Lovemaking was an art he had long perfected. When you were trained that young, had half a brain and enough opportunities for practice, you learned quickly how to make people suffocate by the simplest touch, and then, at your permission, thrash, tremble, and scream. The technique differed with every man or woman. People required different things to be brought that close to madness, to surrender control at your fingertips or a word uttered a certain way. Being able to read clients was the difference between a cheap escort and an expensive one.

Hasheem had, of course, always been quick to read people and, in doing so, to take charge. In his line of profession, one was either the victim or the deliverer. It wasn't a difficult choice. There was power in being able to make people beg and scream.

But there were always clients like Sarasef. There were always men bigger than him in some ways, usually those who were born to lead and conquer. Sarasef had never, not once, surrendered control. He took what was offered, at his own pace, and would stop—yes, stop—the moment he was close to losing it. Unlike most men, the Grand Chief of the Rishi had never allowed himself to come by someone else's doing. He also liked to put his control to the test, to see how much pain and restraint he could stand before allowing himself to climax. The battle could go on all night, sometimes several, before he would allow himself that release. It wasn't the only test Sarasef put himself through. He had walked to see how long he could walk, climbed to see how high he could climb, starved himself to see when he would collapse, and for no other reason but to constantly test and extend his limits.

An evidence of such habit was there for all eyes to see, drawn permanently on almost every inch of his body's canvas. Especially now that he was lying in bed, stripped down to the skin, Hasheem could see, once again, the beauty of those remnants of self-inflicted pain. All five hundred of them.

Legend has it, that Sarasef had started scarring himself for every man he had killed since he was ten. It's a practice his warlord predecessors used to do he'd decided to pick up, was the version told at campfires. The real version, explained to Hasheem by the man himself long ago, had been different.

"Warlords? My predecessors were a bunch of farmers,' he'd said, laughing and shaking his head. 'They wouldn't know how to carve up a fucking deer if you gave it to them whole.'

'Why then?' Hasheem had asked.

Sarasef had replied, his expression uncharacteristically mild as he did, 'My father brought back some captives from a tribe who had these scars when I was twelve. I got curious. Asked them how and why they did it. Thought it was a fun thing to try at the time.' Fun had been what it was, he'd admitted. 'I was just a boy, you know? Didn't know where to point if somebody asked where my brain was supposed to be.'

Those captives had been women, not men, Sarasef had told him. Women who carved themselves because where they came from it was considered a thing of beauty, and to the men, the more scars a woman had, the higher her threshold of pain, and the higher her success rate at delivering and raising a child.

'I started with twenty. It hurt like a bitch and gave me a fever for a week. I didn't know how to clean them back then. Didn't learn it properly until the third time."

The third time was when he'd turned fourteen, Sarasef had explained. He'd carved himself a hundred scars by that time. Then fifty more in one sitting the next year, another hundred in the following year, and when he'd turned seventeen he'd completed the rest of his five hundred over one night. 'I was trying to beat this legendary woman they told me about in the tribe who had four hundred of them and ten children. I could go on for more, but then I might have to carve up my balls,' Sarasef had chuckled saying.

He probably would have to, Hasheem remembered thinking. The five hundred he had was now spread out on the front and back of his torso, both his arms and halfway down his thighs. He hadn't carved his face because it might interfere with the chief number tattoo on his cheek (that one was tradition), and Sarasef had planned to become chief since he was a lot younger than ten. It happened. Some men could plan for something their whole life and achieve it.

'You know what the craziest thing is?' He'd added, a little drunk from the wine. Sarasef was a man of few words, but he could be made to talk more over wine. 'One of the women of the tribe told me delivering a baby was still more painful. Makes you think twice before fucking with mothers, doesn't it?'

Hasheem imagined it would, and thought that it might have been why Sarasef had never gotten married. He'd slept with women sometimes but had never kept one around for long. To Sarasef, making women give birth was an act of cruelty and the making of monsters, and he wasn't cruel or stupid enough to do that.

A perspective Hasheem could see himself sharing and admiring the man who'd shaped it. He often found those scars beautiful and the man terrifying. One could do that—be in awe of someone who terrifies you. Such conflicting feelings, along with his habit to torture himself in bed over an extended period, however, made spending a night with the chief a nightmare for Hasheem or any escort he chose to challenge himself with.

At least a better nightmare than the ones you've been having, Hasheem thought with a sigh. They came back like clockwork now, those dreams, especially the one with Djari he couldn't seem to shake off. He was hoping it would do the trick—being here with Sarasef—and it could be useful, given that Djari did need Sarasef on her side for the war. That, and sometimes, the only way to live with nightmares was to replace them with a less traumatizing, newer ones.

They still hadn't talked—him and Djari—not even after the meeting. It had been her choice to avoid him, not Sarasef's decision, he knew that now. He also knew why, having been through the same ordeal long ago. You didn't want to talk about things you needed to forget. Holding a conversation meant having to explain, to relive the event. And then there was also sympathy one had to deal with. You could take more from those who had already lost with sympathy, drive the nail deeper, make sure the wound never heals.

It would take time, even with all the trust they had, even with him knowing what she needed, for things to go back to normal again, if ever. Until then, he had to control the damage, hold himself together.

Easier said than done when you haven't fucking slept for a week.

Hasheem sighed at that thought. He would have to find a way to do that soon, or there would be no way he could kill Saracen as he'd proposed. Those broken ribs hadn't fully healed and he could barely focus with this growing headache.

He was looking at the patterns of Sarasef's scars when he felt a breeze coming in from the window. The chief liked to sleep with his window open. He liked the sounds the night made, he'd once said, and the cold kept him half-awake. He slept like that—half-awake—with the war hammer within reach, always. 'You don't get to die old leading dangerous men if you're not careful,' had been his reason. Hasheem remembered then, that the salar was also known to sleep with his blades. There were, he thought with a shudder, so many monsters in this world.

The breeze stopped and he could hear more clearly the music of the night. The wolves were howling somewhere far away, breaking the silence with a perfectly timed, continuous chorus. From the distance, the wind rushed through the canyons and their crevices, singing a tune to compliment the cry of wolves. And then, rising above it like subtle percussions, a rustling of feathers from an owl hunting nearby, a soft crunch of small creatures running across the sand, and—

A whistling of metal as it cut through air—

Hasheem wheeled, caught the sight of the fletching on the arrow as it flew, felt it bite into his right arm before he could clear the path. He grunted, had time to see the figure at the window nocked another arrow to the bow as he pushed himself up, and, this time, out of reflex, lurched forward to shield Sarasef with his body. The second arrow took him on the back of his left shoulder, propelling him forward as he lost his balance. Sarasef's eyes flew open in an instant, took in the surrounding with a quick sweep and within seconds was up on his feet, hand already gripped tight around his war hammer. In a blink of an eye, it zinged through the air over Hasheem's head toward the figure at the window, knocked the man out of the ledge and together—man and hammer—tumbled down the side of the mountain.

Hasheem pushed himself up as he heard more men coming into the chamber through the window. Three, he counted, and looked around for a weapon. Before he could find one, an assassin climbed onto the bed, blade high and ready.

No time for that now. Hasheem spun into position, snatched the bedsheet from behind and threw it at the intruder, kicking the man's leg out from under him as he did and pinned the man on the bed with a hand around his throat. The assassin thrashed under his weight, grabbed Hasheem's wrist and tried to twist himself free. Tightening his hold, Hasheem grunted as he gripped the arrow on this right arm with the free hand, yanking it out in one go and plunging it back into the man's right eye, killing him on the spot.

Behind him, the other two assassins flanked Sarasef left and right, both armed with a dagger. They went for him at the same time, one aiming for the throat, the other at his leg. Dropping low to dodge the blade coming from above, Sarasef spun and kicked the one coming from below, slammed the dagger out from the man's grip, snatched the handle in midair, turned, and slipped the blade into the assassin above him through the chin, pushing it up the man's head from tip to hilt. The man dropped dead with the knife still in his throat as the other one on the ground scrambled to clear some distance. Sarasef, growling like a pissed off beast kicked out of his slumber walked toward the man, snatched him up by the collar and with brute strength threw him against the wall, made a huge crack in it as a result.

The assassin crumpled onto the ground along with the debris that fell from the damaged marble above him. Sarasef took four heavy steps to stand in front of the broken figure, looked around on the floor and realized the blade brought in by the other assassin was too far to reach. He grunted. Grabbed the chair nearby instead and proceeded to beat the man to death with it.

It took a lot of effort to kill a man with a chair, Hasheem knew from personal experience, and when it was done, Sarasef stood panting in front of the mutilated corpse, stark naked, muscles corded under glistening skin covered in blood-infused sweat that dripped off five hundred self-inflicted scars. He turned, as if suddenly remembering something, and swore when he saw the arrow embedded in Hasheem's shoulder.

"Zyren," Hasheem said before slipping out of consciousness. He knew the scent of Dee's favorite poison, knew exactly how it worked to kill a man and how fast it could.

***

A/N: A dedication is definitely appropriate for this chapter and it goes to an amazing reader and dear friend, @sergio_the_saint for helping me with the creation of Sarasef the Beast and his scarification. This is, of course, based on and inspired by African tribal practice that I've always admired and found to be one of the best representations of human spirit and strength, and who else has the capacity to admire it but our boy, Hasheem? It is also Sergio who has expressed an interest in seeing more of Hasheem as both an escort and assassin, and I hope that has been delivered to satisfaction.