The Trail between Skies and Seas

Part 4 - When the Weak doubt

The rustling of a heavy wall-hanging distracted father from daughter, daughter from father. It was a luxurious piece of art, yet another gift from one of the lord's subordinates. And did its respectable job of separating Niqû's dwelling from that of his impressive number of servants and lovers.

This unexpected disturbance was accompanied by the clinking of cups and plates. A servant had brought the lord sustenance. A well-trained servant who knew not to step any closer than needed. Niqû did not permit for slaves to approach his sleeping space. The idea of their stench tainting the air he breathed in his privacy disgusted him. It was a great trial for him to even eat food from their hand. However, he had no other choice. To bear the strain of living in the Middle Land, even Šarru had to take in nourishment.

As soon as they were quite sure the servant had retreated, Šarratum jumped up, her feet treading upon her own hair, her hands getting entangled in the gauze that formed a comfortable cocoon around them. She shot out from behind their little refuge with the foolhardiness of childhood. And Niqû let her, though it did not please him.

He could not accept her the way she was. Wild, thoughtless, hot-headed. It was impossible for him not to submit everything to his own will and desire. He had lived his whole existence in such a fashion. Whether over the Šarru or the Alēmu, supremacy was his one and only ambition. Eternity his one and only goal. Thus, variables were in no way welcome in his perfectly planned-out life. And Šarratum was nothing but a variable.

For a split of an instant, the child disappeared behind the wall-hanging, her rear turned to her father in a most inelegant fashion. The retrieval of a silver plate caused a horrifying ruckus to ensue, enough to make Niqû's temple throb painfully. Though she was small and the plate was too large for her to comfortably hold onto, Šarratum did stubbornly lift it, all the dishes, one big kettle, a delicate decanter dangerously sliding to one side and threatening to crash to the ground. And make a mess the lord would have to clean by himself, if only to honor his self-imposed rule of no servants being allowed into his personal space.

However, one thing Šarratum had were surprisingly well-honed reflexes. Though she had never been in a situation to require any, they had developed by themselves. Just as if she truly were a Šarru. Sometimes, observing her rashness, she made Niqû wonder whether if flung up in the air, she would fall back on her feet. He did not especially wish to verify the matter. Nor did he wish to have food splattered all over himself. Thus, he sat up swiftly and, with an annoyed movement of the foot, moved the translucent silk away to catch the plate before it left her hands.

She laughed in return, with that tinkling laughter of a happy child, and took again place by her father, examining with relish his elegant movements as he placed the feast between them. They would eat together. It was a rare treat. She usually ate in her own tent, attended by servants. And when she could get her hands on him, with Nemru.

The thought of him made her scrunch her nose thoughtfully. Niqû picked the change in countenance up immediately. To him, there was nothing she could hide. As soon as her eyes turned towards the entrance to the tent, he knew what she was thinking about. And he wasn't disposed to let her continue enjoying thoughts he considered as unruly as they were unnecessary.

However, he did not let his body betray his annoyance. It was with utter ease that he poured a white, cloudy liquid into one of the goblets while watching Šarratum's brows furrow into a worried scowl.

Niqû brought the cup to his lips and savoured the flavor of the date-palm wine, his eyes never leaving the child's face. The wine was to the image of the people who produced it. It had a shelf-life of one day. No longer. Made in the morning, consumed in the evening and no good the next day. Such was the lifecycle of Alēmu as well. Such would be Šarratum's lifecycle. Niqû could not permit himself the luxury of letting her pass through his fingers for even a short period of time.