Archive of Our Own

Fareed stumbles numbly through the dust.

Despite his injuries, they’d been marching him all night.

Just when he’s certain he’s on the verge of collapse, they crest a hill and the prison finally comes into view.

Though, calling it a prison was being generous. The place was a miserable collection of stones stuck out on the steppe; an ancient fort that hearkened all the way back to the days of the Mongol invasions. Since then, it had been a haven through the centuries to brigands and soldiers alike.

And in the case of the small band of Soviet soldiers that he could see swarming over it, both.

Two soldiers flank him, one of them clutching the end to a rope that had been used to tie his hands. He leads Fareed off from the main course, heading for the fort’s archway.

Few of the men milling about give him even a passing look. The ones that do, it’s cold, stern, and dismissive.

He meets them back with defiance and hatred.

He’s struggling to keep up now. The wound in his leg is acting up again; sending burning pain up and down his shin, and the one soldier is forced to pull more and more insistently on the rope to keep him moving down the hall. 

Eventually though, they all squeeze into a small antechamber; one mostly taken up by Cyrillic-stamped supply crates.

One of said crates is being used as a table; a canteen and plate of indistinguishable food balanced upon it, while another serves as the chair that a man with officer’s markings squats upon.

“And what is this wretched thing you bring us, Lieutenant Karamazov?”

The rope-holder gives a salute with his free hand.

“Sir. We think he is a messenger. We caught him on the road, fleeing from Urmia right before the bombing was called in. By direction, it looked like he was heading for Mahabad.”

“Hm. I heard over the radio about Urmia. He was attempting to warn them, no doubt…”

The officer, he is an older soldier. Too old to still be out in the field like this, really - the graying color of his bushy mustache and eyebrows, and his straining belly that betrays his luxurious dietary preferences both attest to that. But here he is in uniform all the same.

The rope-holder, Karamazov, was on Fareed’s left. His hair is curly, and blonde, and he has a roundish face and deep blue eyes that seems to twinkle with merriment no matter what he said or did.

The one standing at his right, by contrast, was tall, lanky, and of a sullen demeanor. With a shaved head, sharp, almost wolfish cheekbones, and a vicious scowl.

He is trying to memorize their faces. Even if they erased their names, they could not get rid of their faces. Not easily, anyway. If there was even a chance in hell of getting out of here, Fareed would not forget the ones who did this to him.

Wolf-face seems to catch him eying him, and he gives Fareed a rough shove that nearly makes him fall over.

“Careful with this one. The horse he was on was a demon, and when we got her cut down, the bastard fought like a man possessed by one.”

Karamazov nods. “I can vouch for that statement, sir. It took five of us to finally get him restrained and captured. And Medvedev wants his head for busting his nose, since he claims it was his best feature.”

Wolf-face scoffs. “That implies Medvedev had good features to start with.”

Despite the shove, Fareed forces himself to stay calm and steady, even as another sharp lance of pain shoots through his leg.

The officer laughs. The teeth beneath his mustache are stained rotten from tobacco.

“Ha! I’ll bet Medvedev was fit to spit. You know, I hear tell these desert devils are so attached to their horses because they fuck them, that’s why they’re always so willing to give up their stallions but they still keep the mares. So it’s no wonder he fought you! He was avenging his best girl!”

Karamazov laughs in return at the officer’s ‘joke.’ Wolf-face doesn’t. But his smile is cruel.

They all speak in Russian, of course.

They don’t know is that he learned their language in school, years ago. They don’t know that he understands every single word they say.

They don’t see the way his jaw tightens.

“…So anyway, you say he was headed for Mahabad? He have any papers on him?”

Wolf-face shakes his head. “No. We do still think he was being sent down to the highway, to try and warn the cities to the southeast, but found no papers to prove it. We searched him, of course.”

“Hm. Then maybe it’s a verbal message he is intended to deliver.”

The officer lowers himself back down onto the crate with a grunt, taking a swig from the canteen before he speaks again.

“Well. The 53rd is still on the move, but this one might know something to make their march easier. Put him in one of the old cells, down the hall. Tomorrow we’ll see if we can’t make him talk.”

Another salute, and Karamazov is turning, yanking on the rope as though Fareed were little more than a particularly stubborn dog.

To the hall again, they move. There is more trudging, until the sounds of the other soldiers fade away, and there is only their footsteps ringing on the stone.

When they stop this time, it is in front of a heavy, rust-pitted iron door. It doesn’t look like it should be able to open, and yet it swings easily as Karamazov gives it a push. No telling if the Soviets are the ones who fixed and oiled it up, or perhaps one of the fort’s previous occupants did…

The rope is untied from his wrists, but before he can even think of a single action, a boot connects with his back end (somehow, he just *knows* the kick is from Wolf-face) and it sends him sprawling inside.

There are no taunts, no instructions, no parting words whatsoever before the door slams shut, leaving Fareed in the gloom of the musty cell.

At least they gave him that small dignity. Though that meant now he was left to ruminate, and ponder just what they had in store for him tomorrow.

He pushes himself up, slowly, trying to take stock of his surroundings.

The cell is, as expected, tiny. A barred window sits high up in the wall (one far too small for a grown man to fit through), and it was letting in the last vestiges of sunset. There is a pile of filthy rags in a corner. A bucket in the other. There are long, flat iron bars still bolted to the walls, places where restraints no doubt once hung.

Nothing more than that, though. They didn’t even leave him water - not that he is surprised by that. Water is a luxury out here, and of course the Soviets would not waste it on their prisoners.

They clearly did not expect him to be here for long.

The pain in his leg is getting unbearable now, and he crawls over near the pile of rags to sit with his back against the wall.

He gingerly rolls up his pant leg to examine the wound. A long horizontal gash runs across his shin, one that throbs and still trickles a thin trail of blood. 

The gash was from a bullet, one of the ones that the Soviets had shot at him as he’d tried to elude them. It had carved a path right through his boot.

Fareed sighs as he glances over and regards the slovenly rags; before he decides better of it and grabs and tears off part of his pant leg to try and bandage the wound. If he survived this, maybe he would be fortunate and not lose the leg…though, it was already pushing his luck that it had not just hit bone and crippled him entirely.

If he survived this.

He knew they would keep him alive as long as it took to get information out of him. 

But after that…

After he ties off the makeshift bandage, he stares in the direction of the window, at the tiny glimpse of sky it afforded him.

To say the army was losing this fight was an understatement. They were routed. There was no polite way to say it. The Shah had tried to barter for a better deal with the English when it came to the oilfields, and like any other spoiled rotten child, the Brits had reacted poorly to being told no.

The Soviets, meanwhile, were simply being bullies as they always were. They saw an opportunity, something to take, and they took it. They had already taken many territories around the country, forced them under the heel of the Empire; so it was only inevitable they’d eventually turn their gaze to Iran itself.

They must have known somehow that he was operating as a messenger; that he wasn’t just a deserter like his commanding officer had told him to claim he was in case he ran into trouble with the foreign soldiers.

The goal had been to get down to Mahabad and warn whatever unit was still there of the coming Soviets; to try and get people evacuated and avoid the same tragedy befalling them that had happened to Urmia. Then, if at all possible, he should try to get to Zanjan, or Qazvin, or even all the way back to Tehran to meet up with whatever was left of the army.

Kholey was one of the fastest horses in the unit; she was out of good proper Al-Khamsa stock, and she could keep up even with the motorized infantry, and on less resources to boot.

A wave of sudden grief that had been buried under his anger and pain overtakes and drags him under, and Fareed raises a hand to his eyes, stifling a choked noise in his throat.

…Kholey…she’d been the one friend he could count on in this damned war.

She had been his faithful partner, ever since the first day he’d become a cavalryman. When he had joined the army as a rider, the other men said the grey mare was wild, untamed, a feral thing despite her good breeding. Not even worth the bullet it would have cost to put her down.

But she listened to Fareed. She minded him, even if she minded no one else. And she was fierce, and hardy, and fearless. All ideal traits for a cavalry steed.

The life of a soldier was not an easy one, but she’d made it tolerable.

She was the one who had carried him to safety out of Jolfa while three of their number stayed back to hold the bridge, and away from Urmia just as the bombers of the Soviet Air Force were flying over the city. The snipers that had been stationed there, they were less than useless against such force.

He would never forget it as they both tore out of the city, the destruction behind them as if hell itself was manifesting on earth to drag them down.

And now? 

Well, now she was dead. Just another casualty. She had been shot out from under him by at least half a dozen Soviets, including the one shot that had wounded *him* by going through his boot.

At least she’d gotten her licks in - he remembered the satisfying snap of bones as she kicked and struck and lunged out at the ones that tried to contain her.

She had gone down fighting, and when they swarmed him, he fought just as viciously. They got his gun away from him, but he had drawn his saber; elbowed the biggest one in the face with a good crunch of his fat nose, and then tried to carve a way through them.

If they had had any honor, they’d have fought him on level ground, eye to eye and face to face. Instead, one of them snuck up behind and smashed him in the back of the head with a rifle butt, and when he fell, they descended. They beat him into submission, they stripped him of almost everything he had, then they’d tied his hands and led him off as a prisoner.

To think she was left behind to become food for the vultures and jackals. It was no fate deserved for a noble companion that had survived so much.

He hears said jackals, even now, yipping as they get close to the fort to scavenge, and a few of the men outside cuss and throw things as they try to drive them off.

…He supposed it wouldn’t be long before the same fate befell him as it did Kholey. 

He knows there will be no honored burial for him. He will be forgotten here, and only years later, *maybe* his bones would be found again, when the army had time to finally sort out the MIAs. 

If there even was an army left after all of this. If they were not completely subsumed by the greed of outside nations.

The sorrow and the exertions of the day finally take their toll. Exhaustion wins out, and as sleep begins to take Fareed, a last few straggling thoughts linger.

Here he was, captured. Facing certain death. And mourning the loss of his horse.

But when he was gone, who would mourn him? Who would remember *his* name?

Outside, the jackals give way to the quiet hum of insects.

= o = o = o = o = o = o =

A hand strikes him across the face and he grits his teeth against the blooming pain.

“Talk, you bastard! Where were you going? How many are waiting there for you?”

The Soviet soldier beating him snarls in broken and barely passable Farsi. Fareed would laugh if he had the energy for it. But otherwise, he says nothing. Will say nothing.

His silence only seems to enrage the man further, as he trembles with barely-contained fury.

“Talk, god damn you-!”

The other soldier, sitting at a table across from the two of them, he watches them both while smoking a cigarette.

“Zaryanov, calm yourself. He wants to be stubborn.”

The other man spits at him, and Fareed’s lip curls just slightly in disgust as the foul glob smears its way down his cheek.

“I’m tired of sitting on my ass in this hotbox, Borodin! We could be on our way, we could be joining up with the 53rd, and instead we’re babysitting one of these savages!”

The one called Borodin waves a hand dismissively. “He’ll break in time. He has to.”

They had gotten him up at dawn, forced him out of the cell they’d had him in and into this tiny room clearly set up for interrogation.

It was one that still had some of the old iron manacles intact. He’d been locked into them, left to wait for an indeterminate amount of time before these two had showed up to begin this whole charade. The big angry one hitting him when he least expected it, trying to catch him off-guard to make him say something, anything.

They still wore their weapons in here, sidearms on their hips. That kind of confidence, that they wouldn’t get overpowered and disarmed; it meant that neither of them see him as a risk.

Which…Fareed had to admit had some merit. Even if he managed to get loose of these shackles and took out both men, there was still a second pair of armed guards outside to contend with. To say nothing of all the other soldiers scattered around.

If he truly wanted to escape, he’d need outside help. Or a miracle.

Zaryanov paces back and forth; an agitated tiger in desperate desire of a meal.

“I bet Medvedev could get it out of him-“

Borodin cuts him off sharply. ”Medvedev is not allowed anywhere near the prisoner. Captain’s orders. He is useless to us dead, and Medvedev is not a man who knows restraint on a good day.”

It makes the other man cease his pacing, his eyes narrowing at the other.

Abruptly, he then marches over and snatches the still-lit cigarette from Borodin’s hand, ignoring his protests as he does.

“Hey, fucker! Give that back-“

And then he goes and jabs the burning end directly into Fareed’s bare shoulder.

The searing pain hurts worse than anything else that the soldier has subjected him to so far, and the manacles creak as he seizes up against them with a cry of pain.

Zaryanov’s smile is vicious. “So you do have a voice in there after all!”

Just to be especially brutal, he twists and digs the burning stub in, once, then twice, before he casually discards it on the floor. 

Before Fareed can even begin to hope for a reprieve, the same hand that burned him grabs a fistful of his hair and forces his head back, so that his eyes meet the Soviet’s.

“You want me to not do that again? You want it to stop hurting? Then start. Talking.”

His chest shudders as he tries to catch his breath.

“…The-…” 

“Hm? What was that? Speak louder, sandflea.”

“…The devil take you, and all of the others, too…”

Zaryanov’s face darkens, and the next thing Fareed knows, a fist is slammed into his stomach.

= o = o = o = o = o = o =

The pain when he hits the floor of the cell, after he is shoved back into it that night, is so much worse than before.

The leg is in bad shape now. Before, the wound had been a dull throb, but it had been endurable. Now it is sharp, like fire every time he moves it. He is certain that it *is* broken in some way now, as it was now nearly impossible to keep weight on it without agony.

He crawls over to the wall again, struggling into an upright position as he tries not to breathe too deeply. Some of his ribs seem to be cracked as well.

Fareed didn’t think he could possibly sleep in such a miserable state, but he’s been without food and water on top of all the other trials. His body is running on fumes, and he can feel tiredness take him over again.

It’s strange, though. 

It was probably just his own delirium from the beating, but…he could swear…

He could swear, just as he was nodding off, that he smelled a hint of jasmine in the air; on the faint breeze coming in through the barred window.

= o = o = o = o = o = o =

And so it continues. For two straight days.

Boots find ribs, fists come for his face, and more cigarettes are put out in his skin.

Sometimes, there is a reprieve. Usually when the other soldiers that beat him decide that *they* need the rest. That’s when they bring in the calmer ones. The ones with the charming smiles that don’t reach their frosty eyes.

They tell him how all of this could end. All he had to do was reveal to them what they wanted to hear. That he would be shown mercy if he cooperated.

He knows they are lying.

Now, he screams, certainly. He curses the pain and every last one of the Soviets, from the lowest of the private grunts all the way up to Empress Catherine herself.

But he does not talk. He will not break. All he has left is his loyalty, and they will hang him before he betrays that last shred he has.

By the third day, however, Fareed can feel himself growing weaker. And their violence only seems to become more intense the longer he holds out.

His body is a patchwork of cuts, burns, and bruises. He is supported only by the hanging manacles now, as neither leg wants to work.

He coughs, and blood comes up, joining that which drips from his shattered nose. His vision swims as he regards the blurry shapes of the men in front of him.

Fareed knows. Tomorrow will be the last time they attempt this.

Because they will kill him. Their abuse will have finally taken its toll…and they will have killed him.

He will die here. Abandoned. A failure in his duty.

But not once did he betray his country. Not even to save himself. He stayed loyal, to the very bitter end. For all that was worth.

And that will be the only thing to comfort him.

One of them says something to the others that he can’t make out.

And he feels another blow come, this one hard across his temple.

The unconsciousness that follows is a mercy.

= o = o = o = o = o = o =

After all was said and done, they had dragged him back to the cell, dropping him unceremoniously on the floor. 

Pain, surprisingly, is not what awakens him from his stupor.

It was this…odd sort of soft clicking sound.

He manages to crack open an eye, the one that isn’t swollen shut. The moon is full tonight, casting a bright shaft of light through the cell window. And what it illuminates, barely a foot away from him…

…is a scarab beetle, of all things.

It lays on its back, rocking to and fro, all six of its legs wiggling as it struggles to right itself. The source of the clicking was its shell moving on the stone and the flail of its chitinous legs.

It is such a small, helpless thing.

Fareed could not help but feel an immediate fondness for it. He had always been partial to insects, even as a boy. He found them fascinating. If he had not enlisted, he thought perhaps he could make a life of studying them someday.

Insects were…easier than people, he had found. Less judgmental, very straightforward in their mannerisms once you understood them. The same could be said of horses.

…

He could not save Kholey. He could not save Mahabad. And he certainly couldn’t save himself.

Perhaps, though, he could save one scarab. And maybe that would be enough.

It hurts, it is indescribable how much it hurts, but in spite of his pain, he manages to shift one of his arms, dragging his hand over to the beetle. And though his bloodied fingers shake with the effort, he gently nudges and pushes it back over.

The thing shifts around a little on its feet; almost like it was getting its bearings, which means Fareed is able to get a good look of it from every angle.

Of course, he has seen scarabs before. They were plenty common out here.

But he has never seen one quite like this.

Its shell is a grand thing. Jewel-toned in a reflective gradient of magenta and indigo and lilac; hues that brought to mind the last vestiges of sunset bleeding into dusk. He did not think he had ever beheld such a beautiful color.

It finally turns in the direction of the window, and it crawls along, slow and steady, before it opens its wings and takes flight.

For just a glimpse, the silhouette of it is framed by the stark white of the moon while it is in mid-flight. And then just as quickly - gone. The buzzing of its wings subsumed by the rest of the ambient desert.

A very soft smile manages to grace his face. If this was to be his last good memory. Well. He supposed he didn’t mind.

He lays his head back down against the comfortingly cool stone floor; which alleviates the dull ache in his temple.

Perhaps, if there truly was divine intervention in this world, his captors would find him similarly cold and silent when they came to retrieve him in the morning.

Escaped. Just like the scarab.

= o = o = o = o = o = o =

When Fareed wakes again, he is surprised for two reasons.

One, he is surprised that he is awake again at all. He was certain he had given all he had left to give to help the scarab.

Two, he can feel he is not alone.

He decides to risk opening an eye again. As his vision adjusts, he can tell that the moon has shifted; though not by much, so he hasn’t been asleep long.

And a figure stands in the shadows of the cell.

That realization is one that freezes him. He is not unaware of certain atrocities committed in war, but so far, the Soviet soldiers had spared him that barbarity. But if they decided to inflict this new horror on him, a punishment for his continued silence…he is certain he would not be able to fight back in his state.

But as he peers at the shadowy shape, he realizes. It’s not a soldier. The figure is smaller than most of the Soviets he’s seen around, and it almost seems...vaguely feminine? It gives him a little relief to see, but not much, because now his mind races with questions.

Who is she? How on earth did she get in here? Why is she here? His eyes flit over to the door, which still seems just as firmly closed as always.

The wind shifts, and once again he catches the smell of jasmine. Stronger now than ever before.

“I’m sorry to have forced you to awaken. But we do not have much time.”

The voice definitely seems to be that of a woman, and he sees them move, their head lifting.

A pair of eyes meet his own. The irises glow in brilliant gold, and it makes his breath catch in his ragged throat.

The figure steps out of the shadows proper.

It *is* a woman. She looks a vision right out of the illustrations from the Shahnameh. 

She has strong Iranian features just like his own and carries herself with the pride and confidence of royalty; her dark hair tumbled loose under her veil and headdress; her layered dress accented with even more gold finery.

But she is decidedly not human. If the eyes weren’t an easy enough giveaway, the golden horn curving up from her forehead and the lilac color of her skin made it even more obvious. 

“You are the sergeant, yes? Sergeant Fareed Behzad. That is your name?”

Her words are perfectly fluent. She does not stumble and choke on the language like the clumsy Soviets do.

He’s staring at her. Has his mind finally gone, in his final moments? 

“…Are you real? Or is this-…”

“I am quite real, yes. And we do not have that much time, I cannot manifest here long. I have questions for you, Fareed.”

She steps over to him. As she is passing directly through the small sliver of moonlight, for a second, she seems to shimmer and even disappears from view entirely, but once she’s out of it, she is visible yet again.

But the moonlight reveals other things about her. The shadow she casts is what betrays her true nature; a thing of many limbs and wings and grandiose size, and he realizes just how much power she must hold to be able to manifest the human appearance she presents to him.

She kneels down beside him, where he still lays on the floor.

“But first, let me help you.”

With more hidden strength, she eases him up into a sitting position. It agitates his body, and he goes into another wretched coughing fit, producing more blood that he does his best to try and wipe away. 

How dreadful he must look, to someone as regal-seeming as her.

When he finally manages to get his breath back, the first thing he croaks out is: 

“…you’re one of the Djinn.”

The look that she gives him is unsurprised. Perhaps even bemused.

“I am. Does that frighten you?”

“…No.”

A faint smile curves her lips. “No, it wouldn’t, would it? Maybe it would have once. But certainly not now, when you are on the brink like this.”

“What do you want from me?”

“First, I will ask you my questions, and if you answer them to my satisfaction. Then I will tell you.”

Despite her amicable tone, he cannot help but regard her with suspicion.

Fareed knows of the Djinn. He grew up hearing enough stories about them. They are a curious race; entities of the desert most often associated with its winds and storms. Supposedly, they were even able to grant protection and fulfill the wishes of certain individuals that pleased them - limited only by how the desire was worded, really.

But they are also fickle creatures, just as liable to trick, torment, and lash out. Their actions could be as mild as simply spoiling a dish in a house, escalating up to snatching wayward children (his mother was *very* fond of telling him that one) or violently destroying an entire group of desert travelers in a terrifying rage that blasted that very flesh off their bones.

They could not exist outside of a container for very long, and so some of them made deals with humans, utilizing them as aides, liasons, and even paramours to compensate for this physical shortcoming. 

He’d seen a few of those people before, these apparent “vessel-bearers”, wandering here and there with their chosen partner’s container safely secured somewhere on their person. Some saw it as a position of honor, while others considered it inviting blasphemy.

Knowing all of that, it still raises further questions: How on earth was this particular Djinn manifesting to him? From where was she doing it? And most of all, why? Why him, and why now? Does she have ulterior motives with him, somehow?

His instincts tell him not to trust her…and yet, he also knows he doesn’t have much choice in the matter, either.

“Very well. Ask away, then.”

She straightens, smoothing down the front of her drape before she regards him with an intense stare that almost feels hostile. 

And at that, he realizes that perhaps the soldiers are no longer the biggest threat he needs to worry about, and that his suspicions *are* founded.

“Why didn’t you tell the Soviets what they wanted to know?”

So she knew the reason why he was here? This was not helping dissuade Fareed’s paranoia. But then again, obtaining such knowledge might not be outside the realm of power for a Djinn.

“It will not save me. Once they gained that information, then they would have no reason to keep me alive.” He gives another weak, pained cough. “If you can call this being alive.”

“You never know. They could release you.”

“And then what? If my wounds do not finish me off, I go back to what’s left of our military? Be outed as a traitor who sold out his people for his own skin? No. I will die before I fail my home like that.”

“You are loyal to the Shah, then?”

“I have no great love for the Shah and some of his actions. I am loyal to my home and its people, first and foremost. And thus I pledge myself to whoever it is that takes care of them best.”

“And you don’t consider *that* statement to be traitorous?”

“You will find a similar sentiment among many members of the army and common people. If I were declared an enemy for it, then everyone else would have to be, too.”

“…I see.”

She paces back and forth a few times, apparently considering that. 

Then she stops, her back to him, so that he could not see her face.

“…Tell me, truthfully. Why did you save the scarab?”

Now this question gives him pause, and Fareed frowns.

“I mean…why not?”

“You’re going to die, are you not? You could have left it to its doom, abandoned it the same way you’ve been abandoned here, or cruelly crushed it to feel some final measure of satisfaction and control. So why save it? It’s not like it could have fed you. It’s not like it could have saved you.”

“I am not so cruel as to simply kill a creature that has not harmed me. And you’re right, perhaps it couldn’t. But just because I am damned doesn’t mean everything has to be.”

“An optimist, then, are you?”

“I prefer to think of it as being a realist without the complaining.”

There’s a pause, and then her shoulders start shaking, and a bright sound comes out.

She’s laughing.

He didn’t think he’d heard such a sound since before the war. It’s lovely, and to his surprise he feels a pleasant warmth stirring inside himself. It almost feels hopeful.

“You have a quick wit when death waits for you.”

In spite of everything, he smiles weakly. “You’ll find most soldiers do. Gallows humor and all.”

His heart skips a beat. He’s made a beautiful woman laugh, even in his state. A Djinn woman, sure, but he’d argue that meant it counted that much more.

Just as quickly as that thought comes to him though, he forces himself to snap back to reality. He ducks his head in embarrassment, pressing the heels of his palms into his aching temples.

Focus, Behzad.

Things were dire, certainly, and yes, this was the first positive interaction he’d had with anyone in weeks. But he could not let his guard down just because he was on the edge of death, and getting a crumb of praise from a woman. Especially not a Djinn.

The enlisted road had been a lonesome and harrowing one, and maybe some of his fellow riders would throw themselves at any pretty face that showed them interest. But he was not *that* desperate.

Surely.

“Hm.” If she notices his sudden awkwardness, she says nothing. 

And yet…her smile doesn’t fade, either.

“So you learned to be a soldier here at home, but your parents, they sent you to be educated in England, didn’t they? In…London, as they call it?”

Fareed’s head jerks up. Here she was, on another tangent. What was she playing at?

“Yes…? I did not have much enthusiasm for social gatherings and business acumen like my older brother did. So they wanted me to be capable of doing *something* when I was grown. And as it turns out, I did have some aptitude for academia.”

“And it was there you learned Russian, English, French, and other languages besides.”

He’s silent a moment.

“Are you reading my thoughts? My memories?”

“Not quite. I mean, I certainly could-“ 

And never has he been so thankful for the darkness hiding the flush that rises to his face.

“-but you have not given me any reason to do that. So far. Rather, I am…checking information that has been brought to me, you might say.”

“Brought to you?”

“Stories carry on the wind, Fareed. And we Djinn are very in-tune with the wind, as you well know.”

That didn’t feel like an entirely truthful answer, but he decides that he shouldn’t press his luck. Especially since she just told him she *could* read his mind if she wanted to.

“I- I see. Well, to answer your question…yes. I’ve always had a certain, ah, I suppose one could call it wanderlust? Perhaps it is why I became a soldier. And I figured that studying languages would help me with that. It’s certainly helped me understand the Soviet soldiers. Though…most of what they say to me is little more than insults and curses, I admit.”

“Yes, the soldiers…both the Soviets and the British, they fight over your home, *our* home, like rabid dogs with a scrap of meat. I don’t care for them.”

“…our?”

“Well of course. Yours are not the only people harmed by these outside forces, Fareed.”

Once more, she sets to pacing.

“You know our stories. You know what we are like. We Djinn normally dwell in the more lonesome parts of the desert; though some of us have adapted as mortals have spread out and expanded their territories to overlap with ours.”

“Your vessel-bearers, yes?”

“Correct. But now these foreign men crawl over our land, driving us out from places we have inhabited longer than many of their nations have existed. They destroy our homes, and they kill us. I know that’s probably hard for you to believe-“

He stares ahead, not at her, but through her, as his mind drifts once more to Urmia. The whistle of the falling bombs, the rumbling earth from their impacts rattling the teeth in his head, the stench of smoke and terrified screams audible even over the clatter of Kholey’s hooves on the road as he pushed her to run.

“…no. It’s not.”

She stops. She turns back to him. 

“We are not like you mortals. The Djinn live long lives, and we are powerful beings, this is true. But we are not completely immortal. We *can* die. And because we live so long, we do not populate very fast.”

Before he has a chance to respond, she hits him with another question.

“You have found refuge with the Djinn before, yes?”

He splutters a bit. “It was just an old superstition-”

“But a superstition you *still* invoked.” She retorts back.

His mouth snaps shut. He cannot refute her.

Fareed sighs.

“…yes. Every sunset, whether we were bedding down to camp or we were continuing to march through the night, I invoked their-…ah, *your* people’s protection and hospitality. I wasn’t the only one, some of the other men did it too. A way to make ourselves feel better, I imagine.”

“And we provided it, did we not?”

“Perhaps. Though, if this is protection, I shudder to think of what state I would be in without it.”

“What if I told you I could offer you that same protection, and a way out of here? What if I offered more rewards besides, in exchange for your service to me?”

His gaze is hard. So this is where things were leading up to.

“This is the part where you tell me what it is you want from me, isn’t it? What it is I need to give you in return for a deal?”

She looks to the window now. With the moonlight making the rest of her more translucent, her eyes somehow become even more vivid, their golden brilliance practically glowing in the already luminescent silvery light. Like stars caught in a veil.

“Because of this conflict, these invaders, the Djinn are now scattered. Endangered. We can try to fight back, but that may very well wipe us out for good. This land can no longer be considered our home, it is too…volatile. Unstable.”

Her fingers trace along the iron flatbars, a motion like she is reminiscing.

He wonders…had she seen this place even as far back as the days of the Mongols? Is that why this was so dire? If she was truly that old, then she would have seen plenty of empires rise and fall in that time, and would have outlasted them all.

But the world had changed so quickly in so few decades. The Maelstrom alone had seen to that. It stood to reason that even the most enduring of people would struggle in the wake of such upheavals.

And that was the thing, wasn’t it? The Djinn were a people, like any other. They didn’t deserve to be wiped out. 

But could he really agree to this? Was he…able to do this?

“I am trying to find a new home for us. For all the Djinn. But I can’t do it alone, Fareed. I need a vessel-bearer. Someone who can show themselves to be loyal, and dependable. And…I think…that person should be you.”

“And to become a vessel-bearer? What will that entail?”

“Besides operating as a bodyguard and valet when I am resting within my vessel, you will be marked, physically, to show you are under my purview. And…I need your name.”

“My…name?”

“Yes. Don’t worry, I will give you a new name to be addressed by. But you will no longer be Fareed. It is a necessary part of the deal, you see.”

A long silence stretches between them. His mind races.

It was a tall order. She was asking him to give up everything to directly serve her and aid her…and the rest of the Djinn, more indirectly. His future would be decided for him.

But then again, did he really have a future, or anything left to lose, besides his name? He would die here regardless if he didn’t. The Soviets would see to that.

And to help them find a new home…a chance to see even more of the world. He couldn’t help but feel excited, however faintly, at at that.

…still, he hesitates.

“Even if I wanted to do this for you, how could I? I can no longer walk, I can barely breathe. I don’t see how I’m in any shape-“

“I can help with that too. I promise. But you must promise me first. Do you?”

He breathes in, as deep as he can manage.

The jasmine scent is heady and thick now, and it makes his head swim pleasantly.

He has no regrets. He has lived a decent life. If the choice must be between this and death, then. He thinks he would like to live.

Fareed exhales slowly.

“…yes. I do.”

“Very well. You will be rewarded for your aid, as I am not one to break my promises. And you have my gratitude, Sergeant Fareed Behzad. Though this is the last day you shall be known by that moniker.”

“Stripped of rank *and* name. The Djinn are harsher than the army, I see.”

Again she is amused by his dark little quip, but there’s something…sad in it this time. Something hesitant.

“First, the mark. We are running out of time, so. The sooner it is done, the better.”

She flicks her wrist, some of her bangles jangling, and the glowing image of an eye is conjured within her hand, marked in a fiery purple.

“I must warn you, though…this will hurt.”

“I’m ready-“

Another flick and the mark is flung at him.

And then the torture begins.

He thought after days of anguish at the hands of the other soldiers, he could handle any pain. That he’d be numb to it. That surely, nothing could be as bad as what he’d already been through.

He was wrong.

It is by far the worst thing he’s ever experienced. It is like his back is being carved open with a burning knife, right down to the bone. No, worse, it’s like his very *soul* is being carved open. For all he knows, it is.

He cannot even muster the air to scream. All that comes out instead is a choked sob while he spasms.

But she is there, kneeling in front of him. Her hands cup his face, even as he desperately grasps at her with his own trembling ones. Her touch is so soft, so warm, the only comfort against the shearing pain. Instinctively, he leans forward into it. Tears spill over as he struggles, cutting streaks through the grime and blood still smeared on his skin, and she dutifully wipes them away.

“Shh, shhh…I know it hurts.” Her voice is soothing, like that of a mother calming a distraught child. “I know. You have endured so much. I just ask you to endure a little more. It will be over soon, I promise.”

The marking is not more than a few minutes long, but the minutes feel like an eternity and then some.

As soon as it’s over, he collapses against her, and this time the sob is one of relief.

She doesn’t judge him. Instead she cradles him as he buries his face in her neck. A few fingers stroking through the matted curls of his hair.

“That’s it…you took it so well. Now let me reward you. Let me take away all your pains.”

She opens her other hand, and he looks to see more of those scarabs, like the singular one he originally saw on the floor of the cell. They fly over to him.

He jolts back as they start crawling over him, at first a few, then dozens.

“What-“

She places a finger to his lips. Her touch is so light, it’s like being kissed by the air.

It stills him.

“It’s okay. Just let them work. They will heal you.”

He feels the scarabs crawling and swarming over him, dozens upon dozens of tiny scrabbling feet, before they start burrowing into his skin and the myriad wounds that cover him. 

Unlike with the mark, it doesn’t hurt this time. Instead, he feels a deep warmth suffuse him, and slowly, but surely, the pain abates.

Though it is…deeply unsettling to watch them disappear into his body the way they do.

When the swarm stops, he examines himself. All his wounds are healed. He can breathe without pain or coughing up blood. He rolls up his pants leg, and even that is better. A scar is the only proof the grievous bullet wound was there at all.

She rises, offering a hand to him, and he takes it as he shakily stands up on his own feet. He feels unsteady, like a newborn foal, after having been so badly crippled. But he *can* stand again. He can walk again.

“How do you feel now, Mirage?”

“I feel- wait. Is that my name now?”

“Yes. Do you like it?”

“Mirage…yes, I think I do. And I feel so much better. How does that work, by the way? The beetles, are they…inside me now?”

“In a way. I’ll teach you how to use them for yourself. But no time for that now. It’s time to retrieve my vessel and get out of here.”

“How? I mean, I am no longer in as bad shape as I was, but the door out of here is solid iron and has armed guards. I don’t see how-“

“Ah, yes. That will be done with another one of your gifts.”

She gives another wave of her hand in his direction, but as far as Mirage could tell, nothing happens.

“Now. Run.”

He just stares at her.

“…you want me to run…at a solid iron door…?”

“Yes, time is of the essence, now please-“

And he feels her touch at the small of his back as she gives him a small push, one that nearly makes him stumble. In spite of the fact that *did* just heal him, he shoots her a cross look over his shoulder. Did all Djinn have this touch of impatience, or just her?

But he decides he’ll humor her. Maybe this was one of those tricks that he’d also heard certain Djinn were fond of. Maybe once she’d had a small jest at the expense of her new vessel-bearer, she’d just open the door herself.

He tries to do what she tells him to and starts running forward. He can just stop right before he hits the door. Or worst comes to worst, he’d probably bounce off of it and look like a buffoon. There’s certainly no reason to believe he could go through it.

Except he trips. Inexplicably, it…it almost feels like the *air* is what trips him, and it’s the kind of trip where one ends up spinning a little. He wholly expects to hit the floor, landing on his rear and making an even bigger fool of himself than if he’d just smacked straight into the door.

Except the spinning…doesn’t stop. It gets faster. He feels a sense of weightlessness, as well as a gritty feeling on his skin, like he was covered in dust. Something like a gust of wind blasts him, the momentum propelling him further forward. There’s no *way* this could be from the tiny cell window, it’s far too strong.

And he does, in fact, collide with the door.

And that door crashes open with a deafening clang, blasted clear off its hinges and into the opposite wall.

He’s staggering in the hallway as the wind clears, so dizzy that he has to lean on the wall to recover. The floor pitches and tilts; it feels like even his eyes are still spinning.

“Don’t worry, you’ll get used to that.” She says it as she’s gliding out of the cell, right behind him.

“…hurf…I will…take your word for it.”

Of course, once he steadies. Mirage discovers the guards are both slumped on the floor. They’re quite dead, in fact, they both look…dessicated.

One of those jewel-toned scarab beetles crawls out from under one of the dead men’s collars, and over his pale, gaunt face. Mirage squints at it.

“Did you-?”

But before he can finish the question, he hears the shouting of a soldier further down the hall.

“You! Stop!”

The hallway is a dead end, and the soldier is pulling his sidearm, Mirage raises an arm defensively as multiple shots ring out, and he braces himself to feel new injuries open up.

Except they don’t. As he dares to look, he sees the bullets passing *through* him. His very arm, his entire being, it’s like it’s *made* of sand; rippling as the bullets just hit the opposite wall with cracking pops in the stone.

The soldier seems to notice this too, and he slowly lowers his weapon with a shaking hand. He looks caught somewhere between awed and scared. 

“…what the hell-?”

Mirage decides to take advantage of the opportunity. He snatches up one of the dead guards’ guns from its holster and he fires back.

The Soviet, of course, is not made of sand. 

He goes down.

The gunshots were sure to attract more men, so Mirage starts running down the hall. 

He has *nothing* on him, no supplies, not even a shirt on his back, just a stolen gun. But there is no time to try and search for any. He needs to get out of this fort, and he can worry about supplies later. He can’t fight an entire unit by himself just with a stolen pistol.

“Why not take one of the rifles?” She asks it as they pass by the newly dead Soviet.

“They’re much harder to use in close quarters like these narrow hallways. Longer to reload, too. I’d be better off using it as a bludgeon.”

He ducks into an alcove as two more soldiers go running past, no doubt drawn by the gunfire. His escape would be discovered soon, and they would be searching for him in no time.

“…where is your vessel?”

“To the right. There’s an antechamber, I think they are using it as some kind of infirmary? Their…physician…he was using me as a source of light-…oh, please, hurry Mirage, I can’t stay out like this much longer, I already feel faint-“

“Don’t worry, I’m trying to get us out of here as quickly as I can. I’m sure I can steal one of their vehicles. Then we’ll be on our way.”

The door they come to is wooden, crudely marked with a white cross in chalk. This one isn’t as old as the iron door for the cell. Going by the same Cyrillic labels, like the crates Mirage saw earlier when he was being brought in, this one was probably put in by the Soviets themselves.

He pushes it open and slips inside. It’s rather dark, but a tiny bit of light comes in through the doorway, so he can see the shape of several cots set up along the walls. Only one is occupied, the soldier upon it asleep and snoring loudly through his mouth.

The medic doesn’t seem to be in, thank goodness. Whether he didn’t sleep in his infirmary, or he’s been summoned to deal with the chaos that had been left down the hall, Mirage was going to take the good fortune where he could get it.

“There it is, on the table they have folded out over there.” She whispers in his ear, which makes his skin prickle.

He’s sure it’s just his nerves.

He heads over to the table she indicates. It’s not hard to find the vessel. It stands out among the surrounding medical supplies given its decently large size and its shape - rather like a spire-topped, ornate bronze vase, with a glass aperture in the front.

Mirage could see that the unit medic had been taking notes on it as well - quite a few sketches of it sit among the usual medical reports and forms.

There’s a gust that actually ruffles his hair and sends the papers to fluttering as she practically *launches* herself over his shoulder, dissolving into a magenta mist that slips into the vessel through the small aperture on its pointed top.

Not unlike a lamp, the vessel starts to give off a faint, warm glow as she’s settling inside; practically slumping down with a sigh he has to strain to hear. Many of the finer details of her form start to disappear, and she becomes more of an amorphous vapor in a humanoid shape. Keeping up the illusion of humanity must take some effort out of her.

“…much longer, and I would have been lost. Thank you, Mirage. Now please. Take me away from here.”

“Understood.”

Just as he picks up the vessel and shifts it into the crook of his arm; there’s a grunt and the creak of cotsprings behind him.

“Nnh…hey, Doc, do you have any more-“

Mirage’s eyes widen as he regards the massive beast of a man slowly getting up. In the light from the vessel, it casts him into starker contrast. 

Shaggy black whiskers cling to his chiseled face, and he has the approximate build of a small ox - thick shoulders and arms, craggy fists streaked with the black oil and powder that betrays his status as an artillery gunner. He easily has a head on him in height, and Mirage was not exactly a small man in his own right, either.

But the most devastating discovery - the man had two fading black eyes, and a bandaged, crooked nose. Clearly broken.

Ah. So this was the infamous Medvedev.

That he had…previously entangled with.

The soldier blinks, realizing the man he addresses is not the medic.

And he splits into a grin that makes cold sweat bead at Mirage’s temples.

“…You. I remember you.”

The air feels so tense, it has a weight to it. There are more shouts starting to filter up from the direction where he’d escaped, which meant the alarm has been raised, and his eyes dart between Medvedev and the door.

Mirage decides to try running first, but the soldier is closer, faster, and easily blocks the doorway with his huge frame. He tries firing a shot from the stolen gun, but in his panic it goes wild, splintering through the wood instead.

“So! Got free of your cage, you little rat? And you decided you’d try stealing from us on your way out. Too bad for you. Maybe it’s time I repay you for the broken nose.”

He cracks his knuckles. “And extra.”

Before he can get another shot off, Medvedev sweeps out an arm towards Mirage.

It is like being hit by a tree trunk. It lifts him off his feet and sends him flying back towards the opposite wall. He barely manages to keep his grip on the gun, but curling himself around the vessel to protect it means he has no way to brace himself when he’s spent sprawling into the cots.

“Mirage!”

Ah, there was his familiar friend again, pain.

He winces. It’s nowhere near as bad as what the soldiers had previously done to him, or being marked, but this was definitely going to leave some *very* vivid bruises.

Mirage forces himself to ignore it, though. Lifting the pistol once more, he fires at the huge shape advancing on him. The first shot misses again, just barely, the heavy shadows throwing off his aim.

The second shot, Medvedev grabs up one of the discarded cots and uses it like a shield, fabric tearing and metal clanging as its trajectory is deflected.

The third time’s the charm, however. This one manages to land, right as it looks like the massive bear of a man was about to use the cot as a bludgeon; embedding itself in Medvedev’s shoulder.

The cot gets dropped with a clatter, and the soldier snarls in rage as he grips his shoulder to try and staunch the wound.

“You little SHIT- I’ll kill you! I’ll take that stupid bottle and bash your brains in with it-!”

It’s the opening Mirage needs. He lines up his shot this time for Medvedev’s head, and pulls the trigger.

Except.

Click.

Click click.

The other man starts cackling, a nasty, sharp sound.

“No bullets left, you little dervish? This will be fun, then-“

He starts advancing again, and Mirage scrambles backwards, until his sore back hits the actual stone wall.

“Mirage, please, let me help you!”

A spiral of mist curls out of the vessel and wraps itself around the gun he’s still clutching in his hand, and he stares as he watches it shift and warp and reshape itself into something new.

No longer was it a modern Tokarev; this was something else entirely; something akin to a an old colonial flintlock that he’d be more likely to find in a museum.

“Now, Mirage! Fire!”

He has no idea if this would even work, but he has to trust her. She had gotten him this far, and she had just as much to lose as he did.

Just as he feels a massive bloody hand wrap around his throat and start squeezing, he fires. The muzzle flashes in the dark; not with the orange flare he’s used to, but a vivid, brilliant purple.
Medvedev screams and jerks back away from Mirage, blood streaming from the ruin of his eye. Another shot cuts that scream short.

He collapses to the ground next to Mirage. Blood pools steadily beneath him.

Mirage is panting; he can’t tell if his ears are ringing from the adrenaline or all the gunfire.

But he can’t waste any time - he sets the pistol and the vessel down and starts rummaging through the dead Soviet’s pockets.

She hisses at him. “What are you doing?! We need to be going!”

“His hands. They’re stained with gun oil.”

“So?!”

“So that means he’s an artillery gunner, for one of the truck-mounted guns the Soviets have. Which means he might-“

A jingle. His breath catches as his fingers close around the item and draws it out.

Sure enough. A set of keys.

Elation blooms in his features.

“Yes…Yes! We can go now!“

Once more, he snatches up the bronze vessel, and the strange new gun, and he bolts out the door.

A group of soldiers are clustered in the hallway he just escaped from, and Mirage hears them start shouting and running as soon as they spot him.

But he has the head start - and stone gives way to sand under his bare feet as he makes it outside.

He sees the tents where most of the grunts are encamped; the jackals from earlier sniffing around their now-cold campfires for any chance scraps.

The jeeps and trucks, he knows they’re parked around the corner, on the other side. He remembers seeing them when he was first dragged in.

He ducks around into the long blue shadow being cast by the fort, and he slips between two of the tallest trucks to obscure himself, in case any of the soldiers in pursuit thought to check this side first.

His head swivels, constantly alert as he tries to find one of the mobile light artillery vehicles. The two he was currently hiding between were the larger hauling trucks; the kind soldiers and supplies were usually carried in, so not what he was looking for. A few motorcycles were up against the fort wall, to keep them out of the sun, but he couldn’t secure the vessel on those…

“Over there. Just to the left. Is that what you’re looking for?” Her whisper sounds in his ear again, as though she was *right there* at his shoulder, which nearly makes him jump. 

That was definitely going to take getting used to.

When he turns to look, sure enough, he sees one of the smaller open-roofed trucks with its gun mounted in the back.

Mirage heads over and doesn’t open the door so much as vault over it. He really hopes this works, even though he has no guarantee that the keys he has will fit this one. It’s not like he’ll have the time to hunt for another. The Soviets’ search would bring them over here soon enough.

Truthfully, if he had even more time, he’d sabotage their vehicles. As it stood, he’d just have to hope for the best.

As he’s settling into the driver’s seat, she shifts her form within her vessel (carefully secured in the passenger’s seat next to him, of course). Like she’s craning to see what he’s doing.

“You know how to operate one of these?”

“Yes. I was enlisted as a cavalryman, but I was still trained in vehicles, in case anything happens to a unit driver. What is that saying, the one about wearing many hats-?”

His words are drowned out as he turns the key in the ignition, and the engine roars to life.

Just over it, he hears the distant shouts and curses in Russian, and he can’t resist a grin, despite the danger. No doubt the noise has awakened some of the sleeping members of the unit up, in addition to the ones already hunting for him.

Time to *really* get their attention.

The way out of the nest of vehicles is a clear, straight shot, and he slams his foot down on the gas to launch the truck forward.

He’s jerking the wheel to turn just as the Soviets are running up to try and stop him, and he peels out, tires throwing up clouds of dust and sand right into their faces.

Still, that doesn’t deter some of them. Rifleshots ping and pop off the truck; one lucky shot even cracks the windscreen. But none of them even come close to striking him.

He doesn’t slow down. In fact he swerves several times just to throw their aim off that much more, and frankly, it’s a miracle he doesn’t roll the whole truck over with such recklessness. 

But in no time, Mirage clears the encampment entirely. The two of them jostle and jolt over the rocks and hard-packed ground until he manages to get the truck onto one of the actual roads.

Some of the soldiers keep firing at him, but their shots just keep falling short. They need a sniper, and by the time they got one set up, he’d be too far away for it. 

Some of the smarter ones appeared to be trying to get other vehicles going, but only the motorcycles really had a chance of closing the distance…

And they didn’t know these roads like he did.

He shifts gears.

The truck isn’t Kholey.

But he spurs it on just the same.

= o = o = o = o = o = o =

The chill night wind ruffles his hair as they travel. The old fort is long behind them now, and the sky is just starting to lighten as dawn approaches.

No doubt the Soviets were still determined to recapture him and make him pay for what he’d done, but it’d be a while before they managed to catch up to him.

And suddenly, a high, nervous laugh actually escapes him.

It seemed impossible.

It *was* impossible.

Not even an hour ago, he was facing death.

And now he’s tearing out across the desert. In a stolen Soviet artillery truck.

It’s like something out of one of those ridiculous American films. The hero captured and facing certain doom, only to escape at the last possible second, in the most dramatic of ways…

And it was all thanks…to her.

He glances aside to the vessel, the shifting form within it, the changed gun sitting on the seat next to her.

“…Am I allowed to ask a question?”

“Of course. Though whether I deign to answer depends on what that question is, of course.”

“Right. May I ask why you changed the gun I took to this?”

“Ah. That. I admit…I am not as familiar with the designs of your modern weapons. This was…more familiar. And time was of the essence, so.”

“I see. Well. I suppose if it works, it works.”

He looks back to the road, checking the instrument panel, and he swears.

“…Dammit.”

“What is it now?”

“There isn’t enough fuel to get us to Mahabad- ugh, of course there isn’t. They probably intended to refill at the fort…”

“And how much farther would you say Mahabad is from here?”

Her tone was oddly calm, all things considered.

“Mm. I’m not certain, but…at least another 15 kilometers, maybe? We cleared the lake long enough ago. It’s not far, but too far to walk-”

“I see.”

And that’s when Mirage notices the mist gathering around their vehicle, swirling in those dawnbreak colors again.

“What are you-?“

The road and horizon disappear.

And Mirage’s eyes widen, as he has to actually slam on the brakes to avoid crashing through a cordon set up at the entrance to a small city in front of him. 

A small city that he recognizes.

“This- this is Mahabad- how did you-?!”

“There are many gifts the Djinn offer to those who aid them. Now. I believe you have a message to deliver?”

Soldiers are stationed at the city’s entrance, and they point their guns at Mirage as the truck rolls to a stop.

“Someone get the Captain up! We have an intruder!” One of them calls.

Another responds. “In a Soviet truck, no less…but if it’s another invasion, where’s the rest of the convoy, then?”

Mirage breathes a sigh of relief at the sound of Farsi and cuts the engine.

Not Soviets. Thank goodness. Then, he was not too late.

For several moments, nothing happens. The standoff continues. But then he can see two figures moving around at the top of what appears to be a watchtower, and a commanding voice calls down to him.

“You there! Who are you?”

Slowly, he puts his hands up and stands up in the driver’s seat, to make himself more visible, as he calls back in return. He must look a sight; he was filthy with dirt and blood, unkempt, wearing no shirt, not even boots. Hopefully his bedraggled and unarmed state would be enough to keep them from shooting him.

“I was a member of the 3rd Division, but I don’t have time to explain much more, I have a message for the general stationed here, and the rest of you need to evacuate the city!”

“If you are truly part of the 3rd Division, then state your name and rank!”

“Ah-” 

He hesitates, eyes flicking over to the vessel. “That’s…complicated.”

The other soldier next to the captain, he nudges him and mouths something. It looks like he’s gesturing to Mirage’s back.

Binoculars pass from hand to hand. And for the first time, Mirage considers that his pact might actually carry a physical marker. He would have to get a chance to look at it for himself.

He just hopes that it isn’t too horrifying, after the pain he went through to get it.

The captain’s eyes narrow as he lowers the binoculars.

“…you, you are a Djinn-bearer?”

At this revelation, the blockade guards exchange looks.

“Newly, you could say. I was with the cavalry before. I was there at Jolfa, and I was the last one out of Urmia before-“

“Hold on, you survived the bombing at Urmia?”

“Please, I promise, I can explain all of this, just take me to your general, I have critical information for him-“

The captain turns and addresses the soldier with him, who vanishes out of sight. Then, he gives orders to the men on the ground.

“Stand down! Stand down! We will be escorting him in. If this madman made a deal with a Djinn to get out of Urmia and shows up in a damned Soviet truck, it *must* be important, whatever it is.”

A younger soldier comes running out of a door and over to the truck, saluting just as Mirage is climbing out of it. He’s cradling the vessel again, and his gun is held in his other hand, down at his side.

“I am Corporal Movahed. Captain Sadeqi says to bring your Djinn and its vessel, and your, uh-…is, is that really the weapon you used?”

Mirage looks down to the archaic-looking pistol and gives a shrug. “Something like that.”

Movahed gives a little laugh. “A flintlock-wielding Djinn-bearer? You really are mad, have quite the story to tell, or both. The captain says both of you will meet with the general. Now, please follow me.”

As he walks with the corporal and past the other soldiers, who turn to watch as he goes past them, he feels a certain…uncomfortable familiarity, with the whole thing. At least this time his hands are not bound.

He decides to distract himself. Keeping his voice low, he addresses the vessel.

“You know. You gave me my new name. But you never told me yours.”

“…my apologies. So much time among those savage men clearly made me forget my manners.” 

A wisp curls around his wrist and one of his fingers. Like before, the touch is warm, and soft.

“My name is Nashala.”

“Nashala. It’s lovely.”

“Thank you.” 

The wisp retreats.

“You’re under my protection now, Mirage.”

“No. It is you who is under mine. It’s the least I can do, for all you did.”

“Well, what can I say? You made quite the impression on me. I foresee the beginning of an excellent partnership.”

“And let’s hope, also a long one.”

And if he didn’t know any better, Mirage could swear he could see the small form within the vessel wearing a smile.