1001 Nights

DAY : 04 (pt. 1)

Azade didn't have to argue with that. She knew other girls were often taken into more compromising labour, selling their souls for the master.

Her mother seemed adamant on not telling her why the master seemed to favour her over the other children in his ownership. The others had begun working last summer, most already bare-beaten with the sun's heat.
Everyone called her lucky, but never wanted to explain why.

But it didn't take her long to finally know what they meant.

It didn't take her long to notice that her and the master shared the same coil of curls, tanned cheeks and dark hair.

Not long at all.

"Is Azade here?"

She and Amya turned to find a slave boy peeking into their shed. "She is, why?" Amya answered boldly; her eyes not leaving her work.

"Master Adeen, h-he asked for her."

Adeen, he was the Master's young son that seemed adamant to punish all his slaves into servitude. Azade could hear Amya's lips curl into prayer. Over and over again a three sentence recitation cowering onto her lips.

The slave boy made his way over to Azade, picking her up and off the stack of wool. Clutching her hand in his; Amya gave the young girl a strange look. One she had never experienced before.

Pity.

"Why does the master want me?"

"Shh child, you'll find out." The slave boy whispered to her, his muddied hands covering his lips in a 'quiet motion'. They started their trek across the sands and walking by the many slave huts along the way. The other slaves seemed to stop their work and stare at Azade, again with pity.

It seemed as if her luck had run out.

"Why do they all look at me like that?" She asked the boy, tilting her head to his tall stature. He didn't respond.

Azade's feet were clothed in on a piece of wooden sandals, the hot sand beginning to burn her skin as she walked. But she said nothing, and simply followed the boy on their trek to Master Adeen.

'Pain is better off masked as compliance.' She could hear her mother's scolding voice now, strong and assured. Her mother's pain was never exposed on her face, a trait Azade tried so hard to mimic.

"Would you like me to carry you?" The slave boy asked her, staring down at her scorching feet.

"No."

They walked in between those slave huts for what seemed like hours to any small child. Azade knew the lengths and vast distances of the Master's desert land, but time walking over to the Master's palace seemed shorter when her mother was with her. Laughing and joking until their faces went stale at the sight of his palace. Azade and her Mother knew how to pass time.

Closing her eyes, she imagined if her mother were here with her now. Their laughter syncing a chorus in the eight-year olds mind, the scent of fresh jasmine coiling around her senses like the heat on her bronzed skin.