Intercomm fic: A Narrow Passage (Robin Hood BBC)

[keep_counting]

Title: A Narrow Passage
Author: Keep_Counting
Category: Drama
Word Count: 3, 805 (yes, it's really long!)
Rating: R
Characters: Djaq, quick mentions of others, a bunch of OC's
Warnings: Descriptions of death and gore and just general angsting. Also, I am a sucker for long descriptions, metaphors and symbolism. You have been warned.
Summary: The story of Saffiyah's capture and Djaq's journey to England. Or at least, what happened in-between.
 

 

A Narrow Passage

 

“At the narrow passage there is no brother and no friend.”
- Arabic Proverb

 

Saffiyah was sure it wasn’t supposed to be like this.

This morning, everything had seemed fine. The birds hadn’t been singing to wake her up, but she didn’t notice.

It wasn’t until her father and her brother’s blood soaked her hands, that she realized how quiet it had been all day; now, the streets of Acre were filled with noise, the bell-like sound of swords clanging together, people shouting, fighting, dying. And her entire family was dead. Saffiyah was alone.

Someone grabbed her arm and pulled her along, towards the house. She recognized the voice as one of her brother’s friends, but a few seconds later he was nothing but another corpse as a Crusader’s sword tore his head off. Saffiyah spun around and ran inside the house, the Crusader already moving away. He didn’t have time to care about a useless, little girl.

Inside, all the sounds dimmed. It was like background noise, the slaughter of her people. Her heart was beating against her rib-cage in a way she had never experienced before. She had never had reason to fear this much, because she had never been this alone. This abandoned.

Maybe, Saffiyah wondered, if she’d grown up with a mother or a sister or another female relative directly in the house, she would have cried. She would have lain down on the hard floor and sobbed until the soldiers found her or she died of pure grief. But she hadn’t; she’d grown up with a brother who was almost her mirror-image and a father who was as brave as he was kind. She’d accompanied them on the battle-fields, sewed together bleeding wounds, cut of broken limbs and most likely seen more corpses than the soldiers she’d been saving. She hadn’t been left behind just because she was a woman and as soon as you had people’s life in your hands, they didn’t disrespect you, no matter your gender.

It wouldn’t be like that anymore; if – no, when – the enemy caught her, it would matter very much if she was female or not. It would be the difference between dying and something far worse.

Saffiyah had moved without noticing, crossing the length of the floor and picking up her father’s knife. It was the one he used on his patients, long and sharp and clean. She hesitated, weighting it in her hand. She knew, after so many years of reading and seeing the human body decay in real life, exactly where to shove the knife, to make her own death as quick as possible. It would be easy; she’d before killed patients to end their suffering, quickly slicing the throat or showing the blade through the heart. She’d know exactly how to do it, even from this angle. And maybe, Saffiyah thought, if she’d been any different, if she hadn’t been the daughter of a great Physician nor had a twin brother who was her mirror-image in every way, she would have.

But she hadn’t picked up the knife to let it pierce her skin.

The background noise became louder, as if it was moving closer. She gently took of her shawl, privately reveling in the feel of her silken locks cascading down her back. It had grown so long it reached her waist. She was proud of her hair, as all women should be.

She collected all the strands in one hand, lifted the knife and sliced it off at the scalp. It fell to the floor in a heavy bundle, almost forming an odd pattern against the chalky stone. Djaq briefly wondered if it would have felt much different if Saffiyah had actually shoved the knife through her heart.

*

Saffiyah was surprised that the slave trader allowed her to keep her belongings. She thought it was funny, in a morbid and ironic way, that the very people who called her and hers ‘savages’ had no knowledge of the simplest science.

At this point, it might turn out to be her luck. She clutched the bag closely to her, more for comfort than anything else. It had belonged to her brother, to the Djaq who was now lying dead in the sand back in Acre. She briefly wondered what had been done with the bodies, but she immediately cast the thought out of her head. It felt like broken glass was piercing her skin when she thought about it, like the patients must have felt when an arrowhead had been wrenched out of their body.

She forced herself to focus on her surroundings instead, to take it all in; she refused to acknowledge the little voice in the back of her head, who told her that this might very well be the last time she saw home or anything resembling it. England was full of green, they said, and from the little she had gathered from the trader’s conversations, England was where they were going. She’d already said her prayers, thanked Allah for letting her learn the language and thus furthering her chances of one day escaping.

There were about fifty slaves or so, all men except for her. She thought it was her luck that she didn’t recognize any of them and they didn’t recognize her. It was no secret what was done to female captives and she would rather be sold as some servant than a sex-slave.

Well, she would rather not be sold at all, but that seemed not to be an option. The slaves where all bound together with one long chain and there were manacles wrapped around their hands and feet.

No, not even something Saffiyah can get out of, she thought and she wondered when she would stop thinking about herself as Saffiyah. The Physicians pretty daughter had had long hair as dark as the night and a bright smile for everyone she met. She’d been dreaming of flying whenever she wasn’t saving lives and she’d had a family, a father and a brother – a twin brother who she loved more than anything else. She could feel the tears pressing on now; had she ever been closer from flight? Here she was, literally tied to the ground, about to be put in a cage with fifty other people just as unfortunate as her. And she was just a woman; what could a woman do?

Saffiyah wrapped her arms around her knees and hid her head in the crook of them, silently sobbing for no one to see.

She wasn’t sure how long she had been sitting there, but someone was shouting in English and the sound of carts rolling by caught her attention. Where they about to be moved now? Would they be loaded into the boats and sailed away? Would she be able to jump into the water and swim ashore, even with her hands and feet bound?

Djaq might be able to. She remembered how her brother had once crawled onto the roof to get down one of her uncle’s doves, and when the bird had flown to the other roof, Djaq had simply leaped after it, jumping from one roof to another. Yes, her brother would have been able to escape from here.

Someone placed a hand on her shaking shoulders, and Saffiyah’s head shot up. She stared in shock at the face of Amir, the trader who’d lived across the street from her. His face was green and yellow and purple after the beatings, one of his eyes had swollen up to double sides and his lip was split. But he was smiling at her, the kindest smile she’d seen since the attack.

“Djaq? Is that really you? Allah be Praised… I thought you were all dead!”

She didn’t even get time to register his words, before he had fallen on his knees and hugged her around the shoulders. He smelled like sweat and blood and sand and it made her want to cry even harder. He was chained down just like her and he hadn’t recognized her, he hadn’t seen that she was Saffiyah, because Saffiyah had long hair and didn’t wear pants and didn’t show as much of her face and was never as brave as her brother. And Amir, despite being the only kind soul in maybe a thousand miles, where just as chained and bound and doomed as she was.

She pushed him away.

“I’m sorry,” She whispered. “I think you have me mistaken for someone else.”

He frowned, clearly confused, searching her face. It must’ve been odd, she thought, with the features matching but the voice so wrong. Saffiyah and Djaq had never sounded alike, because her twin had had a deep and soothing voice and she had always spoken quick and high. A light dawned in Amir’s eyes and Saffiyah had to look away, afraid that he might reveal something if she let him.

The new slaves that had come all looked as beaten as Amir; common people who had rebelled, or at least she thought so. If they had been soldiers, they would have been slaughtered already. Soldiers where too dangerous to keep around, even as slaves.

My father was a Physician. My brother never held a sword.

Someone screamed and broke Saffiyah out of her thoughts; the soldiers were dragging someone behind them, a boy probably a few years younger than her. It was most likely the boy’s father, clinging on to his hand and refusing to let go, as he shouted at his son be brave, don’t let go, just don’t let go of my hand.

Saffiyah had only ever held someone’s hand when they were dying.

The soldier helping the slavers had had enough. The boys head hit the sand before his body did and his father screamed. He threw himself at the soldier, chained arms raised, intending to hurt. Saffiyah prayed that he would get closer enough, at least scratch out the bastards eyes. Of course he didn’t. He was impaled on the sword a second later and his body fell down beside his son. 

She wondered how much English blood was soaking the sand before her and if it could ever match the Saracen and the Moorish blood. They said there was enough of that to fill an ocean. She clenched her hands, her nails raking at her palms. Her heart beat much like it had before, when she had been standing with a knife in her hand, ready to end the life of Saffiyah. She realized that she had never been braver than in that moment, when she’d sliced off the hair that had once been the symbol of who and what she was. She’d thrown the knife away from her, after she’d changed into her brother’s clothes. If she had tried to resist, she would have been another gallon of the blood colouring the sand around her.

They were lining up the slaves now, making them stand up and walk towards the boats. She got up and lifted her face towards the sun: was it a different one back in England? Would it shine as harsh, would it be as warm? Would they have sand and silk and manners? What would become of her, the frightened little daughter?

She almost stopped as they walked past the fresh corpses of the slain slaves. The father had his arm extended, as if he was still reaching for his son.

*

Snow

That’s what they’d called it. The white, cold substance that fell from the sky like rain, but was much worse in that it chilled Djaq to the bone, made her skin blue and her whole being shake. Never in her entire life had she been this cold.

And they’d said it would be green and lush in England; it seemed this snow, surely sent by evil, not only tried freezing her to death, but was slowly strangling everything living around her as well; the trees stood like shadowy corpses against the sky, covered in the snow and with only a few, dark brown leaves to hold against. The leaves looked almost like soldiers, bravely standing up to their enemy even though they must know all hope was lost.

The cage stopped short as the snow was quickly becoming too thick for it to roll freely. Djaq watched as one of the leaves was grabbed by the wind and ripped from its branch. It floated gently down and she was tempted to stick out her hand between the bars to see if she could catch it. Instead, all she felt as she carefully stuck out her fingers were the white pearls landing on her skin and immediately melting. It was an odd sensation, not like anything she’d tried before. Apparently, the snow was just water, sent down from the Heavens in another form, but what purpose it served, Djaq could only guess. Why would this country’s God need to destroy all living things?

“And we’re moving again!” One of the men shouted to another, happily swinging back in his saddle. They moved slowly across the bumpy road and the twelve slaves showed into the cage moved closer together, desperate to gain some warmth. Djaq was pushed against the bars, but one of the oldest captives had slung his arm across her shoulders and he looked so much like her dad, that she didn’t mind being so close to the snow. She wondered if the man had had children, but she was too afraid to ask. If she spoke too much, maybe they would hear that she was not what she pretended to be.

They had arrived in England a week earlier. Immediately, all slaves except for twenty had been taken away for auctioning in the main city, while Djaq and nineteen others had been shoved into this tiny cage on wheels and transported to Allah knew where.

When they had first arrived, the snow had only covered a part of the earth, but after a few days it had started falling heavier and heavier and it was getting harder for the cart to move. The progression was slow and painful and Djaq counted the days, counted the trees and counted her fellow prisoners. Twenty quickly became eighteen as a young one died – of grief, of hunger, of cold, Djaq was not even able to tell – and another was sold to a rich lord looking for someone to carry his bags, as apparently his old servant ‘had fell into a ditch somewhere’. The cruel smile on the man’s face told Djaq more than enough and she prayed that she would not be the one to be sold to this ‘Thornton’. For once, she was lucky.

Another three was sold in the next city they arrived in – four days and 823 trees later – and so it continued, until Djaq had lost count of all the trees surrounding her and there were only twelve slaves left.

The man always sitting next to her had, like her, not given his name, so she carefully dubbed him ‘The Father’ in her head. It tore at her heart the first few times she thought like that, but she quickly got around it. It wasn’t so much that he reminded her of her father per se; more that he looked and sounded like a father. And he had been, at least once. He didn’t know anymore, as he told her in the quiet evenings, when the slaves would all bunk together and try to keep warm. He had started speaking to her around the fifth day, at the start just short sentences, commenting on the weather or the latest town they’d been to. She never answered, still too afraid and pretty sure she had lost her voice anyway. Didn’t it go away, if you stopped using it for long enough?

But The Father didn’t seem to mind; he would tell her, in hushed tones so the guards wouldn’t hear, about his life back home, how he’d trained horses for the greatest of warriors, how he had taught his sons to hold and use a sword, how the English and the French and all other who bore the title ‘Christian’ had burned down his home, gutted his youngest son and set off after the oldest, who he had not seen since. And while the stories made Djaq’s eyes water and made her long for her own brother and her father, her father who saved lives instead of taking them, it also made her feel relieved, almost up-lifted to hear about this man’s story, so different and yet almost identical to her own.

Soon, his stories became as important to her as the few blankets they had and the scrappy meals they were given once a day. His voice was like liquid, soaking her burning throat and his words flew into her mouth and tasted better than any of the disgusting bread the guards would give her. She found herself, in one guilt-filled moment, almost thankful that he had ended up here with her; because she was not sure she would have survived, if she had spent this long in a cage on her own.

It took her nearly three weeks to realize that she wasn’t. That it wasn’t just her and the trees, her and the snow, her and The Father. There where ten other prisoners as well, all willing to talk to her and share their stories; because tales of home was all they had left.

For nearly three weeks, Djaq was the loneliest she had ever been in her life. But then all it took was one question and one answer. The prisoner next to her, a young man by the name of Kasim moved closer and quietly asked for her name.

“I’m Djaq.” She said and didn’t feel like she was lying.

*

The little fantasy world that she had built up around herself, this game pretend, it all came to a screeching halt as The Father died, his aging body not able to withstand the cold.

Djaq didn’t cry, not even when the guards merely took the body and dumped it in the water. She only felt the slow burning inside, the rage at the English for doing all this, but also the heinous irony that it was getting warmer. Everywhere she looked, she could see specks of green poking its way through the layer of water. As the days passed by, more colours – purple, yellow, red – started appearing as well, and despite her pain, she couldn’t help but appreciate the beauty that laid it in. Back home, the colours where so few, like the greatest desert with only a lone rose to tell of other things. And she thought, not without disgust, that the English had become so used to this beauty that they had closed their eyes to it. Back home, all beauty was honored and treated the way it should be, and people became better for it. Over here, all she saw was slowly decaying corpses, people with nothing left in their eyes, no beauty and no hope.

She became withdrawn again, even more so when the slave trader discovered her fiddling with her brother’s sunglass and took it from her. She lashed out, almost shouted in English but changed her tongue in the last second and screamed insults in a language he didn’t even understand instead. He just laughed and toyed around with one of her brothers most prized possessions, deeming it worthless and packing it away. Djaq felt cold fury and the other slaves kept away from her, recognizing the all-consuming hatred that they were also fighting.

They arrived in a small village of which Djaq did not know the name; she saw the trader making deals with a man, short and half-bald and with a wicked grin that made her skin crawl. He, like all the others, looked at her and hers as if they were animals. Horses and cows to be sold. She was sorely tempted to spit at him, but he moved inside the building again before the urge could become action.

She was ripped away from her thoughts as something touched her hand. She looked down and her eyes widened in shock; the smallest slip of a girl, no more than seven, with red curly hair and brown eyes too large for her head, was thrusting a small piece of bread out to her. She had a nervous smile around her mouth and she was watching Djaq with rapt attention, as if waiting for her to snap out at the hand, like a lion or a tiger might.

Don’t bite the hand that feeds you.

The girl was English; there was no doubt about that. So why was she doing this? When Djaq didn’t move to take the bread, the girl frowned and carefully poked her with it again. Then she looked back up, her eyes almost pleading.

“Thomas… Thomas said I wouldn’t dare. Said I wouldn’t dare get near you lot, because you’re animals, all of you, and that you would eat me if I got to close.” The girl rambled off, so fast that Djaq wasn’t sure she had heard all correct. “But I thought, I thought, you don’t look like any animals, even if you are in a cage and you have odd clothes and odd skin and… and then Mally said that you lot looked hungry and that she wished she could feed you lot, because she knew what it was like to be hungry and not being able to do anything about it, and I thought, that I knew about being hungry and it isn’t very nice, and I wanted to prove to Thom that I…”

The girl was interrupted by a shout from what was most likely her mother, yelling at her to ‘get away from those vermin!’ and the tiny girl immediately started running, but not before she’d slipped the bread into the cart by Djaq’s feet.

Picking it up – it was no bigger than she could hide it in her fist – Djaq stared at it, more amazed than she had ever been in her entire life.

As they drove out of the village again, Djaq looked at the citizen and while she still saw no hope and no mercy in their eyes, she also saw the hunger and the anger that was gnawing at her insides too, and she thought; we have something in common.

Later, when the cart was suddenly stopped in the middle of the forest by a band of scraggly looking outlaws who all seemed to be as dim as the trees they were living in, Djaq would send a quick prayer to the girl who had given her a tiny piece of bread and more hope than she’d had in weeks.