13th century- The Middle East.
In the heart of the Arabian desert, Princess Laila of Al-Shujae tribe faces an impossible choice to save her people from an ongoing siege. To secure peace, Laila agrees to marry the fearsome commander of Al-Muharibun...
Oops! This image does not follow our content guidelines. To continue publishing, please remove it or upload a different image.
Chapter 5
العار-Dishonour
The moon summons you to colour the sky pink. Rise, as the sun begins its slumber.
A soul which yearned to be free of the walls of her tribe; desiring to discover that which she had not seen before. It was exciting to imagine a life with no bounds.
Yet, as the air of familiarity was replaced with the air of an enemy, a chill began to overcome her entire being. Freedom was not written as so cold and unbearable.
His back was to her, but his eyes never left. Her soft heart was beginning to freeze, almost harmonising with the cooling desert.
Would she become like him? Empty.
"We are here." A man they called Hassan rode his horse close to them. His interactions with Usman had until now indicated a deep friendship.
Laila looked beyond her captor, noticing a large camp before them. The surrounding world was blocked by big tents which stood upon a previously empty land. Their attacking point was certainly well thought-out. A location which showcased the entirety of her tribe.
Their eyes missed nothing.
A sudden sound of cheers caught her attention. Perhaps in celebration for a new union?
Laila almost scoffed.
'Why do they celebrate whilst my heart weeps', she thought, feeling her nerves grow. Shy, as always. Head down, stay silent.
The caravan rode deeper into the camp, the rest of the horses stopping before they reached the largest tent. It was placed in the centre of their temporary abode, and was undoubtedly Laila's resting place for the night.
A crowd had now appeared around them. Ironically, the same men who threatened her tribe were now beaming, their faces wide with joy.
"Would you follow tribal tradition?" One asked, as Laila's horse came to a stop behind Usman's. Their leader jumped off, glancing around before turning his gaze towards his trophy.
His steps towards her were commanding, the short distance offering no time to collect herself. Laila could do nothing as her heart began to pound, his arms swiftly lifting her from the horse.
The tradition of carrying your bride into her new home, as though they had married for affection.
Laila clenched her fists, wanting to strike them against his chest.
"Here is the prize of Al-Muharibun, the bride of Usman!" He announced, gleaming with pride.
"Let go of me," she hissed, beginning to struggle in his arms.
He refused to look down at her, only staring straight ahead. He moved forward, quickly approaching the tent.
Grand it was. Huge on the inside with two separated sections. Colourful rugs lined the walls and the floors. A small table had papers scattered around it; plans of invasion perhaps. The second section offered more comfort, holding a floor length mattress with plush pillows.
