Date: August 19, 2000 (Aether: December 18, 3906)
Place: Prison - Varati Homelands
Cast: Shahar and Viyla (Sabirah)
Scene: Captive these many weeks among the Varati rebels, Shahar has heard rumors that Khalid Atar is dead. And when the kind-hearted wife of the Clansman who kidnaped her confirms this rumor, Shahar loses all will to live -- for what is life without the Neverending Fire?

Days have passed. Weeks, too. Shahar has lost count recently, stopped making small demarcations where she can track the passage of time, perhaps the aging of her son Rutajit. Mark the time of separation from her husband, Ranjeet. No, since the rumors began, too often to be discounted, she has lost track of time and lost sleep as well. Her hair is not its usual burnished ebon, her mannerisms are defiled by jittery trembles not like the fluid grace of her natural motion, and her food has been refused, by and large.

Something is amiss indeed in this near-windowless room from which there seems no escape. Their prisoner, it is said, is slowly going mad.

The dark guards that stalk the dank hallways of this cavernous prison hold no concerns for the failing mental stability of the woman they hold in their clutches. They rarely think of her at all except to allow a woman in to see to her minimal needs; those that will keep her alive, for a dead hostage is worthless.

It is the women -- or at least one of them that seems to pay any passing interest in Shahar -- who offered to look after her when it was required.

Viyla is a plump woman, one of middle years who has seem her many children grow up and give her grandchildren. Streaks of silver brighten the midnight tresses tucked neatly beneath her veil, and delicate lines mark around her eyes.

The thick door is pushed open for her to enter with a tray of food and is then shut loudly at the back, leaving the warlord's first wife alone with the captive. "Imphada," she greets, hesitantly as is her way, before she further approaches the younger woman.

Initially, she had prowled the carpet, true to her reputation as the Lioness of Khalida, but she spends time now in the corner, where shadows dominate and little light finds its way, and from those shadows comes the hollow answer, "What is it?" A tendril of anger still coils around the purring voice of Shahar Khalida, but in this manner it could be inferred as tension of another variety.

A sigh drifts through the stifling air in the small chamber, for she had so hoped that perhaps one day she would walk in here and find some sense that she was appreciated. Her slippered feet make little noise across the carpet so that the minimal burden of the tray can be set on the table.

"I ... I've brought your morning meal, imphada, if you are hungry." Her voice is soft and almost delicate, submissive even, though it isn't surprising, given the nature of her husband. Viyla sighs again, now standing behind Shahar, eyeing the dull tresses that she is certain must shine in their own right. "I ... can wash this for you, imphada." The offer is given as her wrinkled fingers gently pat the younger woman's hair, like a mother trying to comfort a young child.

A long pause. A painful, heavy one, in fact. "Thank you," is tendered with the quality of manners that must surely have been instituted in Shahar's upbringing, but the words are rasped, near lifeless. A far cry, it would seem, from the proud terror that was withheld in this room weeks ago upon her arrival.

To the rest, she says nothing. It is not presently clear for what the 'thank you' was tendered, if it was a tacit acceptance of the offer to have her hair washed or to show appreciation for the food. In either way, Shahar is not moving.

"It is beautiful," Viyla murmurs as she lifts a few strands of hair toward the trickle of light that weaves itself into the room from the window high above. She mutters something else, but it's lost as she turns from Shahar to retreat to the door, most likely to inquire on a bowl of water. "Imphada ..." She hesitates and wrings her hands together as the door closes again and she waits for the water. "You should eat."

"What is your name?" As lustrous as her hair is Shahar's voice, each manicured and groomed to please her and her husband as well, but both have been left to grow sallow, unattended; she sounds disconnected from her very soul as she makes this inquiry, as if the question and the answer meant little to her.

Even when she had attended to her physical attributes as a young woman, Viyla had never been near a match to the beauty that remains caged in this room. She had been pretty -- aren't all Varati women? -- but now she's softened, become more round than willowy, more motherly. Perhaps it's that desire to have something small to do with something so beautiful that has her anxious to try and care for this woman.

"I am Viyla, Imphada," she responds while slowly pacing back and forth, wondering why the naraki take so long for a simple bowl of water and the oils she requires.

Shahar sounds... empty. That's what it is. Devoid of life, as if her guts have hollowed out since the terrible rumors surfaced. "Viyla," says the once-proud Lioness of Khalida, "you are a woman. You know the heart of a woman. You seem... kind. Is it true, what is said?"

"What, Imphada?" she asks gently while offering the younger woman a piece of flattened bread, coaxing her silently to eat at least something. "Many things are said here." Many are none too nice either; not meant for the ears of a woman, but who is she to try and silence the tongues of men?

The food is ignored. Already willowy, the last few days have hollowed out her cheeks, made waxy her complexion. Sometime soon, food will be a requisite. "I have heard a rumor that the Atarvani slew... that they... that he... is dead." No, the words are so terrible Shahar cannot bear to breathe them.

Oh dear. Had she heard those whispers that seemed to bring joy to the faces of the men who were fighting against the God-King of the Varati people? Again, Viyla sighs, as one would before having to reveal the truth that she would rather not have to reveal.

"I was not a witness to it, Imphada, but I have been told that Atarvani worked against their God-King and buried him in a collapsed tunnel." Even she is not hungry now. The piece of bread is set aside and the door finally opens to deliver the requested items.

The naraki goes about his business and then leaves, only after this does Viyla continue. "That's what they say."

Not before has Shahar heard it stated so plainly, so baldly; oh, there have been laughs from jubilant men, certainly, but implications, crude jokes and self-congratulatory words that chilled her heart. But this woman has stated what was mostly implied before, and the pain it evokes, the reaction it generates, must be similar to that of a blade sliding home inside a warrior's chest. Nothing could hurt her more, and nothing could more clearly advertise her conviction the rumor is true.

"Imphada ... I am ... sorry." Viyla moves to rest her weathered hand on Shahar's shoulder, but at the last moment, thinks that perhaps it might not be wise and so it becomes a brief pat, a 'there-there' gesture.

Bleak are the golden-green eyes that find Viyla's regard, bleak, hopeless. Feeble. Shahar was so dangerous at her arrival that safeguards were made against her escape matching those to prevent a trained fighter's escape. Now a child could keep her in his control; now she seems eaten from within, like an elder suffering from a wasting disease. "How," she offers in a numbed whisper, "can you not care?"

Viyla sinks to the floor at Shahar's feet, though it lacks the grace of a younger and more slender woman. "Imphada, I ..." The words are tainted with a well-meaning sorrow, though little is spared for the death of the one named Khalid. "I care more than I seem to be able to express, but it is not the same things which are forefront in your mind."

"What good is it to be a Varati, what good is it to be alive, without Khalid?" Oh, how horrible the words sound, when her own voice issues them! Shahar pinches her eyes shut, pressing her thumbs into the sockets as if the intent were to blind herself. "Why do you keep me here if you have won?"

Viyla gently reaches up and attempts to pull Shahar's fingers from her eyes, to try and prevent that same horrific outcome. "That, I cannot answer, Imphada. I am not on my husband's council; such decisions are not mine to make." Surely this woman can understand that? "But there is much joy to be found in your life, no? When this dies down, you will see -- it is all for the best, really."

She doesn't sound too convinced though; perhaps Viyla isn't in total agreement with her husband?

"What would be for the best," Shahar answers thinly, letting Viyla forestall her self-abuse, for she does not intend to put out her own eyes, it seems... only to try to dampen the images and nightmares that come to her thoughts, "would be for him to kill me. I am the Daughter of Khalid Atar... and I cannot live without him."

At the last word, her vocal chords twitch in answer to a swelling of emotion, cracking that prideful voice. Her heart is well and truly shattered.

"Shhh, Imphada, shhh. It will get better eventually." Viyla doesn't sound as if she believes that either, but she does her best to soothe the fears of the distraught woman who has put so much into the existence of this one being.

As she struggled to get down, so does she to get back up. Her sari wobbles around her as the elder woman searches for something to help her up. A nearby chair will do nicely. As she had done for her daughters years and years ago, Viyla embraces Shahar with her fleshy arms and holds her head against her bosom, stroking her hair and doing all she can to help ease her pain.

"We will all be Varati again, Imphada, with our own rule and our own might to raise us up. We will live in glory, Imphada, do not be sad."

Shahar is not sad, at least, she does not seem to be sad; she is just... limp, a pain and grief inside her so profound that nothing, no ministration of any degree, can touch that place inside her that mourns every second for the one she feels is dead. "There is no might without him. There are no Varati without him. There is no Shahar without him."

Maybe the Lioness has lost her senses while being kept in this small room, away from her home, her family and everything she knows. Viyla has never had to deal with such emotions before, not on this level, and she does not know what else to do aside from trying to soothe the pains in Shahar's heart. "You are still here, Imphada. The Varati still thrive and will continue to do so, Imphada. You will still live." As long as you desired to, goes unsaid.

Flatly, lying against the older woman, without taking any apparent comfort, without having any apparent feelings, Shahar responds, "There are no Varati without Khalid Atar. There is no Shahar Khalida without the Amir-al." This sounds like it might become a mantra for her in the coming hours.

Yes, Shahar might well have lost her senses.

A shell has grown around Shahar, one that Viyla's words cannot seem to penetrate with all her motherly attempts. She runs her wrinkled fingers over the thick black hair, dull and lifeless to her touch, just as the woman she holds.

"There will be Varati still, Imphada," she whispers in muted desperation, wanting something to get through to their captive, for her to see reason. She's never been a good diplomat, she knows this, but if she could only convince this woman that life goes on without her Khalid, she might feel successful.

Alas, for now, there is no such luck; Viyla must find her confirmation and joy for living elsewhere. Shahar is worn to a frazzle, sleepless, with little food if any consumed -- was she fasting for religious purposes? -- and she is at present beyond the touch of any who are near.

So, after a time, she retreats again to her shadowed corner and there remains, as if deliberately bathing herself in the darkness that seems to envelop her soul. For what is life without hope? And with no rescue, no Khalid, no thoughts as to what may have happened, there is no hope.

And without that hope, and as earlier stated, without Khalid, there appears to be no Shahar.

Such a waste of a beautiful life, one so young retreating into a wasteland over a man who treasured Empyreans and mongrels over his own people of fire. Viyla shakes her head and gently releases the woman, but makes sure she is comfortable in her shadows. She leaves the bowl of water untouched, as well as the vials of oil meant the scent her hair and make it gleam from within. Perhaps one of the other women will have better luck.

"It will be better," she says again, beginning a mantra of her own as she backs away from the reclusive Shahar. Her tongue clicks against her teeth and she shakes her head, muttering to herself as a guard allows her to leave the room.

The door is slammed soundly shut, leaving Shahar in he isolation and depression.

FIN  

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