The Trail between Skies and Seas

Part 2 - The Child and its Leopard

There had been something insistent in the way she had said it. Nemru. His name was not Nemru. But it was better than being called wardu. And thus, he almost good-naturedly turned on his heels, abandoning the water well for good. The women around him did not dare straighten their backs, bowing to the newcomer with as much humility as could be mustered when one was caught off-guard.

Had he been able to see how humiliation distorted their features, he might have forgiven them the shame. As it was, gauging the small silhouette in front of him, Nemru wondered how easily he could convince her to have their heads flying.

A gust of wind hit them full force. And at once, their surroundings were forgotten. The women became unimportant. His wounds faded into the background. Only the two of them existed. Looking at each other. She, her head raised, her neck suffering from the strain. He, his eyes lowered, towering over her like a menacing shadow.

The multitude of chains, coins, gems that covered her seemed to be pulling her whole body towards the ground. Her childish wrists, her bare ankles, her thin neck.

Everything seemed to be about to break.

The ruckus these unnecessary additions were making was driving Nemru insane. She would be left deformed for a lifetime by the sheer weight of her headdress and the ridiculously thick hair beneath it.

He had already noticed the abnormal curvature of her spine and had tried to remedy to the situation. But as soon as he had made a movement to rid her of that absurd mane, Nemru had gotten his five fingers broken for him.

One by one. To remind him of two things.

Slaves had no power of decision. They were not allowed to harm a strand of their masters' hair. The fact they had fed, washed, carried said master through frozen and blazing hells changed nothing. That was one thing he had learned, trying to cut her hair.

The other was that she was property. No man wished his property to be sullied by foreign hands. Her headdress might have been covered in pearls, her body might have smelled of orange flower, but she was no different from Nemru. These spiteful females around them could have called her wardu instead of lady without being wrong.

She was a child. And thus could not read the mood. Just as easily as she had formed the silent, thought-obliterating connection between them, she broke it out of sheer caprice.

Though the embroidered dresses and the jewels gave her consequence, the cold aura surrounding her was mostly caused by the way her left eye was always covered. Whether by an amulet, a gem, a simple strip of fabric. It was never to be seen. And legends circulated, of course. Rumors, malicious gossip.

Her father loved her so much that from fear of ever losing her, he had disfigured her. Scooped her left eye out with a dagger. Stabbed it over and over again. To the point of torture. A Šarru like him would do nothing but!

And thus, when her peculiar head, with that pasty white skin, turned to the women, the heavy obsidian concealing half her face gleamed in the sun. Ferociously, dangerously.

"Have you been pulling water out for them, Nemru?"

That same soft voice. A desert snake's hiss. Nemru had always been at the receiving end of her jealousy.

A jealousy their master only exacerbated. It made the lord laugh when she placed herself between him and his lovers, when she demanded his attention like the woman she would eventually become. Playing games, trifling with her childish emotions was his most favored pastime.

It made Nemru nauseous, on the other hand. But how could he have warned her against her unbridled passions? And how could he have protected her ... and himself ... from them?