Zayen
The greatest burden left on a man is the burden of living after killing.
It was not by choice. It was for the man sitting at the low wooden table in the center of the room, chewing on the bones of a roasted chicken. The loud crunching echoes through the silent room.
The table is filled with food. Ignorant men sit on patterned cushions around the table, quietly awaiting a word from the Hakeem, the ruler of these lands. They are like little kilaab—dogs—ready to tend to Hakeem Barak's every need.
They should be eating, yet they do not know that every morsel of food left uneaten will be thrown out. Not given to the servants or the poor, but carelessly and purposefully discarded.
The Hakeem chooses not to feed the hungry. He is only kind to those who can give him something in return. But nobody knows this. They see the dazzling smile and the free flowing drinks and believe him to be generous.
The low hiss and crackle of the flames trapped in lanterns around the room is the only thing that keeps me grounded and stops me from shoving a scimitar through the Hakeem's back.
My hand stays on my weapon; my eyes stay on anything except the excuses of men in this room.
The lanterns make the gold and wooden furniture glow. Sheer curtains dance against the warm evening air blowing in. Large arches open up to the rest of the palace, where the high ceilings are engraved with patterns and intricate details.
Footsteps brush against the polished stone floors, and Nawaz appears beneath one of the large arches. There is not a single crease in his clothes, almost like he stands perfectly still and does absolutely nothing the entire day. He is flanked by two guards, including my best friend Ali.
"You called for me?" Nawaz asks, breaking the silence in the room. He is the Hakeem's son. The alleged heir.
The best way to describe Nawaz is to imagine a bolt of lightening that was converted into human form. He is mesmerising and bright from afar, but get too close and you'll never know what hit you.
"Yes, I called you to discuss the maʼduba tomorrow night. I will bring women for you to choose from," the Hakeem says, his voice low and firm.
He is always strategic and concise with every move he makes, and every word he speaks. He expects the same for his son—starting with a marriage of convenience.
Nawaz is being instructed to choose a wife, but when his father offers him the most beautiful and wealthy women on a platter, all he does is pick them up and spit them out like grape seeds.
I take Nawaz's arrival as my chance to escape. On my way out, Ali flares his nose at me and I have to purse my lips to not smile at him.
We have made the mistake of joking around while on duty, and we were beaten for it. Seeing the regret in Ali's eyes for making me laugh caused a deeper pain than the bruises left behind—but, to this day, it has never stopped him from being an idiotic clown.
I take the steep steps down into the guard's quarters. The air at the bottom is bone dry and feels as if it is feeding off of my skin. At the end of the dark hallway stands a large wooden door guarded by two men, and behind it is the aleamiq—a hell of a prison. The wails of men and woman in ceaseless pain can be heard throughout the night, most of them innocent of everything except displeasing the Hakeem.
I step off to the left, into my quarters. It is a cramped space, enough to fit a single flat mattress and a cupboard. Because it is underground, there is no light or windows, aside from the two dying lanterns fitted into the walls. The bathrooms are shared between guards, and it made me realise how many people lack basic hygiene and cleanliness. Most of the toilet seats are splattered with liquid and, occasionally, pubic hair.
Lowering myself onto my bed, I lean my arms behind my head and wait for my punishment. Nawaz has no doubt given his favoured guards their orders. He always does, and they always follow through.
The stagnant air wraps around me like a suffocating blanket. It almost lulls me to sleep, but I refuse to let my eyes fall closed.
Right on time, the rotting door to my room swings open with a loud thud, and three men in the same attire as me—black harem pants and a top, with their weapons attached to them like second skin—barge in and roughly try to grab me. It takes all three of them to pull me off the bed, which makes me smile internally.
The shortest and bulkiest of the three swings a punch into my stomach, right below my ribs. My body hunches over, a pained groan leaving my lips. I've stopped trying to fight back, not for a lack of ability, but because I just want it to be over with.
"Good shot. I wonder if you only punch my stomach because you can't reach any higher." I smirk arrogantly. The amount of punches do not determine who comes out the winner. It's the man who can stand tall at the end of it that wins.
As predicted, because it happens every time, his face reddens and he elbows me in the ribs. Then he waddles out and leaves me with the other two, who are not as easy to shake off.
Khalid, an old friend that grew up beside me and trained with me, grabs me by the hair and knocks me down to my knees. Money and power changes people.
The other guard, who is new and unfamiliar, cracks his knuckles. There's a sly smile on his face as he throws his first punch into my ribs. It is followed by several more in my stomach and chest. Each hit seems to feel like a lead block falling onto me. It leaves a deep ache in my bones that will stay for days.
I turn my head to spit blood onto the floor and then take a deep breath, preparing for more. I've realised that when I don't fight back, they get bored faster.
Nawaz always does this. He is not going to stop any time soon. He instructs them to avoid my face, in case his father sees.
The Hakeem took one look at young Nawaz, who had the same green eyes as him, and said 'that is my son'.
It didn't matter that I was his son first.
~~*~~
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