The flaxen red mare walks along the softened spine of a dune, deep in contemplation. She does not stray far from the herd she had been welcomed into (and she is aware that, some way off in the distance, Kahraman stands, ever watchful), and it is not out of any discomfort that she seeks a moment of silence and solace for herself. In the short time she has dwelled here, Shahrazad has become acquainted with many of her People. The brothers of Rigel, Stars of Mira. Sayyida, first wife to Antares. Eness, betrothed to Atair. Sakhmet. Zazu. Corona. And there others besides these that came under the Malik’s protection but Shahrazad had not yet had the pleasure of knowing them beyond figures in the distance.
That she had yet to get a firm grasp of the Common tongue was something that proved to be a lingering ire. Kahraman, for all his keenness of eye, and his uncanny way of reading truths that others tried to hide, had taken her aside earlier in the day. “I feel helpless and inadequate, like a child lacking understanding.” Kahraman had studied her at this confession, before turning to look out over the rolling sands. You are not a child, Shahrazad. You never were. Life was cruel in taking the innocence of your youth from you, but it is a new day, and you have been blessed with freedom, and a place where you Belong. Do not lose sight of that. The words were heartfelt, and the young mare was quietly surprised by how forthcoming the Teke had been.
In all the time she had known him, from their first meeting moons ago, when he had been set under guard alongside her as prisoner to his own People, as well as along their harried plight, he’d always been cold and distant while ensuring her physical wellbeing. For a time, Shahrazad had believed him to be heartless, or else cruel. But that was not true. Part of him would always be a mystery to her, and that was why she felt drawn. Understanding, though, was dawning upon her. For as familiar as she had become with the ways and customs of Kahraman’s People, there had been no connection there, no stirring or purpose or meaning in her soul. The young arab mare had sought to learn, driven by the instinctive wisdom within her. After all, knowledge was the only kind of power a captive (such as herself had been) could accrue.
But in the stillness of the night, as she pauses to watch those she’d become familiar with (and in days to come, would make every effort to draw closer to), she realises that there was an underlying reason for how avidly she took in knowledge, and it was the same reason she clung so firmly to her stories. There had always been an emptiness in her, and it has worn many disguises. Sadness. Naïvety. Rebellion. Misplaced affection and a yearning to be wanted. But beneath the watchful eye of the moon and among the company of the Stars, Shahrazad had ripped the masks away, each and every one. She was as a cracked vessel in the way that no matter how much she poured into herself to fill the unseen void, there would be no contentment, nor would her soul be slaked of its thirst.
There was hope though. Kahraman was right. It was a new day, and Shahrazad was blessed. The Language and customs, the histories of her People and presence of those of her Blood, all that she had been witness to already, these things woke within her a sense of self that had long lain dormant, and Shahrazad had faith that if she were patient, if she remained attentive and opened herself up to the lessons that the present had to offer, the agonising unknowns of her past would become clear to her. She would carry herself into the future as a whole and healed being, who would not be defined by the trials she had endured so much as she would be shaped by them, armed with insight and gifted with wisdom.
There was a soft sigh upon Shahrazad’s lips as she settles, the sand shifting a little beneath her, accompanied by a humble smile, and a gentler light in her blue eyes. Answers would come, she had faith in this. And until they did, the fact that she was no longer alone would prove to be a balm to her wounded and weary heart – the first layer sealing the damage that had been done to her. One day, there would be a Shahrazad who poured herself out onto others, not because she was broken, the spirit of her leaking out even as she desperately tried to stem the flow and fill herself up by drawing to others in order to draw from.
She would know for a certainty who she was, and the pouring out of herself would not be the result of a restless longing and ceaseless trickle but rather a deeply felt joy, because she would be restored, and filled generously with the kindnesses of her own blessed People, until she overflowed, and there was no more wanting.
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