in the hours following the reckoning of zaahira and khusobek, she made herself a bed for the night within muat-riya.
she avoided his gaze whenever she could, and stopped only to assist him with butchering the meat. surely the fellahin would make something wonderful with it. she dismissed herself and walked in silence toward nazli's billowing altar room; a store of berries tucked beneath her tongue.
she did not want to go to her room yet, did not — could not go back to akashingo, no, she must sleep on it. in the morning, she told herself profusely as the numbing warmth of berries swept her throat; in the morning, i will face it.
her back arches against the cool set of the limestone, the wall opposite the intricate paintings, and when she was almost certain no one else could hear it, she begins to weep.

a shadow forms in the wake of zaahira's plundering.
inji had been organizing stock when the haggard cries began to ring through the halls. instinctively, she heeds the sound with a flare of her nape; and peering into the dark room, she is struck with a sudden feeling that she should not be here.
jodai. she felt intimidated, strangely, by her presence here — they had never really spoken, had they? and now here she was, slumped on the floor, dirtied, draped with magenta and scarlet hues. a knot forms in her throat.
z-- jodai? she murmurs, leaning against the entrance with a bony shoulder. she did not want to get too close. what are you... doing here?

of course. of course! oh, this was just her luck!
zaahira's head turns slowly to meet the voice as she begins to process who exactly it belonged to. inji, she cannot compose herself quickly enough. surely, inji would notice the bright veins in her eyes, the damp cheeks. i-i came here to pray.
straightening her shoulders, she tries to mitigate the sorrow and fixes her gaze upon the altarpiece. it is beautiful in here, is it not? hemet nazli painted this. can you believe it?

i never took you for the religious type, inji laughs in a hushed tone, a clear attempt at dispelling the tension that hung thick in the air. i-i mean, yeah, it's, um. it's pretty cool, i guess.
she almost wanted to ask if it was okay for her to come closer. instead, she simply does so — her tail curls at the edge of her hocks as she comes to sit a comfortable distance from the warrior. she says nothing for a while, following the wildfire gaze and where it takes her. khusobek clung heavily to zaahira's coat, and she did not want to ask about it — could not. she did not want to know.
is there anything i can get for you? or?

she almost laughs, then, at the comment; instead, there is a soft flicker of reflection. They listen to me when no one else will.
They keep me sane.
crushing another berry between her molars, she blinks away the haze of tears and exhales a shaky breath. she gazes upon the stalwart young girl and finds herself thinking that khusobek truly does not know how lucky he is. oh, to be so simple again — to be so young and carefree and oblivious to what love does to a person.
may i ask you something, inji?

They listen to me when no one else will.
inji's expression scrunches in thoughtfulness. it was such a strange thing, to her; religion and the fervor others had for it, especially here. there were glorious altars and praises sung and blessings given by those who allegedly held authority in the court of the divine. she found it chaotic, but in some way beautiful.
perhaps she should get more into it. perhaps she needed it in the same way the jodai seemed to.
maybe they would help guide the path she and khusobek now walked.
she scoots closer as she dips her head into a nod at the feeble sound of the question. of course.

there were so many things that question could be.

are you happy here?

how do you cope with the memory of a body against yours?

what do they see in you that they do not see in me?

she dabs away the burning salt from her cheek yet again, and finally lands upon asking: are you sure about that mazoi?

she knew.
somehow, zaahira knew, and inji felt her soul catch fire at the thought of what khusobek could have said to her about them. about what was — private. special.
and then, there was the sudden crippling fear that this was her moment to learn that khusobek loved another face. that his apprehension was not rooted in his own concerns, but because his heart wandered in the way his eyes did — in the one way she decidedly could not live with.
panic stirs within her and she stutters wildly for a moment, blinking her widened eyes, before she finally answers.

why?

because;
the sandsoldier swallows, the fleshy tips of her ears burning. she can see the panic beginning to brew behind the younger girl's eyes. i do not wish for you to get your heart broken by a man who does not deserve that power over you.
it sounded bad, awful, even, and zaahira realizes it as soon as it leaves her lips. he cares for you very deeply, it is obvious, but he is-- he is troubled. and troubled men will drag you with them when they go down.
the same way khaba almost had.
i only want you to be cautious, zaahira's lips purse numbly. and to not love blindly. do not ever, ever let a man control your heart, inji. it will eat you alive.

to say inji was stunned would have been an understatement. she reels backward with a jerk of her head, jaws parted in a shocked 'o' shape.
here before her was a woman who she had previously thought to be so cold, so powerful and political; the brawn of akashingo, the iron fist; and yet inji felt a camaraderie as she watches her unravel. she taps her nails against the earthen floor as she listens in a pious silence.
did he tell you that i asked him to marry me? she asks softly, mouth quivering. i-i wanted, i just want to love him. the way you're, like, supposed to love someone. y'know?

i just want to love him.
the words puncture zaahira right in the heart, a stab with a dull, serrated knife. i just want to love him.
i do know, she breathes. i think that he will surprise you. and i hope very much that i am wrong in my assumptions.
all is quiet for a long while as the jodai picks the pieces of herself from off the floor. her gaze holds a sullen mistiness as a shudder runs from skull to tail.
may the gods keep watch over you, inji, she rubs at her nose with a wrist. and if you are to become a wife, i pray you will be happy.
she would not be the one to dismiss her. at some point, inji will leave, carry out her duties; and at that same time, zaahira could be found clutching the dried petals of a blue lotus to her chest while the gods sing her lullabies.