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 MAHZARIN  Royal Bodyguard ♫
Hot blood pumping through her veins, sun scorching her hide, every beat of her strong wings bringing her closer to the sky - Mahzarin feels alive. She cranes her neck as far as she can until she feels the nerves sing with pain. The sunshine glints off her orb and she laughs, somersaults in the air until she can view the whole world below.
The world is a tranquil place, a village of round stone houses nestled among rolling hills of wheat. A place where she and her family live peaceful, happy lives, surrounded by friendly neighbours. Here, dragonkind live in harmony, a tranquil existence.
How boring.
Mahzarin craves excitement; every day needs to bring something new. If she's not treading upon the ancient ground of the Hewn City, she's spelunking along the coast, or braving the crisp-dry desert winds of the Expanse's northern highlands.
It's exhilarating and interesting, and most important of all, it's something new. Because at the end of the day, as Mahzarin returns home and sees the familiar stone dwellings, all she can feel is dread and disappointment. For every day that passes by, she feels it grow nastier. She needs to leave.
This cannot continue.
Thankfully, it doesn't.
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Cold. Mahzarin feels... Cold.
It sinks deep into her stomach, gripping her guts tight like an icy claw.
It rises to the top of her head, stripping her mind of every thought save for one:
What happened?
If she fastened her eyes upon the far horizon, she would see tendrils of smoke rise high up in the air, evidence of destruction several hours old.
If she listened to the wind, she would hear it carry the howls and cries of her dying clanmates.
If she looked high up in the sky, she would see scores upon scores of talonok and harpies soar through the sky, their course set for her village. The killing blow, brought upon a beast in its last death throes.
Mahzarin sees all of this, and yet, she does nothing.
No, less than nothing.
She flees.
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The destruction of her village is absolute, the few remaining lives shattered and scattered to the four winds. Her family is, above all hope, alive; sad and frightened, but alive. When her husband and children find her they are overjoyed, fat tears streaming down their cheeks. For the first few hours, life exists in a state of euphoria.
Then, the questions come hailing down over her head.
“Didn't you stand sentry when the attack happened?” She did.
“Where were you?” Away from the attack.
“Mama, why didn't you come save us?” ...Because she was afraid.
“Did you run away again?” ...
In the face of their questions, their accusations, their disappointment, she runs. Again.
She flees southwards towards the Shifting Expanse, where she takes to wandering the canyons. Colonies of harpies nest among these steep cliffs, building their nests, nursing their young... preparing for war. She is but one dragon, and cannot imagine victory in the face of a legion of enemies.
She takes to following small parties out in the deadlands. There they prey upon caravans of merchants and prospectors; they strike at night, ambushing them once the sun sinks beneath the horizon and the dragons have sought refuge in their tents to escape the approaching night chill. Sometimes, these are large attacks, ripping through both dragons and tents, and leaving the camp a bloody tragedy.
Sometimes, they’re quiet as a whisper on the wind, robbing the travellers of valuables and essentials left carelessly outside the tents. By the time the sun rises, they are long gone, and their victims are left poverty-ridden and vulnerable to thirst and starvation.
She sees all of this, and she hates them. Hates what they do to the helpless and innocent. Something must be done.
She joins up with caravans, offering her eyes and muscle to help them survive the many dangerous nights and days they face. They accept, and for once, she starts to lose the sense of restlessness she’s been carrying as long as she can remember. It feels good helping them, and she feels almost content. Still, life continues on, and she can never completely escape her past.
Travelling the rocky wastes of the Expanse, she and her travelling companions sometimes come across other caravans. News are shared, and one day she hears about her loved ones. Her family and the survivors of other Beastclan attacks have joined forces, rallying around the destruction of their most despised enemies. They have struck at the beasts' strongholds again and again, slowly but surely regaining a foothold in the region.
When Mahzarin hears this her first thought is of reunion. Then doubt creeps upon her, silent as a snake. She does not deserve them - she who fled when they needed her most. How can she look them in the eye again when she's got nothing to offer.
No strength, no resolution, no drive to do what's right. She has nothing.
Her work with the caravans has been good for her, but she doesn’t feel complete, deserving of her family’s presence. She needs to do more.
It is the thought of them - her husband, her children - that takes her to the sky. She flies northeastwards, across the Sea of a Thousand Currents, until the land turns dry and cracked like bone. The Wasteland is a nasty, harsh place, where the land is cleansed of weakness through starvation, disease and murder… and thievery. It's there that she spends the following years. She takes up with a band of vigilantes who hunt those who prey upon the helpless. Eventually, she gains a good reputation among her compatriots, and soon her employers have nothing but praise for her bravery and sheer bullheadedness in chasing down thieves and bandits.
It’s in their employ that she’s hired as watchdragon. There will be a procession of royalty and nobledragons and their retainers travelling through the countryside. They will wear beautiful clothing and jewelry. They will play music. There will be delicious food. It will be loud and obscenely wealthy and tempting. Any thieving fool will be unable to resist. So there she is, she and a score of dragons, watching the entourage and the world.
They are many, the thieves. They crawl out of cracks in the ground. They stay under the cover of clouds, streaking across the sky like tiny, angry lightning bolts. Her compatriots chase them away time and time again. They’re kept busy. Then they come from the mountains. So many in numbers, she could never count them. What came before was but a taste of the axe falling over their necks. The harpies are here, again.
They’re an army, so many that they blacken the very skies. Like some horrid hawk, claws on the ready, they prepare to dive down on its prey. As one, they strike at the heart of the procession, at king and kin, to deliver the death blow. Suddenly, she’s back to where she once was months and years ago. She imagines she can smell the acrid smoke, watch as fields of golden wheat turn black with soot, hear the terrified shrieks of her kin. She imagines all of this and more.
Then, she acts. She doesn’t run away.
The hawk is wounded. This time, it’s the one to flee. She chases it across the border, until her own injuries catch up to her and she’s forced to retreat. When she returns to the procession, she’s hailed as a hero. They applaud her for the royal family’s survival. They shower her with gifts and money and offers of a future she never could have imagined.
“Do you want work? Do you want a purpose? I can give you all that, and more”, the king tells her.
She thinks of her husband and children, fighting a brave battle in the east. Is this victory of hers a sign that she’s ready? That she can see them again with her head held high, no shame in her eyes?
Is it?
She doesn’t know, so she takes him up on his offer.
Suddenly, she’s combat mentor to the royal family. She’s given the honourable task of teaching the king’s son the art of war. He, and his playmate. They are different as night and day, but they both have potential.
Arariel is big. So big that when he enters a room, everyone takes note of him. So big that whenever he speaks, dragons stop to listen. If she didn’t know better, she may have thought him the royal, because there is this sense of grace to him, like every action of his is carefully measured and thought-out. And he’s so gentle. When they rest in-between training sessions, he hums and his little friends arrive. Pigeons in every pattern and colour, they come flying and nest under his wing and in his shaggy mane. He’s always watching Khamsin, taking great care that the prince is safe and comfortable in his presence.
Then there is the prince himself, Khamsin. He’s loud and bratty, and is always challenging her authority. However, he’s quick to learn, and, upon meeting a difficult task, is always able to come up with a solution most dragons would not think of. Both mind and claws are nimble and clever, and she can’t help but fear him - just a little bit. Fear what he could become, if he keeps picking the solutions that are quick and easy on the surface, but may bring a mountain of regret down on his neck years down the line.
She resolves to keep an eye on him - for the sake of his people and of himself.
The years pass by, yet their dynamics seem to change little. Khamsin grows into a king with his own crown and kingdom; Neltethas, it’s called, and Khamsin is her Night-time Ruler. Arariel stays by Khamsin’s side, steadfast and quiet, but now he carries the title of Royal Bodyguard. Mahzarin herself is still there, as she promised. She had hoped she’d remain his mentor, perhaps even be given the task of preparing the next generation for battle. Instead, she is told her place is by his throne. She becomes the blade and shield at his side, his second Royal Bodyguard, because they all know Arariel was always the first. The responsibility gnaws at her. It’s too little, or perhaps too much. It doesn’t fit her. She’s a warrior! Her responsibility should be to defend those in need, protect those she loves - not to watch a shifty-eyed king’s back or his Daylight Queen when she deigns to leave their sanctuary. Her place is on the battlefield in broad daylight, where she can feel the wind brushing through her feathers and see her enemies from a mile away. Not here, where it feels like every shadow hides a wronged heart and a sharp dagger. She rages at his order, in words and in actions, but her charge’s word is law and so there she remains. If nothing else, she’s grown loyal with age.
But she’s still a mentor, if not in title then in practice. She advises him as best she can, but- but! She fears for him, fears him, because she can’t help but feel that every day something passes her by. Some battle plan, a spy sent out into the night, Khamsin and Nirmala quietly conversing by themselves, their maws slamming shut once she enters hearing range. Is it wrong that she wants to know more, that she wants to know everything? Because at the end of every day she feels she’s committed a horrible mistake, that she’s missed some vital detail that’ll keep them safe, keep this king and kingdom safe with her. She cannot stand the thought of losing them, not after all this time. And yet, it’s so tiring, living like this, living with the uncertainty, the secrecy.
Sometimes they argue, she and her king.
“You cannot do things like this! You can’t always do what seems easy, then run away when the consequences rear their ugly heads. You must never run away.”
She thought she taught him better, to stand his ground against all of life’s adversaries, no matter how frightening they may seem. To be bright and honest and true to one’s self and one’s morals. She cannot stand how underhanded he can be, how he wraps himself in a shroud of lies and misdirection. She sometimes catches herself thinking that if she had met him when he was an adult she would have hated him.
And yet, she stays, because she once made a promise to a clever little boy, a promise to protect him as best she could.
Because now, despite all of life’s hardships, Mahzarin will no longer run away.
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» heterosexual; she/her
» wife to Bashir
» mother to Kyril, Kosan, Gavilar and Yefrem
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