She felt her heart drenched in pain. Like a never ending tear that burned on every slight movement. She felt the tears fill up her eyes before falling down her cheeks. She palmed her face time and time again, hoping to end some of the pain. That day though, not even their burn could satiate her. The very deepest parts of her mind had caged her in their deceptive images throwing at her scenes of violence and torture. Of every painful way her husband might be tortured on the battlefield. She imagined his strength falling and failing as he crumbled. All the while, she sat in the comfort of their makeshift home under the thick blankets with fruits and milk in front of her.

How could she be at peace when her soul was tied to the very man that lead so courageously. How could she sit still in leisure while her new family suffered. She could not think of all the ways her uncle would hurt them, shattering their bones, gauging their eyes out to calm his bruised ego. Samra wept into her palms, the heels of them digging into her cheeks. Her stomach rumbled with hunger the last time she ate was with Fadahunsi before he left — a measly bowl of gravel and bread. However, she could not bring herself to eat. She had spent time on the prayer mat bowed, praying for his wellbeing and safety. Now though she could barely feel any energy inside her, the quivering of her hands and legs had not gone unnoticed by Zumar.

"Shehzadi mera koi rutba tou nahi hai ap keh aagay magar eik baat kahun?" She cleared her throat.

[Princess I have no status in front of you but can I say something to you?]

Sniffing, Samra nodded her head. Zumar brushed her thick fringe to the side, a thick bangle dangling from her hands — a significance of her status.

"Humaray arteshbod ki zouja hain, ap ko unki tarah hosla rakh kar baaki khawateen ki honsla afzai karni chahiye," she spoke, her tone barely above a whisper.

[You are our army general's wife, you should stand with confidence and reignite the spirits of all the other women.]

"There is nothing more that I would love to do. Yet there is this ache in my heart — I — can not fathom working without his presence near me," she sobbed.

"Sometimes spiritual presence is more vital than a physical one". Zumar spoke.

Samra could sense the disappointment in Zumar's being. They were all expecting something from her. As the sun settled below the horizon and an azure blue began to take over the rapturous yellow, their hopes were all beginning to thin out. No one had come to report what was going on, the women had been left without a clue. The thick date trees stood tall with pride and their large branches spread out in cover. Between the sage green leaves she could see the plentiful dates. That was what a husband was to all of them. Their strength, he provided for them and nurtured them, gave them shelter from the storms of this world. No one wanted to loose theirs, in this their pain was similar.

"Gather the women round the bonfire. All of us will eat there tonight, I shall join you in a few minutes". Samra spoke up after deep contemplation.

"Of course. Anything special you would like the chef's to prepare?" Zumar smiled.

Samra sighed, closing her eyes tight. She could sense Fadahunsi by her side. The smell of his sweat, covered by the concentrated levels of his perfume. His warm callused touch, grazing her skin ever so lightly. The small laughter that rang in between them, his aversion towards gamey meats and likeness for lamb. Especially after it had been roasted over open fire, cooked slow until the meat was tender and broke apart from the bone without a hitch.

"Lamb. I'd love to have a roasted leg of lamb". She spoke.

"Of course. I assume you would like to wear that muslin plum dress, the one with the gold belt and frills?" Zumar questioned with a bit of humor.

Samra nodded, that was the dress she had been thinking of. Tonight in his absence she would dress for him. For him she would put up a face of strength and confidence. For his sake she would guide his — their people. To preserve the memory of his crinkling eyes and loud laughter she would host them, with alcohol flowing free for everyone but just as he would do, Samra would sip on the honey and cardamom kehva. To honor him in his absence she would walk to the people with her face covered in his handkerchief. The one embroidered with little stars at the corner, his favorite one.

⚜️⚜️⚜️

Fadahunsi's horse had been killed. Right in it's forehead a poisonous arrow had been wedged. Its eyes had dimmed and he had been forced to abandoned his companion from ages. He swung the sword, his eyes focused on what lay before him. In war there was no one else but you. And nothing more than survival that mattered. He could feel his back soak up in sweat, it was the dawn of the next day and still men fell left, right and centre. He could smell the bitter aroma of death and taste the metallic edge of blood in the water saturated air. It weighed on him, the air and deaths both.

Pivoting forth, he rotated his body, cutting through the chests of the men of Loh. Every man fought valiantly, it was the leaders that would make difference. King Zaid had already lost his brother's to battle and he could see the armies of his friends dwindle as they continued to fight on. Men on their side were falling like flies too, it was brutal. Many were trampled by the panic of the horses at the front, some killed by arrows and swords. He could notice his lieutenants rush the wounded men to the infirmary, yet most chose to fight, even with a stump in place of their dominant hand they let their spirits soar.

Fadahunsi prayed for divine help under his breath. Charging forward with his head lowered he attacked the men with renewed spirits. He had been separated from the horseback riders and that worried him to a great extent. His heavy feet sunk in the sand and that was proving to be a problem for his usual agility. The only positive part to him was the fact that the wind blew in the favor of the Persian army and blinded the eyes of the Loh solider's. The land of Hindustan would be theirs he promised himself, battling until he felt his arms would fall off.

As the opponents closed in on them, they began to push them back. The elephants in their slate grey skins towered over the horses, archers riding on their backs. Their thick trunks moved back and forth in the air, creating a wall of terror. The Persian soldiers had never seen animals so large being used for battle. Nor had their horses for unrest soon arose and it seemed that everyone was running for their lives. The proper formations were dissolved, the catapults abandoned as he watched his men desert the battleground. He clenched his teeth, abandoning his double edged sword that had broken at one end. His rapiers were retrieved and he ran with all his might. He had no recollection of how many men he had killed in the hours to follow, only that he felt himself drowned in the red of their blood for days to come.

His arms grew wary of the number of charges he had been forced to take. He was tired and felt feverish. His body seemed to have started running on autopilot. The leather-skin bottle on his side was empty of water. His throat was dry and he felt as if cacti had grown their prickly branches inside it. Fadahunsi fixed his feet to the ground, making slow attacks. Sick, he felt sick of the war and the scent of blood. Perhaps this would be his first and last defeat for King Zaid would not let him live. Around him no longer remained the splendor army he had made but instead a handful of his closest friends that were not cowards. To them it was either victory or death.

"What is going on?" He heard a Hindustani soldier shout.

Finally looking up from the ground, he stilled too. The elephants were retrieving. Running away frantically, crushing the men of their own army. Suddenly it seemed that help had come from God and the men began to return. They raced behind the Indian army and pushed them into a gap between two rugged mountains. The elephants had turned frantic and ran in all directions whilst his army gathered once more and cut through the remaining numbers. Soon Fadahunsi understood what was going on. For following the last men were the women. In their hands thick wooden sticks burning with blazing fires and war drums that were continuously being beaten to scare the enemy away.

"Charge!" Fadahunsi shouted one last time.

His voice gathered attention and they attacked the enemy with their might, one last time. It was a blood bath after that. For every two men he had there was only one of the Indian king. King Zaid was outnumbered, a shameful defeat was knocking on his door. Fadahunsi hit a young man in the chest who was identified as the King's youngest son. A pity he thought to himself, but in battle no one was right or wrong. It was just you and your nation against the rest of the world.

"We surrender!" King Zaid appeared on the mountain's cliff.

In his hand was a white flag. His face was marked with tears, eyes rimmed red. General Fadahunsi nodded, a ceasefire was achieved. The war was over and the king taken a prisoner of war. Fadahunsi felt his blood still pumping with electricity. His eyes searched the bloodied ground for the person behind this change of tide. For the first time he let himself mourn. Sinking next to his father's body and kissing his chest he felt blood coat his lips. He had let himself believe he was mistaken, but even then he knew his father had been killed in the middle of the night by King Zaid's sword itself.

"F-f-f—Fadahunsi!" Samra cried.

She ran into his arms, hugging him tight. He wrapped his arms around her and weeped into her shoulders whilst she did the same. He kissed her shoulders and face passionately, removing the strands of hair from her face he kissed her squarely on the lips. Her presence it offered him a feeling of gratitude. It made his heart fill up with warmth. He saw her tear her sleeve and wrap it around the gash on his right bicep. Soft whimpers and tears escaped her lips. Fadahunsi pressed his lips to her forehead. News had reached Persia and Alishba had ascended the throne already, nothing like the coronation their father planned.

"You did so well. Thank you Samra. We would have never won if it were not for you," he pecked her, finally in the privacy of their tent.

The two had taken a rapid shower and Samra had overseen the doctor apply the salve to his wound. She clenched his hand 'for support' was it for herself or his sake? They would never know.

"I'm sorry about baba," she kissed his skin above the wound.

"It was his fate. He is a martyr, so no mourning".

Samra nodded. Wordlessly she let him tuck her into bed. He had to go see King Zaid, he was after all his prisoner. She would not hold him any longer. Under the silvery moonlight, Fadahunsi held a sword next to King Zaid's throat. The king begging for his life was a funny sight. The arrogance all gone.

"Kill me already. Is this not what you and your wife want?" He spat, mustering up what little courage he had.

"I want to kill you. I really do but it's a question of my wife. I'll let you live so that every day that you wake you remember it's my wife's generosity that let you live. I'll let you live so that every morning after God it's my lover you thank for your pitiful life!"

•••
Fadahunsi is king.