It had been a few months since Hevding gave Hovn to Osnan. Other northerners were battling, but governors without the support of Hevding and Frey's group understood that they could either be killed altogether in a battle or peacefully give up. Frey was being constantly irritated. His heart was tearing to the other soldiers, to help and win. But he was a successor of the house of Hevding. To continue to be at war, Frey had to become a rebel, to declare Hevding a traitor, and to lead the Vikings. He several times thought to do so. To kill the wife's father, to drag his head on Council and to continue the war until strangers would leave Iceland. But he didn’t do any of this. There was a reason. Much more important one. He would win the other way. And then, after the death, he would be able to look into Thor’s eyes, without hiding his own.
Some more months an exchange of inhabitants lasted, konungs sent their relatives, sons to Libiya, and other countries of the Osnan empire. Osnan was living in Libiya, therefore secretly everyone was aspiring there. Sheikhs and simple citizens of the sultan went to the Northern lands, to examine their new possessions.
It was the unconditional victory, the northerners, despite the peace treaty, were just subordinates of sultans and sheikhs, their blood had no value for the Osnan empire anymore.
Eyshan and her sisters gossiped in the yard, laughed about something. Eyshan found these talks silly, as a heavy snake on her heart lay the past of her husband. The girls were so busy discussing Amelik so they didn’t notice their married sister disappeared.
The beauty tenaciously examined the husband's office with her attentive dark eyes. There had to be something, a letter, a picture, maybe a locket… something had to keep a key to Iskander's nightmares. Eyshan had never rummaged in the husband's things, but it couldn’t be like that anymore, she had to receive this key, to his nightmares. The woman opened a case with books, began to leaf through them hastily and accurately, selectively, there was no way she would check all books of the husband so she left this idea, and began to examine the table. The wife of the sheikh ran her hand on the inside of the table-top but didn’t find any hiding places. She took the keys from draws, and unlocked the table, got out a casket from the lower box, shook up papers, but found nothing unknown. Eyshan was rummaging hastily and methodically, trying to put everything back on their places. The beauty found one more casket which was locked. Eyshan spent a lot of time to find the key from this casket, but it was also there, in the office. It never came to Iskander to hide something so sophisticated that nobody could reach his secrets. Eyshan for an instant was frightened – what if he held the secrets in the head, and she, Eyshan, would never have access to them. But Iskander was her husband. She wanted to be a part of him. There were rolls in the casket, the woman quickly ran her eyes over one, it began with Larabavian alphabet, and then there were the runic letters. The heart of Eyshan clogged stronger. Who could write to Iskander with runes? The woman greedily stared at the roll.
"I’m in captivity at the northerners. Only several months passed as I’ve been here. Not that I wanted to immortalize events of my shameful existence, but I feel the need to splash out the thoughts somewhere. My name is Iskander Al-Diva. I am a descendant of an ancient noble lineage sort. Now there’s the owner's brand burnt out on my breast, at the side of my heart, and a collar on a neck, sometimes the owner chains me. I have no clothes but a long shirt. In the north, it’s cold to wear nothing else in the winter, but so I cannot escape. However, I am being outside seldom, so I have no time to get really cold. If the owner takes me with him, he muffles me up in fur, but I’m still barefoot so that, besides, I have no chance to escape. The state of my slavery is called Aysland. The ice kingdom, with long snowy winter, penetrating winds, and the cold sea. My hope, my freedom, and my life froze in this country. Summer, spring, and fall are short here, and that’s why very desired and beautiful. Here everything differs from my native Libiya. Everything was taken away from me, even my name was taken. The owner calls me Iska. A little the local birdie is called so. My face was also taken from me, it was crippled. The owner told it was for women not to lost in contemplation of me. My dignity and the right to dispose of my life were also taken away. That is my falling.
Why won’t I stop the course of life? Because there is the sun which lights my life in the captivity — Tristakinnia."
Eyshan shuddered. She didn’t know about what she was reading, but there was a brand on the breast of her husband and if it weren’t the attempts of Iskander to become a writer, then it was his nightmare written down there. Otherwise, why does he keep it in the locked casket?
"The owner saw I wrote. He doesn’t know my language and when he has ordered me to read what is written, I wanted to use cunning. But the owner told he had familiar larabavians which would check whether I told the truth. I read as it was. I expected he would be enraged, as usual. But he nodded and told me to continue, only in his language. Now I have what to write on and with. Only I have to read him everything I write. Now I’m writing for this reason.
I was taken captive, having been wounded a poisonous arrow. I wanted to die as it’s supposed for a warrior, in the fight, but fainted. The warrior to whom I lost without a fight is my owner now. I regained consciousness already at his home. Frey. That is his name.”
For some reason, Eyshan shuddered. As if she saw this warrior who had crippled the face and the soul of her husband.
"Damn you, Frey, whoever and wherever you are, damn you …" — Eyshan thought, having swallowed a lump of tears. She knew the rest rolls would describe Iskander's captivity. Now she understood why the husband shuddered when the grandma called the younger son Frey. It needs to forbid it. The boy with the northern appearance and a similar name, for certain, constantly reminds Iskander of his nightmare. And he was so kind, he never divided children, and didn’t love one more than another one. Eyshan shortly, violently burst into tears, and having deeply sighed, continued to read. She had to know what was next. And who was that Tristakinnia. "Darling, how good it is that you haven’t die …" — she thought with infinite tenderness.
"Frey asked my name, in broken larabavian, I answered, mentioning I’m from the old family of libian warriors. "Iska," — Frey nodded, having taken my name away, – "what is it?". He pointed to my ring. The family ring, which is given from the father to the son who’s distinguished himself with the greatest piety. I explained. He took it off, I was surprised how easy it was to him to do this, I tried to stop him, but he hit me in my solar plexus and when I choked, pressed my face to the floor, having stepped on a neck. "If you move, I’ll break your chine. You won’t die but will remain a cripple." — he hissed, still, on broken larabavian. I stiffened. I wanted to know where he would put the ring, perhaps he gave it to a servant, that laughed loudly and told something in the northern language, pointing to me. Other warriors also burst out laughing. I had a lot of time to learn the language of my owner and remember all talks. She asked whether she could get me, together with the ring, or at least kiss the handsome. Frey hissed her to carry the ring, I didn’t understand where, and not to dare to watch more at my side. Now I am grateful for it to him, I’ve seen how servants vent rage on prisoners. They could spit, force, and dishonor slaves. Frey shaved me with a knife. I tried not to burst out crying with humiliation. That’s how slaves are shaved. Then I and other prisoners were branded, forcing to kneel before the owner. Frey branded me himself though others were branded by a special person. "You are not an owner to me. I’m in captivity, but you’re not an owner to me." — I told him. Frey's eyes angrily sparkled, he having knocked me with my face to the floor, broke my nose, dragged somewhere to rooms. He put me in a small cage that stood near a plank bed. "You will live here until you admit I’m your owner" — he told and left."
Eyshan began to cry but continued to read. She understood that captivity was always tortures and humiliation, but probably this son of a jackal - Frey went exactly for Iskander. She sometimes heard stories from her grandma, about captivated larabavians, garamants and libians, and others. They were shaved, robbed, branded, and given some housework, paying attention to them not more than to furniture. Obstinate slaves were tamed with a lash, but nobody tried to break the human dignity of the slave sophisticatedly as Frey.
"In the cage it was inconvenient, I sat crooked, my legs were asleep, and I could not warm them up. But the most terrible was thirst. I starved death called for it, but death didn’t come, there was only thirst drying up from inside. Frey came, darted at me a glance, laid down on the plank bed, and fell asleep. I couldn’t sleep, sometimes falling into nothing, sometimes coming up into the reality which was worse than nightmares. I tried to break cage rods. I couldn’t shout, the throat dried up, I hoped he would become angry, and, maybe, kill me, stopping my tortures.
In the morning, Frey woke up, stretched, and approached the cage.
— Wanna drink? – he asked.
I was ready to give anything for a sip of water, especially, the life which I didn’t need anymore. I nodded. Frey got the penis and brought it to my lips. The warrior grinned and began to urinate. Against my will, against my pride, my mouth opened and I began to drink the hot refreshing stream. Frey moved hips, forcing me to catch the stream which got to my face. The reason as if was disconnected, the ancient instinct of survival prevailed. Frey finished, thirst receded. The northerner grinned, looking at me, and began jerking off. He poured to the cage, several drops got on my face.
— When you are getting hungry, you can lick it off, – he told and left the room having left me alone.
Who knows, perhaps a little later I would have fallen so low that would begin to lick his sperm, at that bitter humiliating moment I decided to keep the mouth closed, and not to drink any more even if it would be water, I decided to die. She came and I desperately wanted to live."
The last lines were written on larabavian, with other ink and, probably, much later. Eyshan darted a glance at the rolls and noticed more of such additions. Most likely Iskander was re-reading them, considering.
"And here she came. Tristakinnia. Creation of the heavenly beauty, I have never seen such beautiful women. She looked like Frey, and I hoped she was his sister. She brought me a drink and a big piece of bread. There was Frey near the northern beauty.
"He will die!" — she told.
"He won’t. I will break him."
"Look how handsome he is!"
Probably, I fell in love with her, at this moment.
"Handsome," — Frey agreed, – "that’s the reason I captivated him."
The beauty extended her hand through the rods of the cage and stroked my face. I needed to pull her hand, make Frey become angry and kill me then, but I couldn’t. The reason left me.
She told me something tender. Asked something. I nodded, without understanding. Frey translated to me: she asks whether you will obey.
I agreed with everything she asked. If only I could see her sometimes, live, knowing that she was somewhere near.
I admitted Frey as my owner. I was let out from the cage, washed in a barrel with the cold rainwater. The summer is fresh in the north, but warm. I was fed, dressed, and sent to work – to drag water and other weights, it wasn’t difficult for a strong man like me. Servants and high-native northerners looked at me. I didn’t know their language and couldn’t speak with them so I only smiled at their words. I remember, how Frey watched some time how I was working, then called me up, attentively and angrily examined my face, took out a knife, and slashed me on a cheek. Blood flooded my face, and Frey touched the wound with his palm, rubbing in something. I squeezedly cried, feeling burning.
"These whores won’t look at your side anymore" — Frey hissed."
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