13th Warrior Fanfiction? Oh, it Exists.
But I'm not here to give you the links...yet. I'm thinking about making a little archive somewhere if I find more than 12 stories. But I'm so embarrassed by my love for this little gory flick that I might chicken out. Anyway, here is the beginning of a 13th warrior fic I write during Calculus, er, I mean, in my free time.
Title: TBD - Not "Arabian Nights"
Rating: Innocent
Fandom: 13th Warrior
Pairing: Eventually Herger/Ahmed
Summary: Ahmed journeys back to Baghdad but can find no peace with the person he has become.
For several weeks after leaving Jutland, Ahmed wrote in his journal for the Caliph every night, beginning each page with rich praises to Allah, the merciful and compassionate. Ahmed spoke mostly of forgotten details; often his hand shook for lack of anything meaningful to put to the page. Yet he wrote religiously, fervently, each night. One evening, Ahmed wrote wrapped in rough animal furs, a storm throwing itself on the ship. He wrote only: “Praise Allah, the Northmen’s strong drink was made from honey!”
He wrote of unknown grains, new ways of bending metal, unseen and barbaric clothing, metal-tipped boots, and lack of hygiene. But he did not mention the Northmen’s call to Odin, or their prayer to the afterlife. He longed for a private journal to speak of these things, so full of emotion - perhaps the Caliph could stomach it and perhaps not. This was hardly the point - Ahmed could not stand to part with them. But Ahmed knew that, in some way, keeping a private journal would also be a betrayal to his assignment from the Caliph. Perhaps, Ahmed thought in his heart, also a betrayal of God and his pride.
As the crow flies, the journey from Jutland to Baghdad is not in the least a perilous one. A month’s travel at most! But politics, bandits, and the regularity of sea travel make this journey an impossible one to achieve. Trade opportunity led the little ship from its path, as did the occasional rough seas. They were many months at sea, to Ahmed’s dismay, before reaching Constantinople. Though they had stayed close to land the whole way, the short camel ride from the ship to the walls of the enormous city gladdened Ahmed’s sea-weary heart.
In Constantinople, Ahmed ceased to write in his journal, as a well that has run dry. It happened that first night in a large inn that his pen could recall no further detail of the Northmen, and Ahmed slept in relative peace for the first time since returning to the Wyking camp in Jutland. And for the first time since leaving Baghdad herself, he dreamed. When he awoke, Ahmed could not remember his dreams. He remembered only that he had ached, and that the ache lingered in his chest, squeezing his organs, clouding his mind. He remembered with pains his promise to Buliwyf, and yet could not bring himself to tell that tale or, perhaps, to become that person who had stared nakedly into Buliwy’s eyes and called him a wealthy man…indeed. Ahmed stood in front of his room’s quaint little mirror (another thing he had not done since leaving Baghdad), and was stunned to see the man - bearded from a long journey, clothes torn from battle, the man who had faced the Wendol, made perilous suggestions without fear- the man who still had soft brown eyes.
He went out immediately to replace his torn clothing. Walking through the market, he tried to create another name for the dark-haired warrior who had faced the Wendol. “Eben” he thought, remembering (with his warriorless, nostalgic mind) the deep sarcasm and spitefulness of Herger’s purposeful misunderstanding.
Looking again into the mirror, his clothes fit perfectly.
*_*_*_*_*_*_*_*_*_*_*_*_*_*_*
Feeling weary and waterlogged, Ahmed decided to spend some time in Constantinople. With little money to remain in the comfortable city inn, he contacted a friend who agreed to put him up for a while in his own house. Ahmed was exceedingly grateful, and sent him some of the more precious items he’d brought back from Jutland. Though he knew his welcome would not last long, he enjoyed his time in the city, free of responsibility. He expected to leave within the month, perhaps on a trading ship. He cruised the bazaars, and impressed any Norse-speaking traders with his knowledge of their language. Though he abstained from making any purchases, he loved the feeling of being around other people, basking in the civilized hustle and bustle of the market that he felt so detached form. He felt himself floating above it somehow, otherworldly, and was always humbled when someone treated him simply as part of the crowd, asking if he was wanted to buy jewelry, if he was a Christian or a Muslim. Children followed him, asking if he wanted a tour of the city, as though he were any tourist. Veiled Muslim women made lingering eye contact. He regretted leaving the markets to go to his room, where he was plagued by thoughts of Buliwyf and the tale he had been charged with writing.
Title: TBD - Not "Arabian Nights"
Rating: Innocent
Fandom: 13th Warrior
Pairing: Eventually Herger/Ahmed
Summary: Ahmed journeys back to Baghdad but can find no peace with the person he has become.
For several weeks after leaving Jutland, Ahmed wrote in his journal for the Caliph every night, beginning each page with rich praises to Allah, the merciful and compassionate. Ahmed spoke mostly of forgotten details; often his hand shook for lack of anything meaningful to put to the page. Yet he wrote religiously, fervently, each night. One evening, Ahmed wrote wrapped in rough animal furs, a storm throwing itself on the ship. He wrote only: “Praise Allah, the Northmen’s strong drink was made from honey!”
He wrote of unknown grains, new ways of bending metal, unseen and barbaric clothing, metal-tipped boots, and lack of hygiene. But he did not mention the Northmen’s call to Odin, or their prayer to the afterlife. He longed for a private journal to speak of these things, so full of emotion - perhaps the Caliph could stomach it and perhaps not. This was hardly the point - Ahmed could not stand to part with them. But Ahmed knew that, in some way, keeping a private journal would also be a betrayal to his assignment from the Caliph. Perhaps, Ahmed thought in his heart, also a betrayal of God and his pride.
As the crow flies, the journey from Jutland to Baghdad is not in the least a perilous one. A month’s travel at most! But politics, bandits, and the regularity of sea travel make this journey an impossible one to achieve. Trade opportunity led the little ship from its path, as did the occasional rough seas. They were many months at sea, to Ahmed’s dismay, before reaching Constantinople. Though they had stayed close to land the whole way, the short camel ride from the ship to the walls of the enormous city gladdened Ahmed’s sea-weary heart.
In Constantinople, Ahmed ceased to write in his journal, as a well that has run dry. It happened that first night in a large inn that his pen could recall no further detail of the Northmen, and Ahmed slept in relative peace for the first time since returning to the Wyking camp in Jutland. And for the first time since leaving Baghdad herself, he dreamed. When he awoke, Ahmed could not remember his dreams. He remembered only that he had ached, and that the ache lingered in his chest, squeezing his organs, clouding his mind. He remembered with pains his promise to Buliwyf, and yet could not bring himself to tell that tale or, perhaps, to become that person who had stared nakedly into Buliwy’s eyes and called him a wealthy man…indeed. Ahmed stood in front of his room’s quaint little mirror (another thing he had not done since leaving Baghdad), and was stunned to see the man - bearded from a long journey, clothes torn from battle, the man who had faced the Wendol, made perilous suggestions without fear- the man who still had soft brown eyes.
He went out immediately to replace his torn clothing. Walking through the market, he tried to create another name for the dark-haired warrior who had faced the Wendol. “Eben” he thought, remembering (with his warriorless, nostalgic mind) the deep sarcasm and spitefulness of Herger’s purposeful misunderstanding.
Looking again into the mirror, his clothes fit perfectly.
*_*_*_*_*_*_*_*_*_*_*_*_*_*_*
Feeling weary and waterlogged, Ahmed decided to spend some time in Constantinople. With little money to remain in the comfortable city inn, he contacted a friend who agreed to put him up for a while in his own house. Ahmed was exceedingly grateful, and sent him some of the more precious items he’d brought back from Jutland. Though he knew his welcome would not last long, he enjoyed his time in the city, free of responsibility. He expected to leave within the month, perhaps on a trading ship. He cruised the bazaars, and impressed any Norse-speaking traders with his knowledge of their language. Though he abstained from making any purchases, he loved the feeling of being around other people, basking in the civilized hustle and bustle of the market that he felt so detached form. He felt himself floating above it somehow, otherworldly, and was always humbled when someone treated him simply as part of the crowd, asking if he was wanted to buy jewelry, if he was a Christian or a Muslim. Children followed him, asking if he wanted a tour of the city, as though he were any tourist. Veiled Muslim women made lingering eye contact. He regretted leaving the markets to go to his room, where he was plagued by thoughts of Buliwyf and the tale he had been charged with writing.