[fic: multi-chapter] harem part 4
Title: Harem (working title) chapter 4
Author: etre_sans_age
Rating: PG
Characters: Turkey/France, various nameless humans
Warnings: none
Summary: sort of an exposition chapter until I can think of something clever to advance the plot. More on the culture of the Ottoman Empire during the medieval period, silliness abound. I mean, I can't be having smut every chapter now can I?
[ part one]
[ part two]
[ part three]
Even though he seemed to be sleeping, Sadiq was holding him too tightly and he could not free himself. Francis adjusted his position, trying to get comfortable and not end up with an aching arm. Bored, he was about to follow Sadiq’s example and take a nap when he heard a trill of birdsong on the highest bough of the pomegranate tree. He watched the bird preen its iridescent blue and purple feathers, and then whispered, “Sadiq! Look at that bird. Isn’t it pretty?”
“Is what pretty?” Sadiq grumbled sleepily. He sighed and squinted at where Francis was pointing. “D’you want it? I’ll have a slave catch it and put it in a cage for you.”
“N-no… It just reminded me of home.” With a pang of nostalgia, he remembered his own birds, and wondered how cute little Pierre number whatever was doing without him.
Sadiq patted his arm, smiling. “Well, if you want to see the bird again, you can always come back to the garden. Its wings are clipped, it can’t fly too far.”
“Oh…” Francis chewed on a lock of hair pensively, while Sadiq stretched beside him.
“Come on, time to go back.”
It would be another two hours before they served the evening meal, and Francis thought he was going to die of boredom at this rate. He almost preferred being on the run from the slavers, at least he did not have someone hovering over him at all hours of the day. Francis flopped onto the divan with a dramatic sigh, while Sadiq sat down next to him, smoking his pipe.
“You said you wanted to play, huh? I have a game here that might interest you.”
“You do?!” Francis sat up, immediately interested.
“It’s called mangala, a counting game,” Sadiq explained, as he reached under the couch and pulled out a rectangular board and a bag. He set the board on the cushion between them, and then used the bag to fill the interior set of twelve shallow wells with four smooth stones each, leaving the larger wells at the end empty.
The object of the game was to drop the stones from a particular well one by one into the wells to the right, trying to get as many stones into one’s designated end well, the mangala, and foiling the opponent’s attempt to do the same with their mangala. That seemed simple enough, but when combined with the minute subtleties in the rules, it took strategy to actually win, as Francis soon found out.
“How did you do that?” he seethed indignantly, looking at his paltry ten stones compared to Sadiq’s thirty-eight.
“It’s because you don’t plan ahead, kid,” Sadiq answered, grinning smugly from around his pipe. “Watch what I do and learn.”
The time passed by quickly for Francis, who had never played such a game and was determined to master it. Sadiq took this chance to ask Francis certain questions he had been contemplating, watching the boy carefully to see if he told the truth or lied. For here was a French orphan who apparently lived a life of relative luxury and could speak Greek fluently, and such a lifestyle and education could only mean Francis had been pampered as a child. The main thing that concerned Sadiq now was the severe lack of concerned guardians searching for him; perhaps they thought he was dead.
“Francis… what were your parents like?”
“Um…” Francis chewed his lower lip thoughtfully as he dropped the stones into the wells with a light clink. How could he describe someone like Gaul to a human, or even Rome or Germania? “I don’t remember them very well.”
“That’s fair.” But not the truth. “So who decided to teach you Greek then?”
At least Francis was prepared for this question. “The players I traveled with, they go to Italy and Greece during the winters and I learned the language there.”
“Hmm…” He had almost forgotten that the kid was an actor, which meant he was a liar, as far as Sadiq was concerned. Hopefully the troupe was able to find a replacement and gave up trying to find their missing member because Sadiq sure as hell did not plan on giving Francis back, ever.
“Your turn!”
Sadiq played, dropping the last stone in his handful into his mangala and taking an extra turn, much to Francis’ consternation. “And what did you do as a player?”
“Umm, I was just an apprentice. I helped with the costumes and props… and sometimes I acted if they needed me. Minor roles. I wasn’t very good.” He looked genuinely nervous now, and not just because he was going to lose again. Unable to help himself, Sadiq laughed as he finished the round.
“No fair, Sadiq, you were distracting me,” Francis grumbled as the Turk leaned forward and claimed his victory kiss.
“We’ll play again, and I won’t distract you this time.”
“You better not!”
Francis won only one round out of the next three, and not by a large margin, but he was so preoccupied with the game, he did not notice his hunger until a servant arrived with their food.
The meal consisted of lamb skewers, dolma, fruits and bread, and although Sadiq was, for all intents and purposes, Muslim, he offered Francis wine to drink, which was eagerly accepted. He watched the boy eat and drink, obviously using his best manners, and yet that was not enough to keep Sadiq from grabbing the boy’s hand and sucking the juice of the fruits off of his fingers one by one.
“Your food is really good. Almost better than mine,” Francis mumbled distractedly.
“What? You cook?” Sadiq asked, placing one last kiss on the inside of a sticky wrist. “Well, you should cook your French food for me sometime.”
“Yes, I would like that!” Francis giggled, pulling his hand back, and waited for Sadiq to refill his cup with more wine. He drained that as well, and the Turk decided it would be best to not give him any more for the rest of the night. As amusing as it would be to speak with him while he was drunk, sooner or later, he would get sick, and Sadiq was less than patient when it came to taking care of a sick child.
“You’ve been asking me a lot of questions,” Francis said softly. “Can I ask you something?”
“Sure, go ahead.”
“Where is your family? Why don’t you have a wife?”
Ah, the boy noticed that… He should be careful. “I am a soldier in the army. I don’t have time for a family. Don’t feel the need.”
Francis stared at him drowsily. “Aren’t your parents worried? About you not having a family?”
“I don’t have parents.” Most nations didn’t…
“So you’re an orphan like me?”
“…That’s right.” Sadiq washed his hands in a bowl of rosewater and then dipped Francis’ hands into the bowl as well, drying them off with the hem of his robe. “Feelin’ sleepy already?”
“N-no, I’m not sleepy.”
“Yes you are, you just yawned.” He tried to grab Francis around the waist and dump him into the bed, but Francis just held onto the edge of the table and started yowling in protest.
“Allah have mercy on me, you are the worst slave ever,” Sadiq grumbled, trying to pry Francis’ fingers off of the table before they knocked something over.
[to be continued...]
chapter three || chapter five
Author: etre_sans_age
Rating: PG
Characters: Turkey/France, various nameless humans
Warnings: none
Summary: sort of an exposition chapter until I can think of something clever to advance the plot. More on the culture of the Ottoman Empire during the medieval period, silliness abound. I mean, I can't be having smut every chapter now can I?
[ part one]
[ part two]
[ part three]
Even though he seemed to be sleeping, Sadiq was holding him too tightly and he could not free himself. Francis adjusted his position, trying to get comfortable and not end up with an aching arm. Bored, he was about to follow Sadiq’s example and take a nap when he heard a trill of birdsong on the highest bough of the pomegranate tree. He watched the bird preen its iridescent blue and purple feathers, and then whispered, “Sadiq! Look at that bird. Isn’t it pretty?”
“Is what pretty?” Sadiq grumbled sleepily. He sighed and squinted at where Francis was pointing. “D’you want it? I’ll have a slave catch it and put it in a cage for you.”
“N-no… It just reminded me of home.” With a pang of nostalgia, he remembered his own birds, and wondered how cute little Pierre number whatever was doing without him.
Sadiq patted his arm, smiling. “Well, if you want to see the bird again, you can always come back to the garden. Its wings are clipped, it can’t fly too far.”
“Oh…” Francis chewed on a lock of hair pensively, while Sadiq stretched beside him.
“Come on, time to go back.”
It would be another two hours before they served the evening meal, and Francis thought he was going to die of boredom at this rate. He almost preferred being on the run from the slavers, at least he did not have someone hovering over him at all hours of the day. Francis flopped onto the divan with a dramatic sigh, while Sadiq sat down next to him, smoking his pipe.
“You said you wanted to play, huh? I have a game here that might interest you.”
“You do?!” Francis sat up, immediately interested.
“It’s called mangala, a counting game,” Sadiq explained, as he reached under the couch and pulled out a rectangular board and a bag. He set the board on the cushion between them, and then used the bag to fill the interior set of twelve shallow wells with four smooth stones each, leaving the larger wells at the end empty.
The object of the game was to drop the stones from a particular well one by one into the wells to the right, trying to get as many stones into one’s designated end well, the mangala, and foiling the opponent’s attempt to do the same with their mangala. That seemed simple enough, but when combined with the minute subtleties in the rules, it took strategy to actually win, as Francis soon found out.
“How did you do that?” he seethed indignantly, looking at his paltry ten stones compared to Sadiq’s thirty-eight.
“It’s because you don’t plan ahead, kid,” Sadiq answered, grinning smugly from around his pipe. “Watch what I do and learn.”
The time passed by quickly for Francis, who had never played such a game and was determined to master it. Sadiq took this chance to ask Francis certain questions he had been contemplating, watching the boy carefully to see if he told the truth or lied. For here was a French orphan who apparently lived a life of relative luxury and could speak Greek fluently, and such a lifestyle and education could only mean Francis had been pampered as a child. The main thing that concerned Sadiq now was the severe lack of concerned guardians searching for him; perhaps they thought he was dead.
“Francis… what were your parents like?”
“Um…” Francis chewed his lower lip thoughtfully as he dropped the stones into the wells with a light clink. How could he describe someone like Gaul to a human, or even Rome or Germania? “I don’t remember them very well.”
“That’s fair.” But not the truth. “So who decided to teach you Greek then?”
At least Francis was prepared for this question. “The players I traveled with, they go to Italy and Greece during the winters and I learned the language there.”
“Hmm…” He had almost forgotten that the kid was an actor, which meant he was a liar, as far as Sadiq was concerned. Hopefully the troupe was able to find a replacement and gave up trying to find their missing member because Sadiq sure as hell did not plan on giving Francis back, ever.
“Your turn!”
Sadiq played, dropping the last stone in his handful into his mangala and taking an extra turn, much to Francis’ consternation. “And what did you do as a player?”
“Umm, I was just an apprentice. I helped with the costumes and props… and sometimes I acted if they needed me. Minor roles. I wasn’t very good.” He looked genuinely nervous now, and not just because he was going to lose again. Unable to help himself, Sadiq laughed as he finished the round.
“No fair, Sadiq, you were distracting me,” Francis grumbled as the Turk leaned forward and claimed his victory kiss.
“We’ll play again, and I won’t distract you this time.”
“You better not!”
Francis won only one round out of the next three, and not by a large margin, but he was so preoccupied with the game, he did not notice his hunger until a servant arrived with their food.
The meal consisted of lamb skewers, dolma, fruits and bread, and although Sadiq was, for all intents and purposes, Muslim, he offered Francis wine to drink, which was eagerly accepted. He watched the boy eat and drink, obviously using his best manners, and yet that was not enough to keep Sadiq from grabbing the boy’s hand and sucking the juice of the fruits off of his fingers one by one.
“Your food is really good. Almost better than mine,” Francis mumbled distractedly.
“What? You cook?” Sadiq asked, placing one last kiss on the inside of a sticky wrist. “Well, you should cook your French food for me sometime.”
“Yes, I would like that!” Francis giggled, pulling his hand back, and waited for Sadiq to refill his cup with more wine. He drained that as well, and the Turk decided it would be best to not give him any more for the rest of the night. As amusing as it would be to speak with him while he was drunk, sooner or later, he would get sick, and Sadiq was less than patient when it came to taking care of a sick child.
“You’ve been asking me a lot of questions,” Francis said softly. “Can I ask you something?”
“Sure, go ahead.”
“Where is your family? Why don’t you have a wife?”
Ah, the boy noticed that… He should be careful. “I am a soldier in the army. I don’t have time for a family. Don’t feel the need.”
Francis stared at him drowsily. “Aren’t your parents worried? About you not having a family?”
“I don’t have parents.” Most nations didn’t…
“So you’re an orphan like me?”
“…That’s right.” Sadiq washed his hands in a bowl of rosewater and then dipped Francis’ hands into the bowl as well, drying them off with the hem of his robe. “Feelin’ sleepy already?”
“N-no, I’m not sleepy.”
“Yes you are, you just yawned.” He tried to grab Francis around the waist and dump him into the bed, but Francis just held onto the edge of the table and started yowling in protest.
“Allah have mercy on me, you are the worst slave ever,” Sadiq grumbled, trying to pry Francis’ fingers off of the table before they knocked something over.
[to be continued...]
chapter three || chapter five