A Story Of My Own

After finding the time for books again (the sort that has nothing to do with my degree), I found myself one evening almost unthinkingly typing up whatever it was that my brain wanted to release. Turns out it was some form of inspiration to write what seems to be more like an excerpt from a chapter of a book rather than a story in itself. Whatever it is, although it's mine, there was no thought process involved, and it wrote itself. Surprisingly it was similar to the way I write my poetry: they just come to me and that's that. Nothing more, nothing less. Either way, here it is:

~ Chapter 3 ~

There was barely enough time to grab hold of her hair that was tumbling down, free from its usual pencil or comb, scavenged from the depths of her bedroom. Twisting it neatly back into place, she adjusted her veil, ensuring that it was drawn across the lower parts of her face. She swiftly made her way to the courtyard, her footsteps muffled by the rich furs that lay upon the marble floor. There was no time for stealth, as the stranger with his wide set eyes and vivid green sash tied to hide his ample belly, was currently in audience with her father. As Tamara placed an ear to the heavy wooden doors of the drawing room, inlaid with jewels and intricate carvings, unfamiliar raucous laughter boomed from within, muffling her father’s quiet yet rich voice. There was no way she would be able to discern what was being said inside and patience didn’t come easily to the princess. With a determined step, Tamara made her way up a flight of stone stairs usually used by the servants. Entering a side room directly above the one in which the guest was seated, Tamara removed a stone from the floor on the far side of the room. Underneath this, the metal grille allowed the sounds from the room below to quietly carry through. Impatiently pushing her veil aside, Tamara pressed her ear to the grille, trying hard not to breathe in the disturbed dust that had now settled on her face. As Tamara listened to the conversation that remained completely unaware of its intrusion, her fists clenched, her well-polished nails digging deeper into her palms with each passing minute. She didn’t even feel her skin breaking as she drew blood.

Once the stranger had left, Tamara eased herself against the wall, her knees and back aching from the tense crouched position she had held for the last twenty minutes. Her mind numb with shock, it took a few moments for her to notice Sara, her maid, at the door, her eyebrows furrowed with worry. “Your Highness, we’ve been looking all over for you. What are you doing here?” Tamara sat, her mind furiously trying to piece together the drifts of conversation she had managed to catch. As Sara walked towards the princess, her eyes widened as she took in the sight of the drying blood that had seeped through Tamara’s still-clenched hands. Tamara followed Sara’s gaze and looked with bemusement at her hands, but this was no time for small scratches. She sprang up and ran past Sara, who at this point was fumbling around, looking for a cloth to wipe off the blood. Racing down the stairs, the princess threw open the doors to the drawing room and strode up to her father who remained seated in his favourite chair, a Persian creation of the greatest magnificence, draped in silken finery and sparkling with rocks as big as the fresh walnuts that grew in the orchards. Her eyes blazing with the passion of the warrior’s bloodline that flowed through her veins, Tamara knelt at her father’s feet, her face turned towards his, searching for a clue to somehow negate what she had just heard.
“Is it true? Are we to go to war?”
Her father’s face looked aged as he smiled sadly down at her, his hand resting against her cheek. “My dear daughter, Shair Khan has pillaged nearby towns, slaughtering whoever may come his way, keeping only a few young women alive whom he has taken for himself. His men have been left to burn whatever and whoever is left and take whatever they wish. Shair Khan has violated the treaty that ordered peace to reign in these regions for 50 years. He is out of control.”

Talk of Shair Khan and his barbaric ways against the people that she had lived with when she was young was enough to make her want to rip Khan’s head from his body. But there was something else going on that her intuition had warned her about and she had distinctly heard the stranger utter her name.
“What did the nafar want with me?” Tamara asked, her trembling voice barely concealing the anxiety that was twisting at her heart. As King Tamuk took his daughter's hands in his own, he noticed how small and fragile they seemed to be.
“The messenger was sent by Rumais Lahan, from the Gazari tribe," he sighed, making sure he he kept a hold of Tamara's hands. "He offers an alliance against Shair Khan, a deal only cemented if I give him your hand in marriage..” Tamuk looked down at his only child and was once again struck by the resemblance she held to his beloved wife who was now resting in the next world. Tamara had the same brilliant green eyes framed by the sharp yet hauntingly beautiful features. Of present they betrayed the terror she felt, mirroring his own disturbed emotions that weighed heavily in his broad and battle-scarred chest. Her hands hung limply as Tamuk felt their warmth drain away.

They both knew that in recent months, Tamuk’s forces had dwindled, the harsh winter having disabled many of the men with frostbite, and others having left when the food had run out. If Shiobani made his way to the palace, they would not be able to defeat him on their own. For Tamara, this didn’t bode well.