You Can Run

The Scholar

Jaserah's mother had told her that people, whether they were djinn or man, do not like a woman in a burqa. She had warned her about the dangers and blessings of her veil, and ultimately, decided that she would not leave the island without company. Yet, Jaserah couldn't help but feel... cornered; when she caught people staring at her while they traveled. Wasn't the point of the veil to avoid drawing attention? Why, then, were people treating her like a circus animal? She decided not to dwell on it as she noticed children staring at her - satyr kids with furry goat legs and bare human chests. Dirty, matted hair covered their eyes, and their foul odor alone told Jaserah that these were not good people. The oldest, who appeared to be around ten years old (in human years), stepped forward. He pushed his black mane back, causing it to stick up in the air. Jaserah's nose wrinkled in disgust.

"Oi, you," he brayed. "Take that off. We don't appreciate your kind around here."

"Take what off?" Jaserah asked, her voice dropping an octave. She reached inside the voluminous sleeve of her burqa and drew a longsword. "This?" she asked, the proximity to bonesteel making her nauseous. The kids backed off, sensing danger. One of them whispered.

"Hector, let's go." "She's got bonesteel!" he urged the leader, whose widened eyes stared on. He scoffed, pretending to be brave, and yelled, "I'm not scared of you, you freak!"

"Oh, most certainly not. You have nothing to fear," Jaserah mocked with disrespect. "Except for this—" she conjured a bonesteel dagger from her other sleeve, causing Hector, the bully, to flinch.

"Oh, and this—" But by the time she could decide what else to conjure, the children had already fled, hurling insults and slurs. Hashir then walked over with his musalla rug folded lengthwise, having finished his prayers. He flinched at the sight of the bonesteel weapons.

"Why is all that bonesteel here?" he inquired, coughing.

"Sorry," Jaserah muttered sheepishly, her cheeks turning red, as she made the magical weapons disappear with a flick of her wrists. "Had a bit of a situation."

"What situation?" Hashir asked, his face showing evident concern as he folded the rug more tightly. Jaserah was taken aback by his concern, but then she reminded herself that it was nothing.

He's concerned because you're his ward. If anything were to happen to you, Baba would show no mercy, her brain told her.

You're right. Why else would he be concerned? Her heart reasoned.

"Some satyr kids tried to harass me. All it took was some bonesteel, and they ran back home." Jaserah chuckled, then caught herself. Why was she cackling like a fool in front of a na-mahram?

Hashir smiled at the ground. "Is that so?" Jaserah hummed in response. They continued in silence, walking towards a shipyard because Jaserah couldn't fly. Hashir cleared his throat.

"How are you immune to Bonesteel?" he asked, nonchalantly.

"I'm not," Jaserah clarified, cracking her knuckles, and earning a wince from Hashir. "I just... try not to let it bother me too much. I still get dizzy and nauseous when I'm around it, and it does drive me away, but I just... tolerate it. It's not very hard."

Hashir seemed to ponder over this, his arched eyebrows furrowing together in concentration as he ran a hand across his sculpted beard. She had been traveling with him for two weeks now, and yet, his uncanny resemblance to her father continued to unsettle her. He donned her father's old hashashin attire, styled his beard in the same manner as her father, walked with a similar gait, and disapproved of her habit of cracking her knuckles. Even his facial expressions seemed to mirror her father's on occasion. A part of Jaserah wanted to strangle him for that, but she suspected it was because of all the traveling.