You can do this, Zahara, she told herself as she sat on her new husband's bed, clammy hands folded in her lap and heart beating like a thundering stampede. The place was beautiful, littered with flower petals and sweet with burning incense, and she felt beautiful in her sheer green robes, her curly hair styled into intricate plaits, her eyes lined with kohl and lips painted. She was wearing more jewellery than she ever had in her life, and her ebony skin was dusted with gold powder to give her a healthy, almost ethereal glow.
You can do this. Just bear with it.
It had been three days of festivities leading up to her actual marriage. Three days of feasting, of merriment, of getting prettied up and socializing.
And it was during those three days that she met her husband for the second time.
The first time had been when her parents had offered her to him, a merchant prince named Mazin who already had three wives, and he had accepted the arrangement and the alliance it would give him. A week later, for a good week was needed for her family to make preparations, and the festivities leading up to the ceremony began. She would be married to a man she didn't know, and would be a stranger in a brand new household.
Obviously, Zahara found that terrifying.
The festivities flew by her in a daze, festivities she spent feeling more like a pretty doll than anything. Mazin seemed more interested in drinking than in socializing with her, though from the way he looked at her, he found her attractive at least, but if anything that only increased her anxiety. She hardly tasted the food or wine she drank, hardly spoke, and by the time the day of the ceremony came, she felt sick.
But she gave her consent to the priestess that wed them, fed him the honey and ate it, too, and kissed him when the time came and felt only knots of tension in her belly, not the pleasant butterflies she was supposed to feel. But it was done. She was married. And it was supposed to be a happy day, and everyone else looked so happy for her, but she only felt like crying.
Night fell, and Mazin's female relatives ushered Zahara away from the party, giving her a moment to say goodbye to her family before she was whisked into Mazin's home and to his bedroom, which they had decorated with flower petals and left them wine. They welcomed her to their family, gave her their blessing, and left her red-faced when his mother whispered some womanly advice into her ear. And then they were gone, and she was alone with nothing but her nerves, her ears tuned to the sounds outside the room as she prepared herself for his arrival.
Or tried to.
She closed her eyes and measured her breaths, in and out and in, trying to control her racing heart and hopefully not get sick all over the place. This was a happy day. She was being a Good Daughter and doing the right thing, pleasing her family and encouraging their mutual success and growth. This was her duty, what she was born to. It was a happy day! He was wealthy and supposed to be kind, so she would live comfortably and never want for anything. She would provide him children, tend to the home, and be taken care of.
Breathe, breathe...
She could grow to love him, as many women before her did in their marriages.
Breathe in, breathe out...
Everyone was so proud of her.
Deep breaths...
She couldn't bear to disappoint them, and how many women would kill to be in her position right now? She was foolish to have other dreams.
Oh God, are those footsteps?
She heard them, slow and slightly staggering as they grew louder and closer, and she jolted with a spike of fear that brought her to her feet, tears of panic stinging her eyes. Oh Hakeshna, no, she couldn't do this! She needed air!
And when the door opened, it opened to an empty room with an open window.
This was crazy, and Zahara knew it.
But once she'd climbed out that window, ripping the hem of her robe, and fell into a run when her bare feet hit the ground, she knew there was no going back and that she might me making the worst mistake of her life.
But she had to get out of there. She had to just go, and at the moment she couldn't think of the consequences or the future, but only of her need to run, as long and as far as she could.
Her robes tangled around her legs and made it difficult to run, and her jewellery jangled loudly, but the festivities were even louder and would go long into the night, and the music and dancing and laughter covered up the sounds of her fleeing. She kept to the alleys and kept to the dark, hardly knowing where she was going, and she didn't know how long she ran until her legs gave out and her sides felt ready to burst.
But she was no longer anywhere she recognized, and the city streets didn't look so clean as her neighborhood. Rats prowled in the dark, and vagrants snored from dark corners, and in the distance she heard the shouts and curses of a fight.
Panting heavily, Zahara hugged herself and leaned up against the wall of a building, trying to control her pounding heart and shaking legs.
What...what had she done?
And where was she now?
