A Lady’s Yearning 

 Her crimson dress, embroidered with wine threading, 

 Tulips and hyacinth decorated by beading, 

 Blew beside her bed. 

 Her eyes heavy with rues, 

 Her heart a stoic stone. 

 “Laments of Romance” labeled the diagnosis, but rues of dread– 

 Dread of kindred, present and future, dread of 

 God, Godly yearnings: 

 To be a champion of God, a hero, a master of bloodshed: 

 the penultimate rue. 

 The ultimate: God’s bitter brew… 

The red ink of the Khatun scribbled across a leather journal. gifted by her uncle. The bright red strained her eyes, but as long as her heart could be expressed, she was most free. 

A Khatun is supposed to be a lady: the honorer of her family, God, and man. Her only passion is to care, her only goal is to serve. The face of a Khatun must be tamed and free of frowns and wrinkles; immense beauty shall overflow from her, but she must be respectful and modest enough to prevent those around her from drowning in it. 

This Khatun did frown though; her passion was profound, but she did not translate it for man. Her respect was immense, for art; never for something insolent. Her beauty enchanted, but she despised casting spells; she would rather enchant with her words. Her irises, like pots of raw honey converted from hyacinth nectar, always sweetened the face of anyone her gaze fell upon. 

But if provoked, her icy hands and forked tongue were quick to spoil and turn one sour. 

She inherited her icy hands and forked tongue from her uncle. He was considered the troublemaker growing up and though now he had matured, he made trouble in other ways now. 

Bigger trouble. But some argued “good” trouble. 

Before the journal and pen, she would use assorted paints to color her papers with her thoughts. When her family would get paranoid of her hand and pondering mind, she would be stripped of all inks and asked to play with her silk dolls instead. Her thoughts were fierce, like a wild horse’s resistance against a saddle, however, as long as her mind kept racing with the fascination of life, her hands disliked ceasing. She resorted to using a bronze stylus she “borrowed” from a shop down the road to scribble on ruined tablets she collected from the neighborhood scribes. 

She was taught literacy as soon as her hand could grip. The Khatun’s family had placed her at the best local academy, hoping their daughter would become a little more apt than other 

Khatuns: the ability to read and write may be attractive to her future family. It was all the rage Westward. Her parents treated the prestigious institution like a daycare, leaving the Khatun all day until the sun grew weary and slept. Her reading class was right after the rooster’s crow and finished before the first chicken could finish laying an egg. She had plenty of time to hang, she just had to figure out what’s the most productive way to loiter. 

The administrative office offered her a spot to sit while she waited for her parents, but watching the sun float down through the windows of the quiet office, with the exception of a yawn every while, she found it unproductive. She noticed a professor walking by holding the Shahnameh, the Book of Kings. She recalled the title perfectly: her uncle would read her the epic each time he visited and take time to explain the meaning behind each and every couplet. 

Her eyes lured to the book. She looked around the office: everyone had their eyes glued on their own paperwork. She sprung up on her feet and tiptoed out of the room. Like a ghost, she followed the book across the entire campus. She was careful to not get too close to shock the professor. She followed him across the halls of adobe until arriving at a wooden door the professor entered through. She edged closer to the door, her breath heavier, quicker. She cautiously creaked the door open an inch and marveled inside. Rows of seats, full of boys goofing around all in their uniforms. She wasn’t given a uniform because they didn’t know what to give to a girl to wear. The professor hushed the class and with a slam of the book on his podium, all the boys had scrambled to grip their pens. 

She noticed the empty rows in the back, only a few feet from her. The professor slipped to the cover of the page and began reading. The class listened attentively. Curiosity overwhelmed the Khatun. She slowly pushed the door and took a seat at the closest chair. The professor’s eyes glanced at her, and a few students looked back in their boredom, but no one questioned her presence: they didn’t want to, just as no one likes to confront awkward tension. As he continued to read the introduction of the book, “In the name of God / Life and Wisdom,” the melody of the epic took flight and landed in her ears with the same grace her uncle would captivate her in. She felt the same twinkle radiate in her heart just as it did when she was a toddler. 

After the lecture, she wasn’t sure what to do. She certainly didn’t want to go back to the office. She wondered if anyone even noticed. She was still hungry, still curious, and she desperately wanted more. She roamed the halls and checked each door. She would open just an inch and inspect to see people, until she finally found one in session. Instead of the Shahnameh, she saw numbers and formulas. This professor held an abacus in his hand and was walking around, teaching the boys how to use it. She grabbed an available abacus and sat down again, closer to the crowd. The professor came to her eventually. He looked at her, warily, but showed her how to manage her abacus. At the end of the class, he even let her keep it, to practice at home. 

Before she knew it, she found herself in another seat, listening to a different professor. He held up drawings of human flesh and held up real bones from skeletons. She walked from class to class the whole day, eventually “borrowing” a lost notebook she found on the chair next to her and began writing down everything that amazed her. She graced each class until finally an assistant from the administration office hunted her down. As he grabbed her shoulder, her face turned pale. She couldn’t imagine the consequences. But there was none. He was just there to let her know her family servant arrived to pick her up. 

The next day, she immediately was back to dropping in on lectures right after her morning reading class ended. She kept it up for the rest of her education. It was better than watching the sun’s descent from that dusty room. 

From the corner of each classroom, she learned the foundations of algebra, medicine, governance, humanities of West and East, religion, and her favorite, literature, and poetry of the Persian tongue. 

Virtually all her peers were boys, and in her society, boys were more sinful than spilt blood in a wine glass. It was difficult to blend into her classes when she was the only one with a headscarf muffled over her head and a cloak swathed around her. The headscarf nagged at her hair and the cloak was too long for her to hold up throughout the day, but she couldn’t even think about taking it off. The only cloak she wanted to wear though, and the only veil she yearned for, was a hood. The same hood her uncle would have drooped over his face when he roamed the streets, casting a luminous shadow over his face, bearing a dagger in his hand, making her forget who that mysterious outline even is. When she got home, she stabbed her ink into her journal: 

 The shawl I drape hangs like the noose 

 They hung the Queens with… 

When the lectures got tiring, she would step outside. She didn’t mind the outside, despite the hot silks and cotton swaddling her against the beating sun, because outside was alive. Outside, horses were galloping, swords were swinging, and arrows flyings. In her bedroom she would recreate such things, but only in her journal. Occasionally she would go on walks on the campus and people-watch. The people would typically watch back. She was a sight to behold for a crowd of boys. She felt like a limp crow in a sea of doves. When the eyes would beat down on her too hard, she would just retreat back to the lectures. The professors tried their best to make it a safe haven for her. They really didn’t know how to treat a girl, let alone teach one. But they tried to treat her just like the boys. And she loved it. 

 When watching boys in uniform at play, she would lay on the grass with her journal in hand, a fully inked pen, and doodle: 

 The mind races but why can the body not? 

 The heart beats but cannot quickly? 

 Limbs weary from sloth, but never from 

 The art of war or the beauty of defense… 

Once the Khatun’s parents realized she could read better than she could speak, she was removed from the academy and moved to a vocational school. The vocational school, designed for all Khatuns that were to become Banus, the noblest ladies fit for the noblest aristocrats. 

The Khatun was beyond upset having to leave her school, her rigorous studies for how to speak kindly to a man. She had no one in particular to hold on to, but she had the books at the library, the flowers at the field, the finely cut paper next to feathered pens with fully stocked black ink bottles. In an attempt to confront her parents about the unnecessary transfer, her parents claimed her brain was supposed to be acute, not ingenious. They advised her against the whole reading thing too, including visiting the libraries. It was okay to read a simple letter, but an entire novel was too much. 

She had no friends, she could play none of the sports, but she felt most lively at the academy. She admired the life of a boy for he played independently, and here she was to rest, leashed. Her lectures had transformed from the political and spiritual revelations of all documented centuries to learning how to make the right tea for one’s future Khwaja. During the dull lectures by her lady instructors, she would trace along her thigh, imagining her finger as a pen: 

 A pot of tea I am to boil, 

 Pluck the leaves fit perfect 

 For my Khwaja, with a kiss I implant. 

 Instead of pottering the teapot I pour in, 

 Instead of painting it intricate, 

 Instead of scavenging for branches, 

 I’m here. Ugly pot in hand with dry leaves, 

 Already to serve my Khwaja and his other three lovers. 

 My handsome, respected Khwaja, Loyal to God, but not me. 

 I’d rather brew with raw aconite. 

A Khatun was to be hand-selected a fine Khwaja, a well-built man with a good handle on a fine blade, a house with garden, baths, kitchen, and corridor. That is what made a fine, eligible Khwaja for a fine, eligible Khatun. This Khatun, however, was lucky enough to be in a school to become a Banu, where after her ‘training,’ she would no longer need to marry a Khwaja, but she could instead find a Sarvar: 

 I need not worry about Khwajas 

 When I am bound for Sarvars. 

 My Sarvar, when I’m just as boring as a Banu, 

 Blessings may I receive from my Sarvar. 

 I need not worry about brewing a pot, 

 My hands would be too delicate for that! 

 And I need not to be jealous of his three other lovers, 

 When I am a part of his harem of hundreds, 

 Allowing him lucky enough to receive three-fold raw aconite… 

Khwajas were branches of a mighty tree, but Sarvars, they were the roots. A Khwaja’s Garden could not match the jungle within a Sarvar’s dwelling, nor their bathhouse, nor their bakehouse, nor their ballroom, nor their roofless space to watch the passing clouds or stargaze. A Sarvar was a Khatun’s dream, hoping perhaps their Khwaja now could through miracles achieve Sarvar status, or give their children enough support so they may strive for the prestigious title, or at least marry a Sarvar if just a girl. 

But for a Banu, a Sarvar was more than just a dream: it was the objective. To make dreams a reality—that’s what a sophisticated, ladies’ vocational school was there to do. It was a modern creation; an educational system to teach girls to be ladies instead of women. Centuries of girls becoming women was only down an unpaved road, and the feet to march down in bare and bloody; perhaps ladydom was a safe route. The Khatun would mock the system in her journal: 

 A mister is fun, fine, and fantastic. But a sire is all she needs. 

 A mister is fantastic… But a Sire is all She needs. 

 A sire is everything… 

The only thing she liked in this new school was girls. Not the girls, but the fact that she finally had girls as her peers. No more awkward tension. She was even allowed to take off her scarf and cloak indoors and powerfully, the freedom to socialize: a chance to make friends. She thought the girls were sweet, the way their cheeks would blush with affirmations, their eyes glow when initiating conversation, the way they cared for the Khatun like a sister. Despite the beautiful ladies, the Khatun struggled to find conversation pieces with the Banus-to-be. They giggled about the boys laboring from the school’s window, compared each other’s clothes and jewels, and complained about their parents. The Khatun’s interest was piqued by the last topic, feeling better that other parents were weird like hers, but as soon as the topic diverged, her ears wavered off. 

The Khatun would try to spark intellectual conversation with her instructor hoping she was as wise as her other professors, a chance to feed her starving brain. She suspected one of older age would have interest in enlightening thoughts, but instead she would be scolded and told not to worry about such things. She was here to become a Banu, not a poetess. 

The word poetess itself, though, would make her queasy. Her guts would squeeze, dreams would circle her head, as if she was the author of her own epic, just like the Shahnameh: 

 Blossoming daisies and orchids, a carmine and pearly swirl. 

 A seed that pelts from their buds grows beautifully, 

 But like the acorn, it does not grow trunk 

 Nor branches. If daisies and orchids were to become trees, must they have been acorns? 

She would stare blankly at the paper as she wrote and frown. It is not easy to recreate an epic like the Shahnameh. Regardless, she strived for the same level of perfection. Upon pure frustration, she would think of excuses, but ultimately decide that was even more unproductive. In her frustrations, she wished she had someone to confide in, but who would understand a 

Khatun’s aspirations to design a series of sewed couplets worthy of kings? She would return back to her only confiding friend: the journal. It was a cycle that beat her relentlessly but thickened her skin. 

Her uncle, the same one that got her the journal and ink, was a Hashashin. Hashashins were a recently coined term for a fresh conjuring, or at least that’s what everyone thought. When the governor was found dead in his home, a match was lit. The nobles would whisper about it over tea, and soon their maidens overheard and would whisper about it to their husbands over rice, their husbands would whisper about it to their mates over homemade moonshine, and soon after the word would return back, more vicious, to the nobles. The rumor started as “two butlers slipped too much cinnamon” and surely returned back flaming as “seven brutes bearing the signs of Satan burned down his home and decapitated his entire lineage.” The flicker grew to a wildfire. Somehow, the more absurd the rumor mutated, the more accurate it became. 

The nobles theorized the Hashashins were a political order set to destabilize the current regime and make room for a new theocratic revolt; the peasants imagined they were feasting shadows hunting for silver spoons, maybe even ghosts ascended from Hell paving the path for evil’s return. They were both right in their own ways. They were political, just as they were ghosts. 

It was an idea buried deep by her parents who insisted the uncle was just a guard, a very honorable man. Her uncle, who believed honesty to be the most important tongue, and loved his niece because she was the most passionate in the family, would never announce his creed. He was just a warrior, guarding the governor. But Hashashins were not considered warriors. They were the slayers of the underground, a crime circuit in the light, a secret society under the dark with no plans of letting a torch give them away. Khatun admired their concealment: 

 A shadow is inevitable and indestructible: 

 A light may follow, but the shadow is quick. 

 A flame cannot catch the eternal outline… 

The Khatun admired the Hashashins. In her dreams, she wore the same leather and wielded the same blades as the shadow fighters. In her dreams, she is thunder and lightning, as she beats down the enemies of her land. 

Her growing sense of nationalism surprised her entire family, except for her uncle. He knew her better than anyone; that was a reason why she admired him so much. He understood her when no one else could—perhaps better, even, than herself. 

Each time at family dinner, the mention of their Northern or Southern neighbors would result in a fiery rant from the Khatun on how they ruined their nation, destroyed their culture, killed their God. Her fury for her homeland was simultaneously fueled by her passion for her ancestry and the rage for the downfall she blamed her neighbors for. She read about the peace her ancestors spent lifetimes attempting to conserve, but stubbornly insisted that vengeance was the only path forward. She thought of the conquest of centuries ago, the scimitars and chains of the Northern neighbors, and before them their Southern neighbors, washing away their native ichor with their own foreign blood. 

The first time her parents heard her talk back, she got a yelling and was sent to her room. Their fury was not aimed at their daughter’s cursing of the people, calling their neighboring nations as scum. They were upset that cursed the establishment they were raised in, the one they try to instill actively. To them, there was no ruined culture or dead God. They have a culture, a strong and healthy one; they have a mighty God, one they fear happily. To them, they are living the best life they could. 

After a hundred attempts at taming her, they learned it was better to just roll their eyes and focus on their plates. The Khatun was from a family of traders, so they did not care if one was Pars, Arab, Tork, Hendi, Yunani —all had to be welcomed because all their pouches were heavy. 

Her family, in attempts at humor, would criticize her for not cursing their other neighbors. 

“If you think scimitars cause such ruckus, then don’t forget the stubborn yellow eagle.” 

“Or maybe of the thieving Cacausian wolf,” the mother giggled, following along. The 

Khatun gritted her teeth as her mother’s laugh rang savagely in her ears. 

“Or the balky winged bull!” Both parents tried to hold back their laughter, they held their mouths with their hands, but their prolonged stare forced out a roar of laughter. 

The Khatun stared blankly, demanding, “Why should I?” The parents’ laughter calmed down; the father took a second to catch his breath, the mother wiped away tears. 

“They are an extension of our flesh. Why should I ridicule the reasons for our nation’s success? Our diversity? Our wealth stems from their coins?!” 

They sat in silence for a little while after that. They pondered at that distant memory, when truly, many civilizations partook as an extension of their nation. From sea to ocean, hills to Sierra, desert to lush pastures, East to West. Presently, only a fraction of that was left. Bitter to imagine the devouring that had to pull in their lines. The father shook his head, trying to dispel the bad taste. 

“You are stuck in your dreams, my dear,” her father warned her. “Next, you will tell me that the mountain goats are one of us?” 

“Why wouldn’t they be?” 

“Because they are Kurds! That is why they are not like us! We are lions, they are goats, the Northerners are wolves, the Southerners are camels, they are nothing like us!” 

“Well, the wolves and the camels are not nothing like us. Sure, they are flesh like us, breathe like us, but their upbringing has been destined to have a single yearning: to destroy us. The goats, they are just like us. If they are not like us, then why are we so similar? Why does their tongue feel so familiar, their melodies only a pitch away from ours, our clothes the same color, our God one…” 

“Don’t get poetic sweetie, you sound squirmy. Talk normally.” her mother told her, upholding a sweet tone, making it sound even more sour. 

The Khatun stared at her parents, straight in the eyes, trying to see past their words. She refused to believe their sister clans were so strange, so alien. Upon going to her room, her tears fell on her scribbling hand: 

 A box with a title, 

 That is where I dwell. 

 Boxes considered vital, 

 Merely a shell 

 That makes me think, 

 This name given to me 

 Is truly my everything. 

 The other boxes are the same. 

 No texture or shape that delivers us different. 

 We are just a box with a title, like a bowtie. 

 Really, are we not the same… 

In times of regret, she would recall the history lectures she sat in. She could almost taste the honor of her ancestors, the Pars: the cultivators of the Middle World, taming the sky, earth, and sea. Each of their great accomplishments fueled her belief that they were truly the holders of the land. Even now, fallen from their former glory, her people’s spirits were of the same essence. 

The Aryan people were needed to feed the Aryan hearth. 

To think of the present, the aftermath of glory: disappointment. The shame of her generation and their passivity, immobility. The lectures were very bittersweet. It made her think of her culture as wasted potential. It was difficult to reminisce about a past she has never experienced. It felt silly to her. She already did not express a lot of her thoughts aloud, but even on paper, her pen would initially cringe at an inexperienced regret. She would try to hope for a return soon. Her hand etched aggressively at that thought. 

The brains and brawns of the Pars were burned by saifs of camels and stripped by the kilijs of wolves. On nights when the moon burned brightest, her rues would return just as brightly. In those fiery times, she would cope with her papyrus: 

 My blood is Pars, ichor of an Aryan goddess. 

 I am the slayer of Tazis and Turs, 

 Against the Araab and Torklar scimitars, I prove myself. 

 The camel’s hooves and the wolves’ jaws 

 Could not impress a lion, like me. 

 Never will I be of the saif, 

 Never of the kilij, 

 When I am of the Ayan wealth, 

 Of the Aryan heart I bathe in. 

 I am the future, 

 But what of her. What of Banu-in-training? 

 If I aspire to slay the enemies of the North and the South, 

 Then how can I hold on to her? 

 If her breasts were not so large, then adversaries would look in the eyes. 

 If her dress was not so tight, then she would not trip in duels. 

 If her nethers bore sacks instead of a plate, then she would be the best 

 He. 

 Must she be He for me to be hero? … 

The Khatun woke one morning to the squawking of crows. A murder flocked outside her room, polluting the sky. Dark feathers poured down, painting a smile on her face, dazzled by the beauty of nature. She grabbed her journal, ink, and floated down the stairs, unbothered to grab her cloak or scarf. Her instincts caused her eyes to dart around to inspect for her parents, but upon confirming her isolation, she opened the door to the yard. In the open square, she trotted cautiously, her eyes glued skywards, admiring the black cloud, melancholily swallowing the dawn’s light. The squawks of the crows drowned out the city noise outside her walls, she could barely even hear her own thoughts. 

Her mind was the loudest voice she had encountered in her life; a bold, thick, heavy tone, it was the inner monologue echoing through her body. She did not mind her at all—if anything, she aspired to manifest her one day, through soliloquies. But no Banu had a thick voice. If there was one, then she was most likely a lucky mistress finding haven within a harem. Or lucky to opt to continue living in the comfort of her excessively, filthy wealth of her family. The Khatun’s journal opened, and her pen flew as her eyes remained glued on the murder above: 

 I draw no blades, but I breathe like a killer. 

 Like Hashashin. 

 A syndicate I dream to veneer. 

 I am a Khatun, a Khatun that is to be Banu. 

 I am a Khatun that dreams of herodom. I dream to be the hands of the Pars when we 

 Have been crippled thoroughly. 

 Like Hashashin, I shall slay, 

 I shall read, 

 I shall lead. 

 With crippled spine, I shall fly: 

 The wings of mine shall soar. 

 I shall be beyond, 

 I shall be the three heads, 

 The eight tentacles, 

 I shall be… 

The Khatun was not the religious type; she did not have a lot of trust within religion or the people that came with it. Her family was religious, but only because everyone else was. Even her uncle would mutter his prayers, but it was not from belief, it was just instilled in his tongue. She did not care for religion because there was nothing to care about. She saw no guidance from leaders, and she sensed no common interest in their community. She would hear verses and prayers uttered and repeated and they would slowly be ingrained in her mind, but she could not say the meaning of them. She could not in good conscience express love for her family’s god. She loved God, believed in God, thought of God, spoke to God, worshiped the divinity of God, but never the god in the streets, never her family’s god. She despised their god. She despised people who worshiped that god, their blindfolds wrapped around their heads tight enough to cut off circulation. 

Each time her family readied to leave for prayer, the Khatun would beg to stay at home. 

Her family always declined; that was the only thing they refused to be lenient on with the Khatun. Even when she would go to the temple, she would only admire the architecture. The symmetry that rounded the domes, the mosaics that reflected rainbows across the rooms, the rugs hand-woven in waves of thread, the interior of domes dazzled like stars in the space above, that was the only beauty of the house of prayer, for her. When she could, she would sneak out of prayer and walk through the garden outside. She would mark down her frustrations: 

 I blame not the saifs for their cloned shadow, praised as deity, 

 Nor the kilijs for the ‘light’ honored of said deity. 

 But I blame my flesh and blood. 

 I blame our sisters and brothers. 

 The mountain goats of West and 

 The snow leopards of East. 

 They have abandoned their hearth, let our muscles stiffen, 

 Refuse to rejoice. Forgotten we are children of one– 

 Our rhythms and melodies differ, 

 Yet our anthem screams one, 

 As we are but an orchestra. 

 Where can I plead for my brethren to reunite? … 

And when unable to leave prayer, she would just sit there, static, until scolded to move and pray like everyone else. She would make the movements but would never allow a single word from that god’s book leave her mouth. She would distract herself: think about her God, try to understand her God better, remind herself that the real God is nothing like this god. 

 

On one Nowruz, the celebration of spring equinox, the Khatun’s family held an elaborate event. It was the Khatun’s first event during her Banu training, so her parents splurged on her costume and cosmetics. She was begged to leave behind her journal and ink in her room for the night, so she opted for a small note pad and a slim piece of graphite. The guests came pouring in, one by one, and the Khatun had to greet each one enthusiastically in her tight gown and tighter scarf. She noticed a lot of guests in kaftans and abayas; clearly because the Khatun’s parents wanted to take advantage of the night to become chummy with their trading friends. It even crossed the Khatun’s mind that the entire event could have simply been for their kaftan- and abaya-wearing clients. It would explain their unexpected enthusiasm for a “pagan” holiday. 

Her uncle arrived with a large group of friends, dressed in matching leather, thick cloth, and chunky blades. Some with turbans, some with scarves draped, and some with open midriffs. The Khatun’s mother gave her brother a wicked glare, her nostrils almost fuming, but he just smiled nervously passing her by. The crowd’s distinctions attracted wandering eyes from the fellow nobles, but that was expected. The sharpest and proudest glare came from the Khatun, who marveled upon the fashion and radiance of the warriors. The Khatun approached her uncle and nagged him about his friends. She needed not to ask who they were, she was already sure of that, but why they were there. His answers were ambiguous, but the Khatun would not let it go. Her questions were a steady stream until she noticed one of the leather-clad guests had long, braided hair. A girl?!  She’s never seen a girl sport her hair so proudly before in public. The Khatun asked her uncle about her. She was with the others for sure. A braided warrior with a confident grin on her face. The Khatun admired her before even meeting her. 

As the night passed, the Khatun noticed the braided Hashashin on a chair, resting, in a rather empty area. The Khatun’s minimal social skills held her back, but her curiosity got the better of her. She approached the braided Hashashin and asked her of her work. The warrior was not like her uncle; she took pride in her work, thought it to be a good cause, and seemed to trust the Khatun enough to be open about her shadow order. Boldly, she discussed her alignment with the Hashashins. The order does not accept the societal expectation that girls are to be ladies, because all humans are warriors in the making. The Khatun spent the rest of the night watching the braided Hashashin tell stories of her adventures, of her learning on the art of war, of her journey to embrace herself. 

As the moon gleamed high above the sky, one of the lady’s companions leaned into her ear and whispered something. The Khatun could not make it out, but the lady nodded and took it as the cue to stand up and began her departure, with the rest of her group. 

Before she left, she leaned into a pouch strapped by her ankle and gave the Khatun an akinakes. The Khatun had never seen such a blade before, she only remembered from her old lectures on “The Art of War.” A short blade, pure to the Pars warrior of the ancient world. She flipped over the blade, revealing a gold branded Farvahar. The ancient bird with the head of a man struck the patriotic soul of the Khatun, and made her believe that at that moment, she was more than a Khatun. 

That night, as her family’s servants cleaned up, she sat amidst the sweepers and reflected on the floor, criss crossed: 

 This obscured path is what I’ve drifted towards. 

 I bid farewell; my heart cannot tolerate the melt. 

 I skip a bell, my heart rings tight from a redbelt. 

 A lady is beautiful when colored amarelle, but a dame is me. 

 A stripper of kaftans and abayas, 

 That is destined for me. 

 A lady is fruitful by all means, but I am 

 The bane that proclaims love for her veins, 

 A lover of my Hearth, A warrior of Arya. 

 I am a braided dame, 

 Whose braid will soon wear the body of a 

 Warrior.