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for-peace-war · 5 years

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art by @idrawbuffgirls

This is the second part in the three part series before the next event, featuring characters that @enfamouseld‘s character, Arestes, rescued from death. In the event his character was forced to take shelter in one of the pleasure caravans against a sandstorm. The characters in this are speaking a language he does not, so their backstories are revealed in passing.

As always, I’m really thankful to Kelzack for his hardwork and awesome depictions of characters.

THE TEMPLE OF LONGING.

Follows: Prologue.

Follows Part I.

Follows Part II.

Follows Part III.

Follows Part IVa.

Part IVb.

RAKIM was not his name. From the moment that the Aquilonians had descended upon the pleasure caravan, he had determined that if they prevailed—and if he lived—then the best thing he could do was to separate himself from the man he had been. At least, until he was free of the desert and back within the comfort of Turan. The Zuagir Desert, as he had learned, was a place where things of value were lost—rarely found—and always kept in the hands made bloodiest in pursuit of their acquisition.

His name was too precious to be shared.

So, he gave them a lie—a bloody one.

It had been years since he had been given reason to think of rashan Rakim, a beautiful boy whose future had been destined to command the sands with legions of men nearly as talented as he. That Rakim—The Rakim—had been a boy with strikingly handsome features crafted upon his dusky skin. His mother, he’d heard said, was a Stygian—his father, one of the priests of Keshia, in deepest, darkest Keshan. They had sought favor with the Turanian empire by sending their son, who had been blessed by their dark gods with vitality and virility, to serve in the shah’s retinue. Yes, as surely as he could see the darkness that surrounded him in that present moment—he could yet see that dusky lad, clad in ostrich feathers and leopard skins, paraded about as a curio for Akifshah.

They had dressed that Rakim, whose true name had slipped his mind but remained surely suited to the tongues of beasts and their dark brothers, as a proper young man—trained him with sword and spear and seen him excel at horsemanship and archery. He would have placed any Zuagir to shame, surely. That beautiful young man, with the brilliant smile and knowing eyes. Yes, he had been destined for greatness.

But one’s destiny, it could be said, need be their fate.

Rakim, the Blessed Boy, was cursed with a beauty that claimed hearts with but a passing glance. It was something in dark eyes, near-black, that shone like spilled blood in the hot sun’s glare. Women, some men, boys, girls—even those with honor, had been attracted to his gait, his smile, and that look in his eyes. When he spoke, with a tongue that should have known savage swill, he spat wine refined in the shah’s court.

That Rakim—the one that should have won acclaim by his deeds—had gained his ire, though. He, the man that had stolen his name, had favored a young woman who upon learning of Rakim’s presence, had quickly forgotten he existed. As tales of love would have gone it made sense: he was not the fairest man, even those twenty years prior, and as time conspired against him he had become frail of body and wizened beyond his years. His hair was thin—more white than grey, and often he heard snickering when leaving the girl’s garden. By status and service, he deserved her. But Rakim’s beauty won out—for a time.

As always, he had a way of making things right.

Nothing was right about that moment, though. Outside the palanquin, a deadly sandstorm continued to rampage against the world. He could hear the sand piling around them—knew that before long, they would likely be buried within it. Had it been but himself in the palanquin with the two courtesans then he might have known worry, but the Aquilonian that had saved him—the one that had entrusted him with the dagger that was then pressed against his palm, well. That fool, that boy—that would be his way to safety.

That would be his way to reclaiming his name.

He knew that the Aquilonian did not speak their language. The fool, his savior, had attempted to speak with fleeting success to the concubines, though one shrieked and relieved her bladder while the other stared dumbly at him. The one that cried he knew by the sound of her voice: Ilahe of Iranistan, a mercer’s daughter that had grown up prettier than she did intelligent. She was one of Mostafa’s favorites because she had a soft body and a soft mind.

The other though, as he looked at her, he found less reason for comfort.

Cold, dead eyes looked back at him. Cold, dead—and searching.

“Why do you look at me, girl?” He asked.

Of Mostafa’s foolish harem, there were but two that would have given him cause for pause. The first was Vithika, who he had directed the Aquilonians to kill before she could spread her poison further within the encampment. The Vendhyan had never been to his liking, and though he knew the satrap never listened to reason, he had attempted to caution him against drawing her in too close. Their laughter as he left was all that rose above the sound of their rutting. But he had not been wrong about her—had not been mistaken in believing that the worst whore was a clever one.

But then there was the girl before him.

She was not clever. She was cold.

The veil that they wore masked each of Mostafa’s toys well enough, though the man’s perversions for flesh had ensured that most could be told apart at a glance. As Ilahe, who wept freely, pressed her shoulder to the other’s arm for protection, it was that other—with the cold stare, that shared who she was by the tattoos like wisteria that had been painted escaping from her eyes. Along cold, ashen skin—upon flesh that was as alive as it was dead.

She answered him, with a voice that whispered as a scarab’s molting rustled by a chilling wind. “I see a dead man.”

Diwa of Drujistan. The Daughter of the Dead.

“I can fix that for you, little whore,” Rakim, who was not Rakim, said. He lifted his dagger toward her and indicated her eyes, which were pale amber and near white against the darkness. “Do not think I fear you. There is no one to protect you here.”

Diwa’s eyes followed his dagger, in the manner a cat’s might a trapped mouse. She looked at him. “I do not fear the dead.”

“Am I dead, then?”

“You have the name of a dead man.”

“You can take whatever you want from the dead,” he said.

“Yes,” she said. “Until they take from you.”

Had she shown a trace of emotion, something that palpated beneath that cold chest of hers, then perhaps he would have known leverage to use against her, but Diwa was a stoic and her eyes aligned with something deeper and darker than the shadows about them.

In the palace he had heard rumors of her—rumors that made her a secret better avoided than disparaged. Diwa’s people, remnants of those that had fled Yanadair in the Drujistan mountains, had sent her as tribute to Turan for protection against the supposed Ghoul King that lurked within the heart of their kingdom. Mostafa had been willing to accept the tribute, but paid token assistance to their cries for help—and eventually those cries died down.

But Diwa remained.

The rumors—which palaces had no lack of—were that by day, this Diwa—the Daughter of the Dead—was a woman as lively and real as any woman of remarkable beauty might be expected to be. That she had a body that warmed to the touch and grew wetter by the word.

It was at night though, when the fantastic occurred—when her warm skin became cold, and her heart no longer beat. It had been said that for a fortnight, Satrap Mostafa had killed her in the depths of his perversion, and that each day that returned she was restored, fresh as the babe she had been when Death had whelped her into the world.

Those were the rumors though.

Rakim did not know what to believe—save that this whore was worse than the other.

“You would do well to be kind to me,” Rakim said. “Mostafa is not long for this world.”

“All men have died before they are dead.” Diwa’s tone remained cool; distant. “He is no different.”

Could she not be shaken? “This Aquilonian, his steel is good. I saw him kill Wagih, with another that must be as good as he. Tell me, do you think your withered cunt will protect you from them?”

“I require no protection.”

“Then you would rather they killed you?”

“I do not fear death.” She said. “Death is for men to fear.”

“And what do women feel in the face of it, hm?”

“Freedom.”

It was preposterous. “You stupid bitch,” he muttered. If death was freedom, then surely he should have found it by then. That he had been stripped of his offices—that he had been forced to cart around the whores of a madman, had all been because the only freedom he was promised was one that was outside of death. Perhaps men did fear death and women did not, but it was not any act of wisdom on behalf of the other. It was because the former had ambition and the latter was but a prize gained and then abandoned.

And he had ambition yet—ambition and vengeance that drove him. They had all seen what was happening when Mostafa began to posture to challenge the Aquilonians: all seen that he was preparing to break free the shah’s grasp and declare himself a regent in his own right. When a man surrounded himself with women—when he hid himself behind an iron mask, he forgot what it meant to be a man and in turn, forgot what it meant to be loyal. He and the other ministers had made an effort to draw him back into line; to remind him that though he was a satrap and respected among his peers, that any act of insubordination would be met appropriately.

Before the eyes of the court, they had been stripped.

Before the eyes of his whores, they had been broken.

Beneath the robe he had recovered from the pile of treasures in the palanquin, his skin remained a molten and sore source of pain. Pus and blood dripped from his cracked skin, weeping as his eyes had wished even at that moment. He would see Mostafa suffer for all he had done to him—see those that supported him bake in the sand the same as Wagih, his big black bastard, then did after he had been lain to proper rest.

But then there was Diwa and her dead eyes.

She said he was already dead.

“If I were to stab you, would you stay dead?”

She answered him. “If I am lucky.”

“And if you are unlucky?”

“Then I will endure another day.”

Despite his misgivings, Rakim began to understand the allure to the woman. Though harsh in her view, she was soft spoken—though certain of her place, she was subservient in a way. Mostafa could have seen himself astride death itself when he took her. He suddenly understood that hunger to explore that which could not be explored: to mount death and make it his bitch. “I will keep you, when I rise.”

Diwa looked away from him. She looked at the wall, where nothing but dirt awaited on the other side. “Do you believe this was how he felt?”

“Who?”

“Rakim.”

The Real Rakim. The beautiful boy, whose body had been beaten bloody and raw; whose skin was flayed and whose bones were burned. When they had finished their punishment of him for a crime he would never know the true nature of, he had indeed been cast into a box and thrown into a pit of vipers.

Even then, he had felt no satisfaction in Rakim’s fate.

But then, the girl that loved him—she had satisfied him well enough the night before.

“If that boy felt anything,” Rakim said, “it was long before he was placed in the box.”

“And long after. Long, long after.”

Her insistence on the fate of the dead gnawed at him. Mostafa’s women should have been singular in their purpose—like the piss-soaked Ilahe, or the girl nearly slain by the Aquilonian when she had come at him with a dagger. But Diwa, who refused to look at him, denied some basic part of who he was. He was still a man—he still had a dagger. He could have stabbed her, between her pale little breasts, and carved upward until her black heart spilled free her chest.

But then she looked back at him—she looked back at him and he saw that was meaningless. He could not kill her, even if he had a thousand nights to try. Was she the Daughter of Death? Was she Death itself?

“Do you ever wonder what you would say to him—if you could apologize?”

“If I could apologize to who? Rakim?”

“Yes.”

“What would I say to him?” He snarled. “He took what wasn’t his; claimed what he never deserved. If his whore mother and bastard father hadn’t sent him to civilized lands, he would still be alive—fucking goats and eating buzzard hearts, or whatever it is those heathens do.”

He had long since come to terms with it, yes. Yes, he felt some remorse—but he felt something more to. In order to protect what was his; to protect his position, he had slain one boy through rumor. How many more had he killed since then? Why would one matter to him?

Why had he chosen that one name, though?

Why did it haunt him—why did he haunt him?

Diwa lifted her hand and touched it gently to Ilahe’s lips. The Iranistani, with the heaving bosom and soft stomach, quieted herself at her touch. An absence of sound passed between them then; a tension that buzzed in its quietness, and spoke words that could never be heard save with the passing of one’s heart beating. The Aquilonian shifted, his armor’s protest the only audible sound as that dreadful pall in the air began to settle over each of them.

“The storm will soon pass,” Diwa said. At last, she returned her eyes to him. “Listen carefully. Perhaps you will soon hear what Rakim has to say to you.”

#conan #writing exercise #diwa the drujistani #ilahe the iranistani #a man named rakim

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