. Not scared Africans adrift at sea and not even the village elders. Bahar was a trained Persian commander allowed to retire early for services rendered the Empire and made her home here next to her hometown because, as she said, she liked the breeze.

“What seems to be the problem?” Baruk challenged the crowd. All at once they started shouting in and pointing to Nim as if he was the source of evil in the village. “You. Speak.” The big man said with a wave to silence the crowd, addressing the fisherman.

“This boy, who you say, brings luck to the fishers gave me nothing but empty nets! Have you swindled your people?” Another uproar from the crowd, and Bahar shut them up with the thirst for killing that shone in her eyes as she flashed her blade at them.

“It is not our way to force children onto fishing vessels so that we might catch more fish. If the boy goes or if he does not is his business. He is a child. But you are a man. You will leave this place.” Baruk when he spoke thus, his word was final. The man spat at the elder and, snatching his supplies, cut his boat away from the harbor and drifted down the shore. Nim hoped he’d never have to see that man again.

“As for the rest of you! For shame. Askender and Meklit have tended to all of your wounds and for a fraction of the price he should be charging and yet you have turned on their son? What will your gods say about you? That you shame foreigners and rebuke the sojourner? Shame on all of you, indeed. Now go home and leave this boy alone.”

The crowd dispersed murmuring and muttering to themselves, clearly not happy but none willing to risk a run in with Bahar to challenge the point. Nim, now shaken to his core, could not help but see a people willing to kill him just because they didn’t get there way. His trust in his village now and forever shaken that his only value to them was when things were prosperous. He’d hate to fathom what would happen if something truly awful fell upon them. He didn’t think he’d survive long to tell about it.

That night he cried into his mother’s lap sobbing while Meklit begged his father not to do anything rash. They went back and forth if it was finally time for them to leave. In the end though, they thought it best that Nim no longer show any more of the luck he had given people. He tried to argue he wasn’t doing anything that it was all circumstance and everyone else was blinded by what they wanted to see. However, Askender, not known to be a pious man, reprimanded the youth not to speak ill of matters he did not understand. Nim resented his father more than night than in any other moment. What did that man know about the harassment and danger he was in? All for what? A god that was most likely not even real?

Word count: 2476

Trigger Warning: Violence

Chapter 3 - Anahita

The peaceful life of Aasha came to a screeching halt. More and more people refused treatment from either Askender or Meklit. After that confrontation they were once again seen as outsiders. The women of the village paid Meklit less mind, didn’t share the gossip of the day, and when she walked by she was often greeted by sneers. Her only friend became Bahar, the Persian commander turned village protector. No matter what was happening, no matter what she was doing, Bahar always managed to take time to speak with and comfort Meklit.

“What did I do?” Meklit said one day, it was a question she often repeated that Bahar never managed to have an answer for. This time they were sitting along the beach under the shade of the palm trees watching the water softly lap the shore. “We felt so welcomed but now everyone hates me.”

“They do not hate you, my Light,” Bahar said whittling at a piece of wood. Early on, Bahar adopted this pet name for Meklit. Where it came from and why she used it, Bahar never spoke of the reason. “Only Anahita knows,” would be her default answer with a shrug. Maybe this is why, Meklit thought quietly, they always linked her family with the goddess and not just because of their statue. Curse that statue, she wished she never brought it. Of all the gods in their home, she didn’t even really think about it, she just grabbed one, any of them, hoping it would save them. “They fear.” She said at last, her eyes searching the horizon for threats.

“Fear what?” Meklit asked indignant at the thought that anyone, especially Aasha, would have a cause to fear her family.

“They fear what you might do to them,” she said, now fully distracted from the conversation. Her hand coming to rest on her sword sheathed its scabbard half crusted with sand. “One day you might curse them. They fear what they do not know,” Bahar continued, her eyes narrowing at a singular point along the coast.

That made some sense to Meklit. After all, that was a common fear even in the peaceful land of Macrobia or rather…the once peaceful land. Everyone’s first reaction was the fear and then to attack the things that they thought would hurt them. Better to strike first than to strike last and die. However, the change in mood made Meklit look over from staring at her toes in the sand to her friend and confidante. “What’s the matter? What do you see?”

“Trouble,” Bahar was on her feet now, the sword belt tied around her waist with practiced ease. “Find Bahman. Lock yourself in your home. If you see the elders, warn them.”

Meklit stumbled to her feet with the aid of the palm tree trunk. “Why? What’s going on?”

“We are about to be raided. Run.” Bahar said this so matter-of-fact that Meklit almost missed what was said entirely. “RUN!” Bahar barked in the way only a commander could. Meklit heeded and started to run toward the village. Her heart pounding. With each step that night nearly 11 years ago came back. The screaming of her fiends, the smell of the burning houses. A memory she stuffed deep down in her mind she thought she’d never think of again. As she stepped over a log on her way up the beach, she could have sworn it was the leg of a friend who died in the attack, so dark and burnt the log was, she could still smell the flesh.

By some miracle, she made her way breathless back to their home and ushered Askender and Nim back inside. Some people came by having heard her screaming and after hearing that the order came from Bahar notified the elders and the people raised to arms to defend their home. Those trained would join Bahar and those able and untrained would stay near the houses.

Askender forced his son into the hole they had dug out as food storage. The space was just big enough that if he curled up the boy could fit. Askender then put all the food that was in the storage on top of the lid to the hole. Hopefully it looked inconspicuous enough he could at least save his son. He then grabbed the only weapon he could find - a fishers harpoon one of the lame had left when he came in from a fishing accident.

Suddenly screams came. Screams that could only be of the dying. It came not from the shore but from the inland road! Askender peaked his head out the door and found that there was a small troop of, for lack of a better term, bandits sprinting along the road. They were not Persian soldiers as they wore no armor and their weapons were makeshift, not of the professional honed material that Bahar carried with her constantly. Askender cursed the soldier. She fell for the distraction. He was about to step back inside his home before anyone could see him, his heart going out for the dying but he wasn’t going to jeopardize his family. Instead he caught a loose arrow in the throat, lodging him against the door and he slumped against it choking on his own blood.

Meklit screamed and Nim could do nothing but pound against the trapdoor. She moved the help her husband but a giant of man sliced him through to finish the job. The air was full of the sounds of the screams and sobs of the villagers and fires being started. Death and blood filled her nostrils as the man lurched forward into the house. Meklit scrambled to cover the pile of food that hid her son. Hopefully he would think she thought he was after supplies and would look no further. The man offered no explanation, just a hungry lustful look and snarl as he slashed the air with his makeshift machete. He got a clean cut of her abdomen, cutting through her dress and a slight incision into her skin. She winced, and covered her stomach, her hand immediately soaked. She begged for mercy as the man raised his blade above his head, readying a final blow.

That final blow never came. With the singing whistle of true steel, and a gurgle, the would be robber’s head fell clean off. Bahar stood over his body gasping for air. She took one look at her friend and knew she was going to die. Thinking quickly, she tried to hand Meklit a long piece of fabric and encouraged her to press it as tight as she could. She would have promised to go get help but the only two people who could have helped are either dead hanging on a door or bleeding out on the floor. “Nim…Bahman…get Bahman…” Meklit moaned softly. Bahar looked around before she could hear the kicking of the trapdoor.

With a strong tug, Bahar lifted both the food items and the trap door open. “I’m sorry. You should stay with your mother in her last moments. I need to go protect the others.” Bahar’s voice had the tone of a command but still a soft edge that left him sobbing but nodding. And just like that, like it never even happened, Bahar was out the door fighting to save her beloved Aasha.

“Mother!” Nim gasped as he desperately tried to claw his way across the floor and over to where his mother lay on her side. Rolling her on her back the first thing he saw was all the blood. There was so much blood. He looked around for more clean pieces of fabric and tried to press them tightly on the wound. His mothers gasps were going to be her last if he didn’t do something soon. What could he do? What could he do!?

“Use me,” came the most soothing and benevolent voice he ever heard. The panic washed away and for a moment he felt like he wasn’t doubled over his mother begging for her to live. “Touch my statue and take my power. Save your mother.”

“Who said that? Where are you?” Came a panted voice that was his but yet he did not feel as if it was. It was as if someone else was speaking and he was far removed from the situation.

“I…well…I am you,” the gentle serene woman’s voice said softly again as if his mother wasn’t seconds from dying with him washed in her blood. “Well, I will be you. Now accept my power and heal your mother before it is too late.”

“That’s not an answer!”

“You may call me Anahita, if you like. Now, please, my statue.”

Nim didn’t know what had come over him, he didn’t know why he did what he did but, there was nothing else to do but obey. He touched the glowing blue hued ebony statue on the table. Wait, had it been glowing a moment ago? It was too late as his fingers touched the wood, everything went white. There was no sound, no screams, no fires burning. For a moment, Nim thought he had died. This must be the afterlife. “No. It isn’t.” Came an echoed reply from somewhere deep within him. “I am finally home. Thank you, Nim.”

As quick as the flash came, it left and he was left with the sight of his dead father still stuck to their door. He never thought as long as he lived he would ever be able to forget that night. The next thing he realized was his hands were no longer soaked in his mothers blood and viscera. In fact, there was no blood at all. The wound was closed and her clothes were mended. “Mother!” He screamed, finding his voice once again. “She is alive. Let her rest for now. We must go and help.”

“Forget help! My father is dead and my mother…well…she was dying. Why should I help them,” Nim said, the 10 year old sobbing quietly.

“I saved your mother. Now you save these people. It’s that simple, it is the only thing to do,” her voice, that tender voice, now had an edge to it and it was as if his body would obey her before it obeyed him. He fought it as only a stubborn child could.

“Fine. If we go, I am going,” Nim growled through his tears. He would no longer be made to do anything he didn’t want. Not by a fisherman and certainly not by a crazy lady in his head. “I heard that,” came a snide remark as he stumbled out the door, avoiding looking at his father lest he vomit.

The scenes outside his home were no less gruesome. Men and women and children strewn on the ground in various stages of death and/or dying. By the time he managed to find his way to his neighbor’s home, the fog of battle making it as if he was in a waking nightmare, Bahar and the men of the Aasha had repelled the attack. Nim knelt down to a bleeding woman, laying hands on her, and with a flash, her wounds were healed. He didn’t stop to check his work, he was clearly not the driver of his own body. Whether because of trauma or because of Anahita, he managed to visit and heal all those who were not already dead. It ended up being exhausting. Later the goddess would explain that magic requires something, it is always tit-for-tat. That night his body was supercharged with her entrance, giving it the power it needed to save a village, but it would not be a feat he would be able to replicate again for some time.

While Nim and Anahita healed all they could, another group gathered the dead so that by the time he made it home, his father was laid with the others. “I don’t suppose we can remove blood stains,” Nim asked, but he suddenly felt empty. There was no inner voice driving him anymore. Had he dreamt this whole thing. Maybe it was the realest nightmare of his life and all he needed to do was wake up. He laid down beside his still resting mother and fell asleep by her side, tears rolling down his face.

He woke to his mother’s sobs. When he roused she hugged him close repeatedly thanking Anahita for saving her son. “Dad…” was all he could say leading to more giant sobs from his mother.

“I’m sorry. I’m so sorry, Nim. Your father…we never saw it coming. It was too late. It was too late…it was too late. I tried to save you…” She said rocking him, perhaps more for her own comfort. She then pressed her arms to her waist. “I thought I died…” she said her eyes clearly searching for an answer. “Did you…”

Then the headache set in. It was throbbing, blinding and deafening. “Mother…I…yes…but…my head…” he whimpered as he held his hand with both of his hands and standing up, positioning himself to sit on the bed instead. “I tried to help…I couldn’t save everyone.”

“Everyone?” Meklit gasped and ran out the door, leaving her son in the throes of his own suffering. When she came back, the fear and loss in her voice was replaced with awe. “The village is saying you saved them! That they were dying, laying in the streets, and you saved them. Is that true?” She grabbed him and he groaned against the sudden pressure, his eyes shut tight.

“I think…I thought it was a dream. It had to be a dream,” he continued to whine. He didn’t want any of this. He didn’t know what any of this meant. He just wanted his father alive, he wanted his family whole. He wanted whatever it was inside him to leave.

“That is one thing I will not do. I will not leave you, Nim. You will need me many more times before this is done. Your road is long and there is much suffering. There will be even more than this day and in the end, you will need me the most. So no, Nim, I will not leave you. I am you. And you are mine.”

Word Count: 2380

Chapter 4 - Fracture

The following days were a blur for Nim. There was dealing with the dead bodies. The locals had a custom for honoring the fallen, a ritual started by Bahar but it felt so in tune with the culture of Aasha that they readily adopted it. There was a hymn of blessing sung over the corpses, and then a sprinkling of an oil made from myrrh, a slightly costly ingredient that some were not too happy about parting with. Next each person was wrapped in a specific cloth and prepared in a very specific way known only to one other person in the village.

Messengers were sent to the Poura, the capital of the Satrapy, to request that priests come to bless the bodies. This was also done at Bahar’s insistence. Despite her often brutal manner, she was also a devout believer in the gods, perhaps from her time serving in the military. Aasha was under the assumption they could handle themselves but no one ever dared to contradict the retired soldier unless they were willing to fight her for it.

Meanwhile, the village rallied together to repair the damage done. Everyone was too amazed by the fact that they survived the encounter that no one blamed it on Nim or his family. Instead it was agreed that the fisherman that got cast out was a part of those brigades and since they were repelled that was that. The village as a whole rejected requests to send a small group to root out any stragglers.

Everyone wanted things to return to the way they once were. However, for Meklit and Nim, things would never be the same again. Askender for all his flaws was the pillar of their family. Whenever they didn’t know what to do, it was his steady hand that guided them. Without him Meklit continued to struggle in the village. The trouble seemed to have subsided but she still felt watched by the other women. Nim, as he observed other fathers teach their sons the tricks of their trade, felt altogether robbed of such experience and wondered if he’d ever find a place to belong - a place where he didn’t feel used and manipulated. If such a place could be real, he’d never want to leave. He was starting to understand, even at that age, he would never ever feel at home again.

It took several days of travel but a small caravan arrived in Aasha with 3 priests, each representing the three gods that have favor in Persia: Ahura Mazda, Mithra, and Anahita. The priest of Ahura Mazda, Raza, wore white robes of a rich fabric, his mantle a vibrant dark purple with silver embroidery stitching intricate Persia floral designs. His priestly garb was by far the nicest of the three and Nim knew if his father were here there would be a clever quip about where the money really goes in the temples. Next to him stood a priestess, Jameshi, white robes with a red mantle and a sun embroidered on the chest. Lastly, the priestess of Anahita, Abela. Nim cocked his eyebrows and managed to squeeze his head through the crowd to get a better look, specifically of the last in the retinue. Apparently, he also knew this goddess. She wore a light blue robe whose mantle was a deep navy. There was no embroidery, nothing flashy just a plain navy blue mantle. Nim was about to say how unimpressed he was but the headache inexplicably came back and he withdrew.

The people wasted no time in clambering over themselves to tell the priests and their entourage exactly what transpired. When it got to the part where a boy name Bahman Farhad had single-handed healed the people of the village from the attack. The priest, who appeared to be the one in charge, Raza, held up his hand for silence. “There has not been anyone who can perform magic born in centuries, maybe even longer. Show me this charlatan.”

Nim took that as his cue to get out of there and lay low. The boy thought bitterly that it always came back to having him beaten for something that wasn’t his fault. He never wanted this attention. He never wanted people thinking he was anything special. He just wanted his father back.

As the crowd started to look around, the boy dashed behind a nearby house. He was convinced he was free when he felt a hand grab him and carrying him back the way he came. “I’m sorry,” he grunted as he placed his hand on his assailant’s. Whoever had him quickly retreated, his hand had started to blister as if touching a hot stove. Freed from the grip, Nim darted into the shrubbery and hid there.

He once again thought he was free when a scar etched itself in his forearm. It wasn’t large or noticeable but it felt like someone was dragging a hot poker across his skin. “Do not use magic to harm others. Next time, I will not be so kind,” the voice punctuated her point with the searing pain.

Unlucky for Nim, however, the man came back with two others and he was dragged before the priests and made to kneel in front of them. The boy averted his gaze, staring daggers into the sandals of the newcomers. “State your name, child,” a harsh command from the priestess, Jameshi, in red. “Or do your people not know the common tongue?” She spat in Aramaic

‘My people.’ Rage. Before he could do anything rash, a cooling came over him. He was so tired of ‘these people’ treating him well like family but then casting him and his family aside when it was most convenient. He sighed away the emotions though, in no small part due to Anahita’s calming. “I am Bahman Farhad, I live here in Aasha. And these are my people.”

The priest of Ahura Mazda was the next to speak, his tone equally condescending, “Is it the truth that you tell these people you can heal them?”

Nim did not answer and with his disobedience a cane struck him in the back. Someone pulled his tight knit hair and forced him to look up at the priest. He caught his mother’s frightened visage out of the corner of his eyes. “I claim no such thing.”

“Then how is it these people seem to think you can use magic and heal them?”

“I just did.” Nim whimpered, the strands of his hair tugging his scalp tight.

“So you do not deny being a fraud?” He didn’t know who said this. He wanted it to stop. If only he could reach for the magic, but when he went for it, there was nothing there, it was as if he was cut off.

“Hold,” a small voice cut through the crowd and the two other priests backed away. It seemed it was Abela, the Anahita priestess’ turn to torture him. “Release him, I would have him stand and face me on his own.” There was a hesitancy and then the crowd obeyed. He was cut free and shoved on his face. Coughing up sand, Nim stood up. He had to look up, his stance and his eyes defiant against whatever it was going on. He had had just about enough of crowds bossing him around.

The priestess looked in his eyes as if searching for something. “Yes,” she said with some amount of satisfaction. “We will perform our rituals for your dead, but you can be sure, we will be back for you, Bahman,” the first part was an order to the crowd and the last part was said softly for only his ears. A shiver ran down his spine and after a few more words, the people were dispersed and the rituals finished.

Nim was allowed to leave the meeting and once again he was struck with the fact that everyone wanted to use the foreigner. He looked different and therefore there were only two courses of action: be used or be discarded. The village of Aasha, Hope, was proving to be something far more sinister for the young boy - a trap from which he could not escape.

He used to love it here. He used to love helping people or feeling like he belonged. He played with the other children, and got praised for his acts of daring by the adults. Now, those memories felt false, as if he was tricked into believing he was safe. He couldn’t even wish to go home, he didn’t know where that was! If it ever existed, he doubted he’d ever be able to go there. No matter how much his family worked for these people, no matter what they sacrificed or how they changed, they would only ever be outsiders.

The whole thing took a day once everything was organized and by the week’s end Aasha was down several people but it had looked like there was never a raid to begin with. It didn’t take long however, for word to spread of the miracles that Nim performed - even at the behest of the priesthood that such things not be spread. Wounds closed, bones mended, jaws set. There was even one tale, whether true or not, that a man’s head was placed back on his head though Nim swears that that never happened. It didn’t matter if it happened or not, or if it happened exactly right, what mattered it seemed, was if the people wanted it to be real.

It wasn’t just Aasha, people came from all over to be healed. The lame were carried on stretchers and those with grievous wounds all but crawled to his doorstep. For those that could be managed through other means, Meklit took them and handled them herself along with a young girl whom she took on as her assistant and trainee. Mostly, Nim tried to make himself scarce. He wanted no part of this and he just wanted to be a normal boy, just a boy who played at stick fights and throwing stones - a boy who had a father. However, those days were proving to be long gone.

The African boy sat down one evening, a week or so after the visit from the priesthood. He was alone on the shores of Aasha, his feet washed in the rhythm of the waves. He sighed and wished for all the world that this was a dream. He hated being used like this. Even his own mother sought to take advantage of this ‘gift.’ When he was alone, he felt bold to speak to himself out loud. Well, not to himself, but it felt good to not always be in his own head. “Can we really heal all these people?” He asked himself, now growing accustomed to referring to himself in the plural.

“News does travel faster than I remember” Anahita commented, the voice in his head sounded curious, as if she had not also anticipated this happening. Nim felt hesitation that wasn’t ever there when they worked together through the weeks. She filled him with warmth, and he had the feeling of being whole. As long as they were together, he could handle even these things. When he first met her, she claimed to be him, and it certainly felt that way, that they were two pieces of the same puzzle.

“Aren’t you…like…god?” Nim asked irreverently. His voice was more accusatory than he had anticipated and immediately regretted speaking to her in such away. She felt distant in that moment, like she was lost in thought, and didn’t seem to give his indiscretion any notice.

“Well, things are different now. Last time I found you, you were in Macrobia. I was not expecting your family to flee. But it makes sense, closer to the center would mean news travels fast I suppose.”

“Wait…found me last time? I was never in Macrobia,” Nim’s head was starting to ache again. He found himself trying to remember something lost, something important he should know. Not only was the memory inaccessible, it felt like being stabbed in the head every time he reached for it.

“I wouldn’t do that. You’ve tried that once before and it didn't lead anywhere I would like to go again. All things will be revealed in time. What’s bothersome to me is that priestess seemed to recognize what you are. That is different as well.”

The boy’s head was spinning as he was sitting on a cot in his mother’s house trying for all the world to be forgotten. Anahita, or whoever she was, seemed to know far more than she was letting on. “Wouldn’t it be natural if one of your priestess’ recognized you, I mean, me?”

“Hmm?” The voice was obviously thinking about other things. There was a long pause before she spoke again and continued, “It would…and it’s quite hard to explain now. Things are going faster than last time. You will understand in due time, I hope.”

They made their way back to his house, Nim not being aware he was still speaking when talking to Anahita. He ended up curled on his cot musing about what next steps might be.

“Dear, who are you talking to?” His mother’s voice. Great, how does he explain that a goddess is living inside his head and he uses her magic to heal people. She has already started to see him as a way to get money. It didn’t start like that but it only took a short time for her to start raising prices for other’s to gain access to his magic. Not for the first time, and certainly, he assumed, not for the last time, he wished his father was here.

“Oh never mind. Come out, some soldiers and an official are here to talk to you. Make sure to clean yourself up.” She gave him a once over like he should know better and then she disappeared presumably to talk to said company.

He needed to hide, and quickly. There was no way he was going to get kicked around, prodded and humiliated again for just being a boy. “Statue,” came the calm voice, and instinctively, Nim grabbed it. When his fingers wrapped around the ebony figure he felt himself draining. All the warmth that he had come to relying on through the week left him. He was cold, his heart sore. It was as if he fractured and part of him was slipping away. Gasping for air, Nim wanted nothing more than to cry. He felt he lost a part of him. He mouthed the words, “Lost a part of me.” A memory once again was just out of reach.

Word Cout: 2456

PART 2 - ACROSS THE EMPIRE

Chapter 5 - Intrigue

Abela sat in her chambers contemplating the events of her journey. She reclined on plush pillows of fine fabric. Her room was spacious with all manners of silk drapery of every shade of blue. It was the chosen color of her goddess and her preference as well. The room was made of sandbrick, and Persian rugs of blues and greens overlapped one another and gave the space a rather lavished look. The young priestess couldn’t deny, being a part of the religious institutes of the empire paid well.

She had been requested to attend a funeral ritual in a small coastal village and wound up finding something far more fascinating. Abela never expected to meet someone like that boy out here in the furthest reaches of the empire. She was originally from the Levant, just south of Tyre. When she was stationed to the east her heart had sank but trusted that Anahita knew best and went wherever the temple needed her. Over the next few years the young woman found the culture here quite relaxed, and appreciated not being under the constant eye of her superiors. She was by far the most educated among the various priests in Poura and for that was afforded quite a bit of luxury compared to the others.

Of the three gods worshipped and sanctioned by Artexerxes II, which she found no shortage of irony that even which gods were favored bowed to the emperor. Anahita was the goddess that was considered the least “powerful,” whatever that meant, but the most necessary. Persia was always attentive to what was necessary and demanded that things be ordered - chaos and all its manifestations were forbidden as much as one could forbid such things. This included all infirmaries, a bane to the very order of Persian excellence. The Temple of Anahita proved to be effective at curing many maladies and Abela was one of her most effective healers. That she got put in a backwaters city led her early on to believe that she was being punished. However, as time went on, she was able to smooth over many discrepancies between the locals and the empire simply by being known as a very talented priestess.

Abela didn’t posses any magic abilities, those were only bestowed, so it was said, to whoever was chosen as the high priests of each god. She had never been able to confirm such a tale but their possession of powerful magic left few willing to contradict such a claim. In fact just months ago, she was tasked, as were the other priests, with trying to locate any one suspected of using magic without artifacts. Now, it seemed to Abela, that if the high priests could use magic, they wouldn’t have a need to try to recruit those who could do so naturally. She knew better than to disobey orders, obedience is what kept her wealthy.

She returned to the missive she was trying to write. She wrote a report stating that she found such a one in a small village but was unable to confirm if they did in fact have such an ability. She kept out the fact that she not only felt her goddess but also could have sworn she saw her in the flicker of that boy’s eyes. How peculiar that Anahita should choose a foreigner of such unknown origin - she had never seen a person with his skin and hair before - and not one of her loyal followers within the empire. He claimed to be from Aasha but that was clearly not the truth.

She would keep this information to herself, at least for now. Once she knew what this all meant, then she would deliver this Bahman Farhad to the emperor herself. Until then, the only one who needed to know the truth was in the room.

It was still around midmorning and had to manage the affairs of the temple. She beckoned for one of her servants to come and braid her hair as she rolled up the papyrus. She pressed the seal of Anahita into the hot wax. Once her servant had finished the task, she stood up and draped a sheer shawl over her body and went out to tend to the temple.

It was a small temple, only about three times the size of her room - she did so love to be extravagant in her own living arrangements. There were colonnades on the four corners of the building that held up a vaulted roof, each one with a gemstone at its center offering strength to hold up the structure with minimal stonework. It had four walls and the entrance arched high and allowed ample light into the chamber. In the middle was a large basin that was sometimes full of water and sometimes full of fire depending on what ritual needed to be performed. A large statue of Anahita was in the back, garbed in as fine silk as Abela clothed herself. There were various small rooms around the length of the building for if individuals required a private blessing from the priestesses. Around the room were various throw pillows and cushions of the same make and quality as what she enjoyed in her own room. The silk drapery also shared the same hues of blue. It looked quite comfortable and they had many happy patrons and some matrons.

The exterior of the temple was simple. It looked like a large sandstone cube with several smaller ones hugging it. The temple of Anahita preferred simple exteriors and lavished interiors. This was different for the other two temples which insisted on extravagant depictions of both their gods, the hierarchy of their gods, and the exploits of conquests. These often featured subjugation of the local area and region to remind the people who was boss and that they owed the empire for how much order their lives now had. Anahita had no such claims to any sort of campaign and the main job of Abela’s temple was to placate the masses with affection and certain kinds of attention. Anahita was not only the goddess of water and health but also fertility. An ability Abela and her priestesses excelled at in more ways than one.

People, of course, were allowed to worship any god they so chose, but the price of choice was a nice donation to the temples of the empire. Many, though, Abela saw, were quickly persuaded to worship the empire’s way. They had the most powerful artifacts and therefore the most effective and consistent results. That they required magic to prove their faith never caused any problems for Abela, or the fact that the only reason they have such a magic was not because of a blessing from their god but because they robbed the lands of their own and used it as theirs. This, she rationalized, was just a part of bringing things to order. It would be too chaotic if the masses could have access to whatever they wanted. It was best to help guide them to the best solution, and that was always more coin in her coffers.

While Abela tended to a particularly troubled yet very handsome and wealthy patron in one of the private rooms of the temple, there was growing unrest across the way in the temple of Mithra. Jameshi, the priestess who’s job it was to see that justice was brought to this hellhole, was seething. She paced the length of her temple, larger than the temple of Anahita, but still smaller than the great Ahura Mazda. Instead of the blue silks of the healer, the temple of Mithra was bare walled and bare floored save red tapestries extolling the virtues of the god as well as several rugs meant for kneeling. The god Mithra towered in the back of the temple behind a ornate stone seat - Jameshi’s judgement seat. While the government handled legal disputes, it was Jameshi’s job to tame these wild people’s with the fear of the gods.

The problem, as she saw it, her short hair unruly with her scratching incessantly at her head, was that that bitch Abela usurped her authority in that nasty little piss pot of a fishing village. It should have been her call what to do with that boy - clearly he was a charlatan and clearly he should have been made an example of. If Babylon caught word of the fact that she let a fraud rally the local people and that gathering resulted in revolt, it could be blamed on her for not subduing the people leading to military action which would do nothing but anger people.

She would write to the priesthood. Yes. She would pre-empt this by explaining she tried to bring justice and order to the empire, but was blocked by that scantily clad skank. She should have killed that boy right there and Abela for daring to interfere in the gods’ justice. And write she did, with her message being sent immediately.

Finally, far from the other two temples and the smaller shrines that dotted the same avenue - often temples crowded each other in a bid to win the most supporters - was the Great Temple of Ahura Mazda of Poura. It sat on high above the city on top of a sheer cliff and a steep incline on the backside with various paths crawling along the incline toward the summit. It was a miniature of the Great Temple in Babylon with an open air terrace and beautiful plants of all manner creating a mini-paradise inviting worshippers into the temple proper with large mammoth colonnades lining the walls. Large basins used for festival and annual sacrifices sat between each of the pillars. A large stone engraving of Ahura Mazda adorned the shrine. It is said the stone slab was brought from Babylon - whether true or not, anyone who knew had long since passed with age. In front of the relief stood a statue of the emperor and a statue of none other than the Priest of Poura himself - Raza.

Raza, Chief Priest of Poura, Priest of Ahura Mazda, looked over his city. He had noticed that Abela took charge at Aasha but he also trusted her judgment. She was quick to seduce but her sensitivity to magic was second to none in this region. If she had decided not to kill that boy then it must be a reason. He could only guess but he would watch her carefully. Abela thought her education took her further than it did. It wasn’t what you knew but who you knew. He didn’t get to the top of this Satrapy without knowing all the right people. She might have saved the boy but if he turned out to be something important, it would be him, and not her with the credit. It was time for him to write to Babylon to cut off whatever ambition she thinks she might have. And if this boy turned out to be a magic user, well, more glory to Ahura Mazda if the boy were to be trained under Raza!

Sensing that a letter written to his patrons would be a move too slow, Raza drafts another order to the garrison stationed at the heart of the city center. Written in the orders is a command to bring this “Bahman Farhad” to him so that he may be properly educated. There was no need to wait for the Empire to decide the next move when he had the power himself.

Three factions in the city of Poura, all vying to control something they don’t fully understand. However, it is not what these three ambitious priests want with the boy that will determine his future but what Babylon herself, as with all other matters, chooses to decide. As with artifacts so it is with people, the more powerful the artifact the closer to the heart of the Empire it is drawn - and the more the Empire wishes to control a person, the closer they are drawn.

Word count: 2016

Chapter 6 - Babylon Calls

Babylon was paradise. Or so the inhabitants thought. One of the first metropolises to exist in history and by some standards the grandest: tiled walkways, colorful and bright murals composed of glass, tiles, and gems, everything in proper order with several towers seeming to grow out of the center of the city. Once the heart of a great empire, it was home to many of the most wondrous works known to mankind - a city of art, culture, and governance. The city was well manicured with public parks and forested lanes, both Babylonian and Persian gardens grew handsomely between buildings and districts.

The Empire was famous for repurposing everything or as they might classify it - ordering the chaos. In this instance there were two structures that were both rebuilt and reclassified - the royal palace which towered several stories above even the tallest home in the city and the hanging gardens, a tiered tower that, much to the dismay of the locals for loss of its former glory, was even taller than the palace but now served as the Grand Temple of Persia. The palace was turned into a center for re-education and religious studies. The purpose was to take gifted youths from across the Empire, re-educate them to strip them of all their cultural distinction and put them to work in the apparatus of the empire - depending on said giftedness they were then sent to Persepolis or Tyre or they stayed in the school for religious training.

The Grand Temple was a layered circular multistory structure, a broad base with each consecutive layer smaller than the one below - a circular ziggurat. What was once filled with beautiful flora from across the world was now host to a religious bureaucracy. As a deity gained favor in the empire, or more specifically with the king, they were able to move up the tower - this necessitated that one from that level moved down in an ever changing elevator of religious economics. No matter the king, the top spot with the magnificent view and richly adorned, well, everything, was Ahura Mazda the creator god. The penultimate level housed the Grand Temples of Mithra and Anahita - the most coveted of spots as those tended to change with who was king at the time. There was no shortage of different deities trying to draw various talents that would garner more support for their god and more importantly their priests.

No matter the level your divine presence occupied, the Tower of Babylon was the most sophisticated and magically enhanced structure in the world. A treasure trove of magical pendants, talismans, statues, gems and more kept the tower and it’s many blessings powered. There was an anxiety that the old magic was dying and they needed a source for their various intrigues, but that stayed between the upper echelons of power - namely the Chief High Priest and the royal advisors in Persepolis. Imagine his surprise, then, sitting on top of his [mostly] ivory tower, overlooking the greatest city with its foliage and high peaked buildings, when he received not just 3 letters but a dozen detailing the identification of 3 youths that all purportedly display innate magical abilities.

“The gods have truly blessed us. All glory to Ahura Mazda,” the elderly, grey bearded priest wheezed. He might have just found his way out of this magical quagmire. The gods had such interesting timing.

“Yes, these will do nicely,” he continued to himself mostly, though he was always surrounded by the ravenous ambition of his acolytes. It was only the fear that he could curse them to their graves that kept them from acting on their deepest heart’s desires to see his throat slit or, preferably he imagined, cast from the tower to a tumbling death. “We will have a way to siphon magic and power our empire for centuries if what is in these letters is true.”

He could scarcely pray for one such youth but to have the potential for three was not known to happen for millennia! No, he needed to play his hand carefully. First they would need to be re-educated when they came to Babylon. He was certain that one of them needed to be house-trained before he was allowed to bring his filth anywhere near his perfect city. The other two would excel immediately. He would write back to them asking for the prince and young merchant’s daughter to be brought immediately, but the rag needed to be washed first - he would have to stay there for a few years to get some culture in him.

“My lord…” a reluctant voice came, snapping him out of his own maniacal thinking. He shot the man a glance that, if it could, would vaporize him. Seeing that the man did not back down the High Priest waved for him to continue, “do you have any news of that…other matter?”

The priest blinked, for a moment he was so wrapped up in such a tidy solution for a long term issue, he forgot completely about that other matter. “The loom…” he muttered. Yes. There was a prophecy stating that the one who finds this “loom of fate” controlled the destiny of the entire world. It was a farce, and he told Artexerxes and the council specifically, but the King was so obsessed with conquering Greece permanently he’d believe any old wives tale that was spun for him so long as it was Greek and so long as it meant he had more power.

As far as the High Priest could ascertain, the Loom of Fate was said to be a device that weaved a tapestry of all that happens in history. The one to control the loom was the one to control the universe. It is part of the reason for such desperation to conquer Macedonia - the king believes he can find more information on this magical artifact and, perhaps, find it somewhere in those godless mountains. Far be it for the Great High Priest to disobey an order from the king, but it was a task he set to his pions and the lower gods all of whom seem to devour such an “honor” as if it was their only lifeline to a better life.

“Yes, well, tell me what you’ve found,” the old man in the gold robes sighed dismissively, bored of this conversation. They were in his chambers, a large room with high decorative ceilings portraying scenes from old legends, the space opened to a terrace overlooking the city, lined with beautiful plants of every color from around the world including a prized orchid from a far away land called Macrobia. He had to negotiate the trade of a very rare ebony statue of Anahita to secure it. The statue itself was not as grand as all the others in her likeness and it was said to be the very first statue in her honor - a claim that he didn’t doubt by how worn it was. However, despite its rarity it never really displayed the power it should have, but it was kept sacred by the priests of her order so it took quite a bit of wrangling to make the trade possible.

His disciples looked around at each other, sitting on cushions that were purposefully made to be uncomfortable, some say the High Priest filled them with rocks and glass just so he didn’t have to talk to people for long. Given this no one wanted to finish the thought, his opinion on the loom was no secret but news was news and he had asked to be, begrudgingly, kept in the loop of progress. “It has been confirmed that there is a rumor that the loom is in the hands of a cult dedicated to its safe maintenance,” a young man, the most ambitious to have made it so high up the food chain at such an age, said cautiously.

The old man rubbed his brow furiously biting back whatever spell was boiling up in his bowels. By comparison his seat was plush and he often only felt the need to move to go out to his balcony to admire his hard won orchid - a flower he kept alive for more than a decade thanks to a particularly potent agricultural deity statue. “Correct me if I am wrong,” he said sarcastically, no one would dare correct him, “but we already knew this.”

“Yes,” another one said eagerly, “but…” a choke cut him off. The priest’s eyes turned murderous as the man collapsed on the ground writhing in pain unable to breathe.

“What you say next better be worth my time. I will remind you. All of you are easily replaceable. Now. Speak. And say something important.” There was nothing he hated more than someone contradicting him, and they did so at the risk of their own life.

“We know the location of several cults that match the rumor. It’s just a matter of narrowing it down to the real one.” The disciple said gasping for air, pleading for a chance to live.

“Not good enough,” the High Priest seethed and with that the disciple fell limp. “Get this corpse out of here and only come to me about this stupid loom when you have ALREADY narrowed down the list and have confirmed the looms existence.” With that the rest of the group dragged the body out of his chambers with a plethora of apologies. It didn’t matter if he lost a body or two, in order for them not to forget that though he is old he still held all the power.

When he was alone he rose to his feet and walked outside. He walked along the ornate railing that played host to his beautifully perfected flower collection, looking out on the near rows of houses with trees and gardens separating the districts. Babylon was order incarnate. It was such a blessing for this god forsaken city that Persia came to liberate it. It was now separated into 4 distinct quadrants in a perfect circle with the palace and tower at the heart. The southern districts housed the markets and administration, while the north was religion and military. Along the outside of the city wall was the undesirables. The poor, destitute, and outcast of Persian society and anyone hoping to disturb the perfect harmony of Babylon by hoping to seek asylum.

He stopped at his beautiful orchid, the thing he cared most for in all his whole collection. What an odd set of circumstances, he thought, that the very nation to which he sold the idol to would be the very same that brought forth a magic user. That not from their homeland but from the furthest reaches east of the Empire. Abela’s letter mentioned a boy of a dark bronze complexion who speaks Aramaic with an accent she had never heard before. This had to be no coincidence. The only thing he didn’t know yet was if he actually had the statue. If it were lost, or still in Macrobia, it wouldn’t really matter how much magic the boy had - after all there were two others with proper pedigree.

He would write back to her that she must find that statue and bring it back to him. He would both have his flower and the statue. As to the other two, the priest Raza would be best to handle this boy’s education. Though Abela was the best educated she would be just as quick to put him to work in her temple than she would making sure he came to Babylon. Jameshi, however, her letter read like a viper ready to destroy the thing he was hoping to collect. Ignoring her would just allow her to meddle in matters that were above her comprehension. No, she would instruct her that if the boy were a false prophet, and should there be substantial proof to convince the council in Poura, she should dispose of him quietly and quickly in a matter appropriate to her god.

Yes, he was getting everything he wanted. He had to wait for it, and he still had a few more years to wait but everything was finally coming to fruition. He didn’t need the loom. With the three children groomed to siphon off their magic, he would be the ruler of this undeserving world, and all future kings would bow down to him. Let the King Artexerxes toy with his ball of yarn and play soldier - once this priest had all three under his wing and producing magic, not even the immortals could stop him!

Word Count: 2113

Disclaimer - Oracle things happen here. Read at your own discretion.

Chapter 7 - The One Who Sees

Seagulls squawked overhead as a couple walked along the coast of the Mediterranean. The man made harbors of Tyre were a sight to see, jutting along the shoreline as if humanity dared the gods to do something about it. Try as they might, and they sure tried the night before, not even the mighty storms shook this city. Here was a feat of human engineering sured up by the various artifacts that kept it mostly weather proof.

Aliyah, a short woman, was an Assyrian, or so her family proclaimed proudly (and often quietly) in the face of the new empire. She often thought her home the pearl of the empire, of any empire really. Through Assyria, and Babylon, and now Persia, this ancient city took in and accepted all who journeyed to her shores. It’s multiculturalism was not the only reason she thought it a pearl. The buildings were mostly coated in white sand stone giving it a brilliance when the sun was just so, as it was this day. The doorframes and windows were all various colors, sometimes according to districts, and other times as a symbol of wealth and status. There was truly no place she would rather be in the whole world.

Her husband, Yusif, was from Damascus, and what he was, Aliyah never really knew. When they had met, because her father claimed she could marry no one other than, as if there was any surprise, a Syrian. Yusif always dodged the question from her family. As caddy as he was about his heritage she thought he might be of the Hebrews or another ethnicity from the south or east, but he would never answer directly. She learned not to ask. What he was only mattered to her father and that he did not disrupt the festivals or worship of the city. It was an open secret that he was both an elder of their community and also did not worship the gods as the others did. This, too, Aliyah would only shrug at. Once she made up her mind, not even she could change it.

On this day, Yusif and Aliyah were out for a stroll, it was the seventh day and it was their little ritual to go for a walk along the beaches of Tyre. It was one of her favorite things to do and as she was very pregnant, she did not get many chances. Her midwife insisted that Yusif not take her out even for these little walks, but they were both a little stubborn. What could a little fresh air hurt? She had everything she could ever dream of.

“Yusif,” she asked, rubbing the baby that grew inside her, waiting to feel the kicks of her child. “I want to go to the oracle. My father says that it’s time to see what blessing we can give our baby.”

Yusif grunted at this, the muscles in his jaw tensed as he gave it some thought. This was another reason Aliyah loved Yusif so much. His decisions were often final, but he never made a decision without first taking time to consider the consequences. She has seen his hard expression soften into a loving gesture and a time she thought he’d say yes to something she asked for and when he declined she could see the pain in his eyes. While it wasn’t a perfect marriage, it was a typical one and quite an amicable one for the time. She knew he’d be quiet for a time, she had planned the request at the right time for him to give it serious thought. He spoke not a word until the reached a park and sat on the grass to look out over the waves.

“Ok,” the man, no more than 30, said at last, with a sigh that seemed to breath out every single knot in his toned figure. “You may go. But please, I do not wish to know what is said. If it makes you happy, then I will be content.” He could not meet her gaze, it was the best he could do for her.

Aliyah nearly jumped for joy if it weren’t for her husband bracing her, reminding her they were both in public and she could hurt her baby, the very baby she was allowed to seek a blessing for.

She wanted to race up to gather her friends to go meet the Great Oracle of Tyre. She was said to have predicted all Artexerxes successes and his failures. In fact, rumor had it, she was the only one that could tell the king no. If she were being salacious, she’d have pushed the gossip further and said there must be an affair because what power can a woman have over a king unless she is in his bed!

The next day she put on her finest dress and robes. Of course Yusif would not be accompanying her. He would never do such a thing, and also he had important, and boring, trade to handle - something about a scribe messing up a ledger and causing a scene at the docks. Some friends joined her instead as they made their way along the winding cobbled streets, streets older than all but Egypt it’s said, and she let her friends know that fact. They all bobbed their head as if they hadn’t known that fact since their own childhood. Aliyah, especially when nervous, loved to talk and so her friends let her, figuring it was best for everyone that she could talk out her feelings.

The Oracle, the actual building, enjoyed a premiere spot on long large jetty on elevated land. It was an island at one point in history, but since then several kings had worked hard on the project to connect the island to the mainland. Sometimes, the tide was high enough to still engulf the strip of land created. However, on this day, the jetty remained dry as they crossed over. The building stood towering and splendid, with stairs that wrapped around the whole circular structure. Held up by columns the Oracle of Tyre had a domed roof and was pearl white like the rest of the city. Climbing the stairs proved difficult and it was only Aliyah’s excitement that propelled her to the top.

The inside was fashioned like all the other Persian temples. You could still make out the original Assyrian inscriptions toward the bottoms of the various temple settings but most had been reused by the successive empires, having required it to sing the glory of whoever named themselves king at that present time. This time it was Artexerxes, but that would change as it always did. The one thing that did not change, at least for Aliyah, was how beatiful and radiant the Prophet or Oracle was.

“Halt,” came an abrasive command as a soldier blocked Aliyah and her friends from entering the building proper. “The Oracle will see no one this day.”

Her friends moaned, either the woman wasn’t there or she was not giving out blessings. They started back down the stairs but Aliyah stood defiant in front of the rather tall soldier. “I will see the Oracle,” she said mustering all her strength, knowing that, even pregnant, defying a soldier could result in a severe beating. She would have her blessing and some man with a pointy stick was not going to stop her.

“Let her in,” came a cool and sultry voice from inside. “If she is bold enough to stand up to you, knowing she will regret it, perhaps she is worth my time.”

The soldier turned to protest, but when the Oracle stepped out clothed, for once, he knew she meant business. It was not common for priestesses of any order to wear more than perhaps a shawl to cover their head. The Oracle being fully robed meant she was not in the throes of one of her visions or busy with other matters. She was clear of mind and her order was to be followed as if the king himself were present.

“As you wish,” the guard bowed and stepped out of the way for Aliyah to enter. She couldn’t help grinning ear to ear at her good luck. Fortune favors the bold indeed!

Once inside, the Oracle gestured for Aliyah to sit on one of the cushions that lined the outer ring of the complex, with several rings cascading downwards to stop at a large round reflective pool that was impossible to tell its depths. The young woman sat as she was commanded and was shocked with the other woman knelt down in front of her, knees against the hard stone of the floor, and served her some sort of herbal concoction. It smelled sweet, but it’s taste was one of the most bitter things she every put in her mouth.

She coughed and the Oracle smiled knowingly. It surprised Aliyah that this woman was no more than a few years older than her but held so much power and poise. She felt embarrassed to have such a person kneeling in front of her. “Do not mind the taste, my child. It is only to help you relax. Just wait a moment.”

The woman then invited her to the second ring, smaller and with cushions that did not look as comfortable as the first. Aliyah noticed that the Oracle saved the cup of leaves and dredge that was at the bottom of the cup. As she sat, she noticed her body was unusually relaxed. All the pain in her feet from having to walk around seemed to float away. The older woman lit incense, which was common enough in all temple worship, even Yusif used incense for certain things, but these had a peculiar smell. The Oracle took a long breath into the smoke and exhaled slowly, she did this once more and motioned for Aliyah to join her.

The smell was almost as sharp and bitter as the tea she drank but in a moment it didn’t matter. She felt her head clear of worry and then there was no thoughts at all. She slumped against the back of the circle, her head lulled back on the stones. She let out a little giggle and tried to right herself.

“Easy now. This is obviously your first time. Just relax, darling. Just relax into the sensations,” Aliyah could have sworn that the Oracle was no longer talking. It was like the woman’s voice was traveling faster than her lips. What a funny thought that was! Next she was helped up and she felt like a pitcher of water sloshing back and forth as they stepped down to the last circle before the pool. She watched as it looked like the Oracle disrobed. Suddenly she also felt the chill in the air against her bare skin. She was then laid down against what felt like feathers.

“We are almost done I promise you,” the voice was sing-song and she no longer had an idea what was happening or why. She could die here and she might even laugh about it as it happened. Oh, was she dying?

“No, my child. I have one more thing for you,” now the Oracle could read her mind? Or did she say that last bit out loud? She had no way of knowing. She watched as the other woman chewed something and then bent down and kissed her on the lips. She passed the chewed substance, what felt like a giant ball of mush. With what could only be described as practiced tenderness washed the mush around with her tongue until it coated the inside of the younger’s mouth. She was only partially cognizant of the fact the Oracle was now straddling her, with her hands on her pregnant bump.

Suddenly, release that felt like nothing she had ever felt before, a scream that sounded like someone was dying, and a splash. Aliyah came too with such violence, her soul which felt intangible and floating into nothingness, shot back into her body as if flung by a slingshot. She wanted to vomit, but the woman was now face down in the pool. Did…did she kill the oracle? She scrambled to her feet and pulled the woman out of the water, rolling her on her back.

“Wake up, wake up, please wake up! No no no no no! I didn’t do anything I swear! Wake up!” Aliyah was fully panicking, she was definitely going to throw up…oh please don’t throw up on the Oracle. Please please please, is all she thought. The Oracle suddenly grabbed her wrist with such strength she could have snapped her arm in two. Gasping, the Oracle sat up, coughing water. Aliyah didn’t breath, couldn’t breath. She just knelt there staring at the woman as she looked perplexed into the water, the chill of the air making both of them shiver.

Before the young mother-to-be could ask what happened, the Oracles eyes rolled to the back of her head and her back contorted backwards. What came out of her mouth next, Aliyah could have sworn it must be a demon, “You are the one who sees! Beware of the sight! Beware!”

The next moments were as much of a blur as had been her trip toward the center of the room. Servant girls, hearing the scream were busy rushing down and toweling dry both the Oracle and Aliyah, when trying to apologize the servants told her to pay no mind to it and to leave quickly. They dressed her and nearly kicked her out of the building. She blinked at the entrance and then blinked at the guard who just gave her a shrug. Was that supposed to be a blessing? That seemed more like a horrible nightmare!

As she made her way back home, even though her body and soul felt refreshed, the sight of the woman’s tortured visage was the only thing engrained in her mind. Yusif noticed and asked her what happened and if she was ok. Aliyah just nodded and went to her room to lay down. She never went back to the Oracle again and warned all who were curious to stay away from that place.

Soon afterwards, Aliyah gave birth to a healthy baby girl. She had feared the day of her labor not for the pain that it brought, she welcomed being able to feel something, but for the dread that that woman did something to her that harmed her child. They named the baby Ishtar after the Assyrian goddess of passion. For as long as Aliyah lived, she never spoke a word about the prophecy she heard until Ishtar was ready to hear. However, the Oracle heard and at the right time, sent word to Babylon concerning the girl Ishtar - whom she, unbeknownst to the family, had her watched from birth until she was 10.

Word Count: 2490

Chapter 8 - An Oracle is Born

As Ishtar grew up, much to her mother’s dismay, she was possessed of a certain confidence. When her mother wanted to go shopping to gather food for dinner, which was always code from sitting around with the other women to gossip, Ishtar would come but always seemed to know things about her mother’s friends that seemed impossible. It got so bad, that Aliyah’s friends forbade her from bringing Ishtar on their outings after she quite loudly proclaimed one of their affairs in the market street only for the husband to hear of it later.

Yusif, however, found his daughter’s clear minded candor refreshing. Trade was full of backstabbing, bribery, more bribery, intrigue and more bribery on top of that. Having his daughter around was refreshing. He’d often let her sit and learn maths, something not every household did, while he corrected his books. He even allowed her to sit with his scribes and assistants and learn the rudimentary principles of writing. She seemed to absorb all that was given to her and her “visions” always proved to be humorously insightful to him. She once accused one of the men he was dealing with of cheating her father, while they were in a meeting. Sure enough, the man was. Yusif never treated his daughter like a magic talisman but he never forbade her from coming with him should she ever wish to.

The biggest trouble came when she was 8 years old and they were strolling through the avenues where most of the temples were and she would seemingly randomly proclaim various temples as false gods and others as dens of swindlers. She never seemed to touch some of the greater known gods, or even some of the local ones, but wherever she went it was certain that Ishtar would be causing trouble. It delighted her father and horrified her mother.

“Father,” Ishtar said one evening, when she was 10, as she and her father were preparing a certain kind of flatbread that he seemed to enjoy on certain months of the year with no clear explanation as to why.

“Yes, daughter,” he said with equal formality though with a little bit of wit. “You may speak,” he added trying to tease her just that little bit more. He could never tell her when to speak or how to, Ishtar just did what Ishtar wanted to do.

“Why does mother hates me,” her voice was small, almost a whisper. It was a question she didn’t want to know the answer to, but something compelled her to ask. She busied herself with kneading hoping that her father would just leave the question be, but her Sight, as she called it now, was never wrong.

Yusif sighed and stopped working the dough. “She does not hate you,” he tried but the sharp look in her daughter’s eye demanded an explanation. How she could have such a look at such a young age, he just shook his head, even he was powerless against her. “I think she is just intimidate by how brilliant you are. You know you always know things you shouldn’t. That can be very scary to some people. Your mother is just trying to do her best. Please give her a little bit of patience.” In truth, he never understood what drove the distance Aliyah kept. She seemed fine with him. They had another little one on the way, and so long as their daughter wasn’t in the room she was her normal self. In fact, if he cared to remember after all those years, the change in his wife started with the Oracle.

This still didn’t sit right with her, but she could see no lie in what her father said so she dropped the concern. By now she had learned not to give anyone the details of her Sight if it was not asked for and no one, save her father, asked her her opinion on anything. They all seemed afraid that what she might say was as powerful a weapon as a sword. The night passed uneventful, her mother came for dinner but didn’t really recognize her existence and then they went to bed.
The pattern continued for weeks until finally Ishtar found herself at long last alone with her mother. It was approaching evening and she knew or rather she Saw it was going to become a fight, but she wanted answers. She hated that her mother would never talk to her and it was now or never to get to the truth. She saw an argument but what felt like the truth so she took a deep breath and followed her senses.

“Mom,” she asked softly as they were weaving outside in the small allotment they enjoyed. Her mother paused, obviously weighing whether or not she really wanted to know what her daughter was about to say.

“Yes, my child,” she sighed never taking her eyes from her work as she continued. “Say what you must say and say it quickly.” The edge of her voice was hard and Ishtar did not miss it for a second.

Something inside the young girl rose up, demanding she defend herself. She threw down her needles and stood up abruptly. Aliyah seemed to flinch, but it was too late her daughter couldn’t back down. “What did I ever do to you?” She fought back the tears and anger.

“Nothing, I don’t know what you mean,” her mother’s voice was curt as if that was the end of the discussion. Ishtar, embolden by catching her mother in a lie, pushed forward, her hands on her hips.

“You never talk to me, you treat me like I don’t exist. When I try to speak you always act like this, like what I have to say isn’t worth your time. Do you not love me? Why do you hate me?” The words came tumbling out, faster and faster until the tears that were welling up could be held back no longer.

Aliyah, not expecting such emotion from her daughter, at best she had hoped her short answers would cut off the conversation but she could see her daughter wanted answers. No, she deserved answers. “I do not hate you,” she finally said at length after her daughter’s defiance turned into sobs. “I could never hate you. I am just…” Her daughter was on her knees now and it broke her. She gathered Ishtar up in her arms, a motherly instinct that she never really had for her daughter before that moment. Ishtar as well seemed equally shocked that her mother would hold her so tenderly.

“Then why…” she half-sobbed, half-hissed. Why did she, a 10 year old girl, have to be the one to force this conversation? All because, what? Sometimes she saw things others seemed to miss? None of it was fair. In that moment, she wished she never had such an ability. She could have had magic powers, like lighting things on fire, that would have been fun. She would have enjoyed catching all manners of people on fire for fun. No, she had to have this useless gift that made people fear her.

“I…need to tell you something. I…don’t know how to say it…” Aliyah started, she couldn’t believe she was about to tell anyone the truth of what happened 10 years ago. She had told no one and that was really difficult for her, she told everyone everything! The irony of that thought and being so abrasive of her daughter for doing the same thing escaped her.

“The Oracle…” Ishtar blurted out, eyes wide. She saw it. She saw everything as if from her mother’s perspective. The tea, the incense, the scream. Aliyah shot her both a dangerous look but also one that was instantly recognizable as fear. Did her daughter already see what she was about to say.

“Yes. I asked your father if I may see the Oracle for a blessing. It was a silly wish from a silly girl but still he allowed it,” Aliyah started, her shoulders slumping as she sat on the ground with her daughter. There was a resignation in her voice, and a release after holding it in for a decade. Her daughter, having seen what was coming next, still wide eyed half with shock and half with horror, stayed silent. Even at this age, she knew her mother needed to be the one to say it. “At first, I was turned away but I was such a stupid little girl. I didn’t know visiting the Oracle was…like that. In the end something disastrous happened, and…” tears welled up in her eyes, “I’m so sorry.”

Ishtar was crying now too. The mother embraced her daughter and they stayed there like that for a long moment. “I am who I am. I don’t think…the oracle did this to me,” the young girl wanted to believe this with all her heart that her mother didn’t intentionally damage her for want of a desire for a blessing. “I…see things…about people.”

“Yes. In the end, the Oracle gave me a warning and not a blessing. It was so horrific. I thought…I thought she was dying. There were all kinds of things done, strange things I never did before. And then…she fell into the water…I thought…I thought she was dead. And then a voice like a monster came out of her. ‘You are the one who sees. Beware the sight! Beware!’ And then,” the words started spilling out, Aliyah couldn’t contain it anymore. For 10 years she bottled it all up inside her but the memory seared like a hot iron into her memory. “You know things. You know everything about anyone. You scared our neighbors. You scared me. But…I don’t think the message the Oracle gave was for me, but a warning for you, my star.”

Ishtar wanted to quip it was a little too late for the warning, but her mother was a sensitive soul and wounded easily. She continued to keep her peace. “I’m so sorry,” was all her mother said over and over weeping into her shoulder. She wished she could continue to cry too, wished the tears came so easily. They didn’t though, after her mother’s admission the well had dried up. She felt numb, as if she wasn’t really there. All those years and this woman treated her so horribly because of what some other person said to her. She wished her father was here, he was much better at taking this than she was. To only be a child and need to be the adult felt unfair to her. Why did she have to be the one to comfort her mother? Why did she have to be the strong one? Shouldn’t her mother want to comfort her instead? Then, the tears did start, but they weren’t tears for the woman on her shoulder, no, she wept silently for her loss.

The days that followed were some of the most tender she ever experienced; however, she felt none of it as her mother tried desperately to make up for loss time. She couldn’t help but think the only reason she was doing this was the sudden relief that this prophecy or whatever wasn’t for Aliyah but for someone else - namely, her daughter. Her father seemed content with the change in her mother’s behavior and encouraged Ishtar to take advantage of the change in personality. It wasn’t so simple, but her father’s wisdom never failed her, unlike a certain someone. They went shopping, and went to plays, and took long strolls along the parks. These were all things she loved, but she found she hated them whenever they were done with her mother. However, as best she could, she tried to play the part of the doll that Aliyah wanted to suddenly play with.

On any other day in the past she would have been elated by getting attention from her mother, finally being loved for the first time. This all seemed like a hollow masquerade, and she was expected to play her part. She was almost glad, therefore, when a small group of soldiers appeared at their threshold one morning asking that she accompany them.

Yusif and Aliyah had her hide in her room as the talking turned into arguing. The next thing she knew, her mother beckoned her to join them in the main room, which was little more than a mat, a table and a small kitchen. To afford such a space and not be a slave, was something only the lucky few could afford. In rushed and hurried tones, Aliyah tried to explain to her daughter what an opportunity it would be to serve the Empire, but all she could see was the worry in her father’s eyes. Her mother’s words seem to reflect off her as arrows on a shield. She locked her deep brown eyes onto his and for a moment, she was let into his thoughts.

It wasn’t a steady stream of consciousness she had come to expect. Normally when she saw someone, it was whatever their intent was. When she saw her father, it was a flash of images, rituals she didn’t understand and arguments she never knew about, tales from a very young man who must have been him. There was regret, and sadness, and disappointment; anger and fury; but overwhelmingly, in this moment, a great sense of loss. No one says no to the Empire.

She came back to the scene unfolding and her parents were arguing about whether she should go with them or not. Her mother wanted her to go and bring honor to their family but Yusif, a hard man with a crippling soft spot for his daughter, tried to stall saying it would be her decision and would support her. She was faced with a sense yet again that she was too young for any of this to be happening. Far too young to mother her mother and far too young to serve the Empire. She didn’t even understand her own power. She had some control of her sight. When she wanted it, it was always there but it was always there even when she didn’t want it. This could be a chance to make it stop. She could find a way to control it.

“I will go,” she said softly, hoping against hope that neither of them heard her for their shouting. Both stopped abruptly and she hated it. She hated ever speaking the words. She hated the heartbreak so readable on her father’s face, she didn’t even need sight to tell her but it told her anyway. She hated how excited her mother seemed and hated that she was probably relieved, again, she knew but her sight told her anyway. Most of all, more than anything else, she hated her ability to see so clearly the hearts and minds of others. Her mother scooped her up and twirled her around. She barely registered the sentiment at all, for as long as she lived she would remember the single tear rolling slowly down her father’s face as he nodded at her.

The following day felt like she was a slave. She wasn’t bound. She wasn’t treated poorly. Her voice and her choice, nonetheless, were stripped from her. The soldiers returned upon her father’s reply with the Chief Priest of Tyre, a member of the temple of Ahura Mazda, or so she had been told. Her mind was void as they took her away and immediately placed her on a donkey with an outbound caravan toward some place called “Babylon” for “education.” She said farewell to her beautiful Tyre. For all she knew, this would be the last time she’d ever see her beloved city again.

Word Count - 2630

Chapter 9 - The Prince

A night of passion and the king’s favor in Susa, a city that housed a magnificent royal residence. This afforded Abnātu about a week’s worth of clout. To be the chosen lover for the week or, should Artexerxes bless such a woman, a month, gave the woman the influence of a queen. Anything she wished was done. Any building or statue she wanted erected was done by the morning. Her province, city, town, and/or village were the highlight of that moment’s bureaucratic favor. It would feed her family for an entire year! The king would be praised from all over the world for his benevolence and mercy. Being in the king’s harem was honor enough. When selected, the family gains some amount of honor within the community and a reward is handed to the patriarch for such a talent. However, it is busy work, and often involves a lot of backstabbing and sabotage, to be selected by the king and bestowed his favor. Many would be sour at this notion that Abnātu could be worthy of such a blessing, and she would have her comeuppance but first, she’d be allowed the satisfaction of gloating over the many enemies she made that night.

Her first order of business was to upgrade her suite. If she was going to entertain a king, she would live like one. She had already made the preparations to move into his quarters even when he wasn’t expected to be there for the remainder of her tenure as the chief concubine. Her second was to order the best treatment for her son, she would have a son, she was confident. He would not be a prince, and he would not be inline for succession - there were already too many legitimate heirs and bastards in that line.

The best she could do was afford for him the best education Persia had to offer. This meant leaving their beloved Susa and, at the right age, being relocated with him to Babylon. Now, this was not a move she really wanted to entertain, especially since she didn’t even know whether she was with child or not. But, so long as what she said was as good as law, she needed to prepare now. She would of course move with him. She may be the pinnacle of beauty now but in a decades time she couldn’t reasonably be expected to keep her position. She had a scribe file the appropriate order that she may select at her discretion a property and land for herself and her progeny. The scribe went over, with a lust she did not even have in the throes of passion, the various caveats that it couldn’t be a building of official Persian governance or one essential for strategic military efficiency, so on and so forth.

Abnātu may be young and ambitious but she was cunning and always thought several moves ahead. The months ahead proved her intuition correct, but for one short stint yet again as the kings favorite - he was apparently going through a phase where he was into this sort of thing, you don’t say no to the king especially when it allows you to adjust your future plans. Most of her plans had held in the intervening months, the only difficulty was attaining lodging, she’d have to actually go to Babylon and select a property she wanted, even if that was a decade in the future. By the time she sent a servant to survey the city and choose a suitable residence, her favor had eventually waned. But upon the surprise exaltation, she was able to reword the order to specify a building, as selected by her servant. These little administrative details were helpful as her little prince came closer to welcoming the outside world.

On the day her water broke, the court magicians, alchemists, and priestesses were ready for the birth - as decreed by the king through her machinations. Her son was born healthy and she named him Siyavash. From that moment on, his path was set before him, Abnātu had orchestrated both his wet nurse and secured his royal title months ago. He was to be titled a prince and have accommodations for all who had that title - there were a few, Artexerxes as with all kings, had many offspring, not all afforded such a title. For her part, the Persian woman, born in Elam, knew she could not hold the eye of the king for long, so she made quick work to ensure that her child would be given all the rites that could be given to him.

Siyavash grew up in the royal palace, a splendid bit of architecture that if you were to ask an Assyrian or Babylonian, it paled in comparison to their works. Less a palace and more a giant complex of buildings. The palace was built on an incline, the front guarded by a towering wall with beautiful stone works heralding the mighty acts of the emperor and his armies. Stone steps lead up the wall on either side of the long depiction. Once you climbed the stairs you were greeted by the large and magnificent chamber hall where they King or his regent would see to official government matters. It was giant building held up by pillars and once inside there was a giant auditorium with a finally decorated throne. Off to either side were a variety of desks and scribes that were at work copying edicts and decrees for desalination within the empire. On either side of the hall were covered walkways that lead to the King’s residence, government buildings, and the harem’s residence and a special room attached to the King’s for whomever his favorite wife or concubine was at the time. It was beautiful and colorful. Persian art hung on all the walls, and the tiles of the palace were always washed and reflective. Pools and gardens filled in the empty spaces between buildings.

The Royal Guard was ever present. The Immortals were feared by all as an elite fighting unit, but the royal guard, who’s job it was to both protect the royal family but also it’s many secrets, treasures, and keep those with a little too much ambition in line - especially while the king was off campaigning. Therefore, they guard had to be not only greatly skilled but also exceedingly loyal.

The city of Susa had the distinction of being the starting point to the Royal Road, a large civil project connecting the heart of Persia all the way to Anatolia. It was in many respects an ancient highway and was the key to how the king was able to move his military effectively around the empire. It was a major point of trade that connected the east and the west and provided much of the support for the war effort.

The city and the palace had all the modern conveniences and magic. An amulet hung around Siyavash’s neck since he could remember, which protected him, so they say from other magic. The amulet was unremarkable, just a flat gold coin that was easy to tuck under any tunic or robe, but it did save him from a few attempts that could have very easily have been his undoing. There was no shortage of intrigue against the small boy’s life even early on. Many in the harem were jealous of his status when their own children failed to earn any sense of legitimacy. On time, when Siyavash touched a cup to his lips, his pendant glowed hot against his chest. Upon testing, it was found to have contained a poison and the chief of the guards made a swift end to the woman who was found with such a poison in her room.

In another instance, the medallion had warned him off entering a specific room which was trapped to trigger an acid spill on the unlikely victim. It ended up killing someone else but from an early age, Siyavash knew to trust in the power that was in the coin.

It was not the only bit of magic he kept on him. When he was 7 he earned the right to carry a small dagger, and he had his pick from any in the armory. He chose an old unadorned dagger, the handle having a large splinter in it, cracked as it if hadn’t been repaired in a thousand years. However, when he took it out of it’s equally worn sheath, the metal nearly glowed with how pristine it was and the light danced off the sharp edge. It was the dagger belonging to some legendary prince lost to time. No one ever cared much for it as the look was not grand, but he felt more confident with it hanging on his hip.

Siyavash was quick witted and winsome as a boy. He quickly became a favorite for the chief guard of the palace. When time and space permitted, the old man taught him how to use his new blade. Given the young boy’s propensity to get himself into trouble, some day he might have to fight his way out of it. The lessons became more frequent as he got older, and more public as a statement to prove that Siyavash was no one to be messed with.

The veracity of Siyavash’s hunger for learning swordplay worried his mother who definitely did not see him joining the army. No. She had her sights locked on some high ranking administrative duty, away from any violence or action. She reprimanded his several times to focus on other things that would secure his status but every time the subject was approached and she pushed too hard, the boy, in his stubbornness walked away. One day, she thought bitterly, he would understand everything she did was for his benefit, but the only thing Siyavash could see was everyone expecting him to perform and only the guards gave him any kind of freedom. Everything could be solved when the blade was in his hand.

Life as a prince in the palace, aside from the occasional assassination attempt, was carefree. He came and go across the city with impunity and anytime he was outside the royal complex, he was accompanied by a small retinue of soldiers just incase someone got the wrong ideas. He was pious, too. He visited the temples frequently through the week, all of the gods, and it took time, but like clockwork he would bring a small donation to the priests. He saw his birth, and the special circumstances he enjoyed an act of the gods, even if it did involve the hand of his mother. Because of his attention, during festivals the chief priests who visited from Babylon would give him a special role to play that varied as he got older. One time he got to bang the drums as hard as he could which still wasn’t as loud as the others. The priests always said it was what was in the heart that mattered more than the sound he made.

His role grew though, and soon, as young as 10 years old, he was sitting with priests and judges alike to hear the complaints and disputes of the citizenry. He sat in on legal disputes, religious disputes, and criminal disputes. This was not a right given to anyone who was not thoroughly educated in the legal system or given a direct role in the proceedings. He was a prince, and he showed to be a level head in turbulent times even going so far as to persuade a judge or priest to mercy. He had an unnaturally fair hand and it was soon rumored, as it is always rumored, that he must be favored my Mithra the god of justice.

When it came to anything dealing with power, everyone had a plan. Not just his mother, but every single person seemed to have is planned mapped out. It was the role of all princes to play a role in the government in some capacity, even if that eventually led to a poisoning, excommunication, an assassination attempt, or imprisonment. Advisors wanted him to focus on memorizing laws, priests wanted him to study rituals, even his trusted guard thought he showed military promise with how he handled his dagger. His days were spent mostly trying to avoid everyone entirely but they always found him. He was beginning to think what his mother planned as a blessing was actually his curse and her blessing. Her plan meant her survival not much to do with him.

“Prince,” came the call from across one of the court yards. Siyavash had been trying to make himself as small as possible behind a palm tree. He had no clue how he was found. If he knew they had a way to track him by his amulet he would probably be more apprehensive about wearing it constantly. “You need in the audience chambers,” the voice was indignant and he recognized it as one of the advisors, a dour man with a well kept beard.

“Go away,” the boy said, trying to still pretend he wasn’t there though the man could clearly hear him. He was never actually requested to attend a meeting, he just let himself in most of the time. He peaked around the trunk to see the man with folded arms waiting for him to come out. “Audience chamber?” He asked. When the man nodded, Siyavash shyly came around the tree and followed the advisor to the main hall.

They arrived in the giant auditorium with vaulted painted ceilings and beautifully mosaic tiled floors, the mosaic in this room in the shame of a sphinx, a creature with a lion’s body and a man’s head. In the middle of the room stood a small unit of soldiers and guards. The soldiers wore the customary armor that signified their military station, and the guards wore armor adorn with the symbols of the royal house. They were all dressed in travel cloaks as if they were about to leave. He looked from the soldiers to the advisors who were occupying seats around the throne. “What is this?” He demanded, he also saw his mother sitting in the corner watching silently, her eyes seemed hawkish like she was getting ready to pounce on prey.

“You are requested in Babylon, at the behest of the Chief High Priest of Ahura Mazda. You will attend the academy there and bring honor to the Empire,” the regent stood and said as if this were a matter of royal decree. Siyavash knew better than to question such an order or to show his displeasure. He already tried hiding and that clearly didn’t work. What else was he to say? He felt like a pet that the owner was constantly trying to teach tricks. He never asked for this title and neither did he want to leave his home. However, he nodded dutifully. There wasn’t anything else that could be done. “You will pack light and be ready to go in one hour. My Ahura Mazda be your guiding light.”

It was as if the meeting was adjourned. The advisors went on their way, the soldiers and guards though stood at the ready. His mother came sprinting across the chamber and shuffled him along back to their room. She was talking rapidly about how great an opportunity that he was recognized so early and that they would be well set up in Babylon because she had planned for this. Of course she did. Was there anything that his mother hadn’t planned for? He thought wickedly that he could run away, she probably didn’t foresee that coming! He didn’t have the heart or the nerve to do it so off to Babylon he went at the appointed time. He said farewell to his home and wouldn’t return for some time.

Word Count - 2653

Disclaimer - Violence, blood boiling, viewer discretion advised.

PART THREE - POURA

Nim buried the statue of Anahita in his bag. He wasn’t sure why the goddess left him, but she was the only one who seemed to know what was going on so he could only trust her. The government official, with accompanying guards, had come at the behest of Raza, the chief priest of Poura, to collect and deliver Nim to the Temple of Ahura Mazda. The official was a skinny man, short in stature, almost, in fact, Nim’s height and he wasn’t even the tallest for his age! He also seemed annoyed either because he was made to do the work of the temple or that he had to leave his city, or any number of reasons. Either way, disobedience was out of the question and without Anahita he still felt empty like he had no energy to defy the empire even if he had wanted to. So, he went back to pack his things.

By the time he resurfaced out of his home, his mother gave him one last embrace. It was night time, and he couldn’t clearly see her face. He tried his hardest to remember her hug and her warmth. He wasn’t sure he would ever see her again, the last of his family. She, apparently, felt the same way as he felt tears on his cheek that weren’t his own. Nim wasn’t sure he could bare meeting her eyes, he wanted to stay there forever. This wasn’t to be, as one of the soldiers ripped him away from his mother. He heard her sob and he heard himself scream for her, reaching out into the night as he was dragged away. Away from his mother. Away from his home. Away from the village.

Once Aasha was a distant memory, and the moon was high overhead, the soldiers bound his hands behind his back and despite being exhausted, they made him walk on foot through the night. He searched desperately for his bag, he wanted to grab his statue and really show these men what he could do. He found his sack tied to one of the donkeys at a distance he’d never make before being skewered by a spear like he was a fish.

“Is this necessary?” He asked trying to fight the bindings. He quickly felt the butt of the same spear he was afraid would skewer him thrust into the back of his head. He landed face down on the dirt road and felt like he could sleep right then and there. A boot pressed his head as if trying to stomp out any residual rebellion. He grimaced and yelled as the boot continued to step harder, perhaps this is how he died, he thought and not for the first time.

“You will do as you are told and when you are told to do it. Do not ask questions or you won’t survive long enough to see your new home,” a soldier barked. He stomped on Nim’s head for good measure.

“Get off the boy,” Nim knew that voice, it came like a viper striking from a bush.

The soldier who had been kicking him stopped and spun around, spear in hand. “Who said that?” He growled looking at the other men with him, but all of them also had their weapons out pointed toward him. Suddenly, he felt a sharp object at his back and another at his throat. How did this person get on him so fast!

“Did. I. Stutter?” Her voice was venom and her teeth, her blades, were ready to kill. The soldier dropped his spear and he was pushed to the ground like he had pushed Nim.

“Who are you?” The official whined as they all looked like they were either about to fight and run for their lives, shaking as if they never saw battle.

The woman stepped into the torch light. She looked different than she had in the village. In Aasha she always wore her Persian armor proudly. Here she was wrapped in blacks and browns, no armor, but armed to the teeth. No wonder no one saw her! Even in the light it was hard to get a firm grasp on the fact that this was the same Bahar! She helped Nim to his feet and cut the ropes tying his hands together.

Nim rubbed his wrists and then his head to get the dirt out of his hair and check his face for wounds. There was a boot print, he could still feel and he was going to have a bruise in the morning. If Anahita was still with him, he’d have healed it easily. Though he was happy to have Bahar with him, finally something good was happening for him. “Can I go home?” He half whispers to the cloaked figure.

She shook her head dashing any hope he might have to end this nightmare. “An order is an order, however, these men won’t be laying another hand on you.” Her sword and dagger flashed in the lights as she sheathed them and stood defiantly. The soldiers had other things on their mind as they seemed to regain their wits though, from their stance, they didn’t have many to begin with.

One launched himself at Bahar thinking her defenseless just because her weapons were away. His long spear thrust out in front of him. She parried nimbly catching the long pole of the weapon. A hard jab through the gap in his armor would have had him doubled over if she had not pivoted and tossed him over her shoulder, disarming him. With a whirl, she had his spear pinning him on the ground by the neck.

The other backed down and when the man on the ground begrudgingly yielded, Bahar helped him back to his feet and handed him back his weapon. “Fine. He will be unharmed,” the official grumbled.

Bahar considered the matter settled and knelt down to exam Nim. He would indeed have a bruise on his face and possibly his wrists. She looked apologetically at him but said nothing more than to confirm he was still fit to travel. After all that, Nim felt he couldn’t walk another step. He wasn’t sure at all why they couldn’t have left the next morning.

“Give him your donkey,” Bahar said, her voice calm and matter-of-fact. The soldier looked at her like she was crazy. “If you want to continue through the night, tough guy, he needs rest. The only way for that to happen is if he’s off his feet. So either, make camp or give him your donkey.”

The soldier opened his mouth to argue but thought better of it. “We have been traveling for hours. Perhaps it is a good idea to camp,” the official offered as a kind of compromise as if it was his idea. The soldiers, without comment tied to donkeys to a palm tree, found a concealed place for them to rest for the night.

Everyone had bedrolls except Nim and Bahar. They slept in a circle with the soldiers taking turns guarding them. Bahar wrapped Nim in her clock and let him use her arm as a pillow as she curled around him protectively. He shut his eyes. The warm of Bahar’s body and feeling a safe and motherly presence helped him to find sleep quickly.

“No!” A scream shocked him awake as he rolled to his feet as if someone had just splashed cold water on his face. The morning was young, it was dark but there was a faint light reaching from the horizon. It took a moment for his eyes to fully register what was happening.

When he finally saw, the horror was slow to set in. The official and two of the guards laid dead in their sleep, their throats slit, blood pooling around their heads. Another one had an arrow lodged in his throat, the soldier that was supposed to be guarding them, pinned against the tree trunk. Images of his father threatened to overwhelm him. He wanted to vomit but there was nothing to throw up. He wanted to scream but his voice left him. The only ones alive were himself and Bahar who was currently being pinned on the ground by a giant of a man, clothed in the familiar rags of the bandits who raided the village. So it turns out they should have hunted the rest down. His sword was raised to deliver a killing blow to his only friend left in the world.

Two other men stalked over to him, realizing that he was not dead yet. So this is how everything ended. He was alone. He wanted to kneel and let these men take him, kill him, do whatever they wanted. Just so long as it ended swiftly.

The emptiness in his soul, ignited. A fire filling his being as one of the men grabbed him by his tunic. Nim’s pupils seemed to glow and he felt possessed. Something, somewhere, inside him refused to die. He didn’t understand it but somehow he knew what to do. His attacker hoisted him off his feet but he paid this no mind. He reached a hand to the man on top of Bahar, and he froze as if paralyzed. This was enough time for the woman to spring into action. She rolled to grab one of her daggers that had fallen out of reach and stuck it in his leg. His scream and convulsion was enough for her to dislodge herself and roll to her feet. She raced to closed the gap between her and Nim, tackling the man who did not have the boy.

“Goodbye,” a voice, a man’s voice, somewhere deep within Nim, it sounded like him but older, said to the man holding him. The boy reached a hand and grabbed the man’s neck and squeezed. He could feel his assailant’s blood, feel the pulse of it. He was the blood. The blood was hot. The blood was boiling. The attacker dropped Nim instantly and stumbled backwards grabbing at his face, his neck, his body. He felt hot everywhere, he started sweating uncontrollably. And then it was over. His skin bubbled like something was growing underneath him. His screams of agony turned hoarse and then turned into wheezing and then into a gargle of boiling blood as he collapsed.

Nim looked over and saw that Bahar had made quick work of the other man. And then they were alone, both bloody and exhausted. The boy let out a deep sigh, the gold in his eyes vanished but not quick enough that the woman did not notice. He fell to his knees and cried out in anguish holding his hand left hand. Slowly his hand disfigured as if it was scared from severe burns. The soft dark skin now red with burn scars. The warning Anahita gave him that any of her magic used to harm others would result in worse than a tiny scar. But, he thought, he hadn’t used her magic.

Bahar was on him in a flash, checking him over like he was her own child. She noticed the hand but didn’t have any explanation for it. She would be sure to ask the priests when they went to Poura.

“What do we do?” Nim asked feebly, looking from his hands, to all the dead bodies, to his protector. When Bahar saw her charge was not seriously injured aside from the bruising from earlier that night and the hand, she helped him to his feet. She stayed silent as she quickly searched the official for the scroll that held the command for him to be brought to Poura. She then went to search for the donkeys, glad that they were safe and the provisions and Nim’s bag had thus far remained intact.

“We ride. And when we find a patrol, we tell them to search the area. Perhaps there are more of these men in the area,” she said, her voice sharp and commanding. She handed him hard tack from one of the saddle bags, and put him on the donkey. She rode one of the other ones and she started them down the road toward Poura. He wanted to protest, he wanted to tell her they could just go home, but in the end that probably didn’t matter. They would just send more people.

They did indeed find a patrol and Bahar gave a quick description of what happened. She left out the whole Nim using magic bit, but gave enough details to explain most of the scene they would find. The patrol looked at each other but also did not show any doubt at her descriptions and rode hard the way the pair had came.

They reached Poura by that early evening, Bahar not saying anything else to the boy. They rode in silence the rest of the way and Nim focused on trying to find that feeling again, that fire that came from inside him. It was all he could do to keep from reaching in his bag, that kept thumping him on the leg as they road, and taking the statue. However, when they reached the hill overlooking the city, it caught his breath.

The sky was ablaze, filled with beautiful reds and oranges and pinks, that left the city looking almost magical. There was a large building at the center, orange against the light of dusk with dark domes crowning it with majesty. Slender towers on the four sides of the building, each domed as if scepters of a mighty king. It was the largest structure Nim had ever seen! Other, smaller homes and businesses seemed to radiate from it as if subjects of its noble reign. The only other buildings that came close were dwarfed by its size. He would later know them to be the temples of Mithra and Anahita. Finally his eyes climbed a cliff to the north, on the outside of the city wall. On top was a temple that came close to the splendor of the palace but for its height he did not truly know its scale.

“Welcome to Poura, Bahman,” was the first thing that Bahar had said as she continued down the slope of the hill toward the city gate. Nim sat on his donkey for a moment longer gapping at what, to his mind, was the largest city in the world! Sensing that Bahar was going to leave him behind, he kicked his donkey into action and followed hastily after her.

“Is this the capital of the empire?” Nim squawked as the city gates started to tower over them as they got closer.

“Not even close, child. This is a town compared to it’s largest cities. But it will do. You will likely be spending many years here before they ship you off to Babylon, a city a true beauty. This, Bahman Farhad, will be your new home.” Nim was amazed at how cool and confident her voice was. Could he hope for such a thing? A home? The hope was quickly replaced by the same familiar dread. The last time he thought something was his home, he ended up abused, mistreated and cast out on a dirt road with strangers. Would this be more of the same or would it be different?

Bahar could almost feel his apprehension and thought it would be best to put him out of his misery. “Make no mistake, Bahman, once we cross these gates, any thoughts of freedom or justice should be stricken from your mind. You are now a slave to the Empire. They own you.” She said, her voice dire as if trying to impart on him a warning. And before he got any bright ideas, “Fleeing or running away from your destiny left the moment I rescued your parents from the sea. Like all of us, we have a choice to make: freedom, which often leads to our death, or survival. Most of us, if we are wise, choose to survive.”

Word Count - 2676