The girl screamed like a lamb in a slaughterhouse as his father fucked her, only lambs tended to stop screaming much sooner. The merchant's daughter couldn't have been much more than sixteen, obviously hadn't been touched by a man and therefore hadn't lived long enough to understand that the point of rape was really because men loved to hear them scream.

Which was why the screaming didn't die down after a few minutes (and would likely to be repeated later tonight). It went on and on, one shriek after another, loud enough for anyone within fifty paces to hear. Passers-by kept their mouths shut, of course. It might have been strictly against the law to assault a Shakshi woman, but the emphasis was on Shakshi, not woman, and this one was from Harathi.

One of the many privileges of being kha'a was the ability to choose the amount and nature of tax to be paid by caravans anyway he liked. Every khagan knew the size of profits merchants made from trading with Makena—the richest, last free nation outside of the White Desert yet to be claimed by the Salasar where the finest silk and gemstones came from. And since the only way by land to get to Makena was through the White Desert, the khagans taxed whoever passed through their territories at whatever price they saw fit for the protection of the caravan and the use of their oasis. It skyrocketed the price as well as profit of all goods from Makena, and when that happened, enough merchants could be expected to jump through hoops of fire to acquire these goods.

So when the kha'a said the tax was to be paid by your wife or daughter in exchange for the entire caravan to make it out of the desert, the payment would be quickly delivered to his tent, screaming or not. These merchants always came prepared to lose something other than coins in any case. Most fathers understood the price to be paid for such high profits. The understanding, however, did not always extend to daughters, or wives.

Baaku imagined the practice might not have been received well at first by their women, but who was going to object a kha'a when it wasn't one of their own? You turned a blind eye to these things, and if you did that often enough, you adapted to it, learned to live with it, and eventually—and conveniently—managed to forget it was wrong in the first place. The same way Baaku had learned to live with his father's fist every time the old man was in need of something to beat up since he was six.

The same way his mother had learned to sit so still and unaffected listening to her husband rape a girl as young as their daughter.

His two sisters, Akila (about to turn seventeen) and Naani (twelve), so far hadn't learned to live with it. The longer the girl screamed (which sounded like every fucking time his father slammed into her), they looked closer and closer to either vomiting or weeping, or both.

They couldn't do that, of course, not with the entire council in the tent and in the presence of a visitor.

Sitting opposite to Baaku, Zardi izr Aziz, Khumar of Khalji, had been assessing both of his sisters since he'd arrived, seemingly oblivious to the screaming that had been going on for the entire duration of his presence in the tent. He was there to discuss his marriage with Akila, or Naani should the first were to be given to another. He was being made to wait, as per tradition, being both only a khumar and from a lesser khagan. Things like that mattered when it came to negotiations.

Both of Baaku's sisters and his mother were also there as per tradition. The law required everyone's consent when it came to marriage, including the girl being asked to marry. Such privilege was something Shakshi women had enjoyed for centuries, but if you were born daughter to the kha'a or khumar, you were raised to show nothing but consent in marrying any man your father chose for the good of the khagan. It meant more food, more water, an ally and therefore more protection during raids and internal conflicts. They didn't like it, of course, but such responsibility came with privilege, and only barbarians threw tantrums over responsibilities they were born with. Denying or running away from a marriage was unheard of for daughters of kha'as and khumars. You could shame both your father and the man you were supposed to marry, then spend the rest of your life cleaning the blood of thousands from your hands after the war you initiated. It simply didn't happen in the White Desert. Their women were never raised that naive, spoiled, or self-centered.

It didn't, however, mean that Baaku enjoyed the screaming or the thought of this khumar making one of his sisters scream, which was likely, given the way he reacted—or didn't react—to the wretched sound from his father's tent.

When I am kha'a, Baaku said to himself, and then ended such a dangerous thought before one thing led to another. They couldn't afford more conflicts within the khagan right now, not when the salar was knocking at their door with an army big enough to paint the White Desert red.

And so he sat, fists clenching on the fabric of his zikh through the shrieks from the other tent, and then later through the negotiations when his father finally arrived. Baaku sat and listened (because that was all he was allowed to do) as they measured the value of his two siblings against coins, the number of warriors, horses, camels, and other livestock the khagan could gain, in exchange, of course, for a powerful alliance and the delightful screaming of one of his sisters should the khumar required it.

A small price to pay for the stability of the khagan, one might say. An immense value to be attached to the life of one ordinary girl if one were to look at it from a certain angle.

A torture bad enough, in any case, to send Baaku rushing out of the tent when it was done, shaking uncontrollably over a need for a drink, a drug, or an opportunity to kill something or someone as he headed toward his own.

To find Nazir in it.

The world seemed to come to a screeching stop around Baaku, or maybe it was just his heart. It happened. A surprise visit from Nazir could do that to him, among other things.

It was night time and the tent was dimly lit, showing only the silhouette of a man sitting by his table with a book in his hand. Judging from the chunk that had been read, he must have been there for some time. Nazir looked up from the pages when Baaku entered, his yellow eyes glowing in the shadows that concealed the rest of his face.

"I thought you didn't need me," Baaku heard himself say, surprised at the spite in his own voice. He thought he had put it all behind him a week ago, had decided to walk out of this since the last time they'd met. He didn't realize how raw his wound still was until Nazir showed up. It pissed him off enough to do some real damage.

Nazir, being Nazir, didn't stir at that. He closed the book and placed it down softly on the table, unaffected by those words Baaku had thrown at him. "I can't sleep," Nazir said.

That was all the explanation Nazir gave for being there, all the explanation he had ever given for coming to his tent, in fact. Even now, after what had been said the last time they'd met, there was to be no apology, not even a willingness to discuss it. He was supposed to forget and carry on as usual.

"Have you ever, Nazir?" Baaku remembered asking that night. "Needed me in your life? Even once?"

Nazir hadn't answered. His mouth had been clamped shut. Keeping something in, or keeping him out. Same difference. You couldn't answer that question, could you? Couldn't even bother to lie to keep me in your life. And now you're here.

He moved toward the desk halfway between them, took off the things he was carrying and dumped them on the table. Took his time doing that. He needed time. "Is that suppose to be my problem?"

"It isn't," Nazir replied without a pause, without a hint of emotion in that tone as he rose from the table. It didn't matter what Baaku said. Nothing ever got under that skin. "Do you want me to leave?"

The irony of it was that he didn't, and Nazir, knowing it with the accuracy of his goddamn vision, would always give him that ultimatum. This is all I'm offering, take it or leave it.

And he had always taken it, had never managed to walk away. Even now, but for a different reason. At least he believed it was.

"You can't leave right now," he said, sighing. "There are guards around. We have a visitor." Security would be tightened until the khumar went to sleep. Nazir would have to wait it out. In here. His tent, Baaku realized, suddenly seemed crowded and small.

"I see," Nazir said. He was standing two steps away. Close enough for his breaths to be heard. For their breaths to be heard. "I'll wait, then."

He kept his back to Nazir, unnecessarily arranging things on the desk. An excuse, he knew, to not turn around. There were risks attached to that. "There's wine on the table."

"I know there is," Nazir said. Didn't move from the spot. Baaku wished he would. He wished he hadn't heard the question in that voice or the vulnerability in it either. He also wished those things hadn't settled in his heart and made such a big mess.

He wished for a lot of things when it came to Nazir, none of them had ever been granted.

After a moment, Nazir said, "Will you drink with me?"

The wind blew against the wall of the goat hair tent, shaking everything in it. The question hung in the air between them, suspended there for what seemed like an eternity. Baaku drew a breath, realized he hadn't done that for some time.

"I don't think so, no." He knew what would happen if he shared that drink, knew it like the ache in his own heart where that would lead to. It would bring them back to the beginning, back in the same circle, with Nazir using him to run from his visions, and him letting himself be used, eagerly, unconditionally, endlessly.

There was a pause from Nazir, followed by a drawn breath. A long one. "This is it, then?" Nazir asked, the same way someone might have asked if you wanted food or wine. "We are done?"

Those words, spoken in the way they had been spoken—as if it had been Baaku's decision, his call, his sin to carry—set something alight in his chest. The burning, uncorked rage came up out of him like a flood, made him spin around to face the embodiment of his most persistent suffering in the past three years. "What do you want from m—"

Words after words he'd meant to say crammed up at the back of his throat, held back by the sight of Nazir's face he could see clearly for the first time. There was a paleness to it that seemed to have aged him ten years, made more severe by the dark shadows under his eyes. His lips were pressed tight together, the muscles of his face painfully rigid and tensed, like a man trying not to scream from a bad wound.

Nazir's robe made a soft sound as he stepped forward, pausing just a hand away from him. He pressed his forehead on Baaku's shoulder. His hands rose to grab a fistful of Baaku's sleeve, gripping it until his knuckles turned white.

It took Nazir a while to say it, and when it happened, the explanation came in a series of clumsy, almost incomprehensible strings of words, broken and interrupted by the excessive need for air. "They...took...Djari." Nazir stuttered, struggling at every syllable as if they had been bits and pieces of broken glass he was trying to spit out. "I saw...them. I see her...Those men...I can hear it. I...heard... I hear her scream." Nazir's hands clung to his Zikh, gripping it tight, hanging on as if it had been the only thing left in life to hang on to. "...It doesn't...stop."

Baaku knew then, through the warmth and weight on his shoulder, his own rage draining away from him every passing second, that there were things in life you didn't turn away from, things you treasured over your own heart, your own pain to not let it break. To Baaku, Nazir was one of those things. Maybe the only thing.

And so the circle would begin again, just like all those times before, and all the times that would follow. He knew it even as he reached out to wrap his arms around Nazir, as he held the trembling figure in his embrace, as he planted a soft kiss on his head and kissed again, that there was no way out of this for him, nowhere he could run without ending up right where they'd started.

Use me, then. Use me until you've spent your last breath. Let me be your source of strength until we tear each other to pieces.

"I've got you," he told Nazir, "I'll make it stop."

***

There was a sense of calm in the air when Nazir was there, curled up in his embrace, his head resting on Baaku's arm as he slept. He pushed back the strands of unruly hair away from Nazir's face, planted a soft kiss on his forehead, and realized he could be doing this every day and still it wouldn't be enough.

"One day," he murmured softly, his fingers playing with a lock of Nazir's hair, "you'll be the death of me."

"Don't say that," Nazir said with his eyes closed. He must have been awake for some time and had simply lingered there, pretending to be asleep. He loved it when Nazir did that.

"I'd call it a good death," said Baaku, still playing with the lock of hair that kept falling back on Nazir's face. They were still clothed, both of them. On nights like these Nazir needed a rest, a good sleep. He'd slept like a baby last night. "Wouldn't mind that in the least."

"Maybe I would," Nazir said with a frown. His eyes were opened now. They were looking at him, reprimanding him. "Ever thought of that?"

Baaku pushed himself up on his elbow, studied that face as something occurred to him all of a sudden. "Is that what you've been afraid of?"

Nazir froze at that, clamped his mouth shut, and then abruptly rose from the bed. "I have to go. My father will leave soon. I should be at camp."

The convoy to bring Djari back from the Rishi was leaving that morning, Baaku knew—everyone knew. A gathering of five hundred White Warriors wasn't something one could hide in the White Desert, and they hadn't been hiding it. By then it was one of the most talked-about event and most likely known by Citara.

Nazir should be at camp—it was a sensible thing to do—but some questions were going to have to be answered that morning.

He caught Nazir by the wrist, pulling him back. "You saw something." It began as a wild guess, perhaps only half a suspicion, but from the way Nazir stiffened suddenly, Baaku knew it was more than that. "You had a vision, hadn't you?" There was a reason why Nazir had tried and tried to put a wall between them, why he'd always held back despite the evidence that had proven the opposite. It dawned on him and brought everything up to the surface all at once. "What happens to us?"

It was all there on Nazir's face, in his eyes—the pain, the agony, the loss that confirmed Baaku's suspicion. "Nazir. What did you see?"

A sound from the outside drew both their attention toward the door. Footsteps of men numbering in the tens were heading toward his tent and came to a stop just in front of it. Nazir snatched the sword he'd placed by the bed, one hand already on the hilt, ready to clear the blade when the door opened.

Baaku jumped off the bed when the first man came in and realized, when he finally saw who it was, that there was no point to anything he might have or could have done to stop what was about to happen, none at all.

"I've always wondered if my pathetic, good for nothing son would ever produce anything useful," said the kha'a of Kamara. "Seems you're not such a total loss, after all. Put the sword down, Nazir khumar," he turned to Nazir, "there are eight hundred White Warriors waiting outside at my command. You can die here—"

Baaku stepped forward before he finished the sentence, placed himself directly between his father and Nazir. He wasn't carrying a sword, but the message should have been clear.

One of us is going to die here before that happens.

His father paused for a moment, stared him down in silence, and brushed it aside as quickly as swatting away a fly. "—or you can come with us willingly. It's not a problem for me, either way."

"Go where?" He heard Nazir say from behind.

"To your father, of course," said the kha'a. "To tell you the truth, I have been skeptical about dealing with a pureblood oracle after killing Za'in and his five hundred White Warriors in an ambush out there today.  It appears my failure of a son has just solved that problem." He made a gesture, and the two warriors behind him stepped forward, weapons in hand. "And since you seem to be getting along so well with my son, perhaps you will consider joining us instead so I won't have to kill you and waste a perfectly good oracle. We'll talk about that when I'm done with Za'in. It's about time your father and I settle our unfinished business. Take him," he commanded the two Zikh-clad warriors, "and make sure our own khumar doesn't leave the tent until I return."

***

A/N: I know MxM is not for everyone, but I'm a big, big fan of Baaku x Nazir and I'd love to write their backstory sometimes. I could write a whole book, really, about these two when they met. I'd love to know how you feel about them :)

And no, I'm not quite done with the twists. Not by far. More shits will happen. Stay tuned.