Legends Never Die: The Reunion (ch. 173) (Patreon)

Harun, by his nature, was not a cruel man. He was not vicious. He was not vengeful either. Yet, in the days following his last victory over the rebellion, he revealed a vindictive side to himself as he sat upon the throne before all the assembled lords. Various Emirs and Sheiks were bound and forced to kneel in the throne room, disheveled from a stay in the dungeons. 

The lords surrounding them, those that were allowed to stand, were no more loyal than those who were bound. However, they had the great fortune of their treachery not being so easily proven. 

At the head of the bound lords was Jafar. Yahya was next to him, along with his three brothers. More of the Barmakid family remained in the dungeons -- cousins, nephews, and so on. Every male member of the dynasty. The women would be married off to common families, forever tainting the bloodline even if, against all logic and reason, it saw some kind of resurgence. 

It had not been long since the battle was done, yet Harun seemed stronger on the throne. More himself. Yet there was an unmistakable glimmer in his eyes as he looked down at the lords arranged before him. Every face forced to kneel and look up at him didn't have a drop of blood in it. Even without words, they understood what the glimmer meant. 

“We live in uncertain times. A time of empires,” Harun began. “To the west, there is Rome. To the North, Scandinavia and the Khazars. We are the east.” His voice carried with strength, echoing out in the deathly silent hall where none dared to breathe. “Rome has risen from the ashes of its own collapse. The horselords have expanded across the steppe at an unprecedented speed. The tribes of the north have been united into a single entity.” 

“I tell you now, in no uncertain terms and without doubt -- we stand at the precipice of a war this world has never seen before. On a scale beyond imagining. This war shall decide the fate of the Caliphate. Not my dynasty- the Caliphate.” He stressed, glaring at no one in particular and everyone at the same time. “When the ashes settle, and the victors are revealed…The Caliphate will either be the premier power in the Mediterranean or the Romans will. There will be no in-between.” 

Harun let that settle for a moment before he continued. “Our allies, the Scandinavian empire, strengthen themselves. They have conducted a great raid that saw their coffers overflow, and that excess has been put to use building roads and fortresses and arming their people. Rome has strengthened itself. They stoke themselves into a religious fervor, claiming that it is God's will for Christendom to liberate Jerusalem and the holy land from the hands of Heathens. The Khazars? Their armies swell to a degree never seen before, with isolated tribes subjugated and integrated into a nigh unstoppable horde.” 

Harun's gaze swept over the room. “And what have we done? How have we prepared? Half of my Emirs have betrayed me. They have rebelled in the name of greed and ambition and foolishness. Forcing those loyal to the Caliphate to spill the blood of our countrymen.” He shook his head. “Rome lies outside of our borders, probing for weakness as they muster their armies. Perhaps the quick response of Emir Hadi al-Ghaib will be enough to dissuade them. Perhaps it will not.” 

“That is your crime. More than the attempt of usurpation. You have irrevocably weakened the Caliphate when we need strength and unity,” Harun wagged a finger in their direction, his voice cold. “You have betrayed the Caliphate. Some of you have betrayed me,” he stressed, looking at Yahya. “For this betrayal, there is no punishment I can give you that matches what you deserve. It is not possible in this earthly realm. Instead, I must be satisfied with your lives.” 

They protested, of course. They screamed and begged, but their words were lost in gags. They protested their innocence, heedless of the fact that Harun didn't care. There was a deadly fracture within the Caliphate, and it would need blood and corpses to hold the foundations together. 

“Your titles are forfeit. Your lands and incomes are seized by the throne to be redistributed to more loyal vassals. Your bloodlines extinguished,” Harun continued, his voice not rising an octave at the swell of despair. “You are no longer nobility; thus you are stripped of their protections. You will be hanged by the neck until dead as common criminals with ropes made of hemp.” 

With that, he made a single gesture, and the disgraced former nobility were dragged out to be held in the dungeons until it came time for their executions. It would be a show, Hadi knew. While details were obfuscated, what people did know was that Hadi had to rescue Harun, and his nobility acted out of turn. 

That was weakness. Grave weakness. A stain that Hadi doubted would ever truly fade from Harun's reputation. The mark of a great leader was the ability to control their vassals, and in that, Harun had failed. The only path forward for him was to set an example. He emerged from his captivity stronger than ever. 

Executing the culprits was one such method. A strong example of what happened to traitors. Traditionally, particularly gruesome and painful deaths would serve as an example, but what Harun chose was arguably more cruel. At least as far as the nobility was concerned, as those who remained were more horrified at the thought of losing their noble protections than they were of being flayed or quartered. 

They understood in that moment the balance of power had dramatically shifted to favor the Caliph. That Harun could execute a vast swath of his upper nobility without reprisals. Even if Harun proved a fool, completely bungling the opportunity he had, Hadi couldn't imagine anyone daring to give any trouble for at least a generation. 

However, there were still examples to be made. 

“In times of trouble, when so many prove unworthy of the trust and responsibility bestowed upon them, it makes those who are worthy shine all the brighter. Emir Hadi al-Ghaib, come forward.” Harun began, commanding Hadi. 

He complied, of course. The entire show was discussed in advance, down to his lines. All eyes followed him as he knelt before the Caliph, his head bowed in submission. 

“You have been a true friend to me, Hadi al-Gaib. You have been a loyal servant to the Caliphate, that is true, but above that, you have been a friend. With your actions, not only was my life spared from the treachery of Jafar, but also the lives of my wives and children. My family. You have saved us, and the Caliphate, and I will not see that debt unpaid.” 

“My Caliph… my friend, there is no debt to speak of. If there ever was one between us, it has been settled. I have been risen up by your hand and by your trust. My actions, if not the expected actions of a loyal vassal, then can be the actions of repaying you for the faith you have invested in me,” Hadi replied. 

It was performative for all those watching. An assertion of strength. While Harun had stripped so many of his nobility of their power, of their rights, and claimed their resources as his own… he could do so without reprisal because he was carrying a very big stick in the form of Hadi and his army. An army that had trounced everyone in a string of victories, turning a civil war into something that didn’t last two months. 

It showed them that Harun did not need them. 

Harun wore a peaceful smile, leaning back into his throne. “You give yourself too little credit, my friend. If you will not ask for a reward yourself, then I shall bestow one upon you.” Sheba might actually kill him. That was the thought that rang through Hadi’s skull when Harun continued. “My son and heir, Abdallah, requires a queen and a mother to his heir. Our houses shall be joined through marriage and blood.”

It was a gift. An honest one. Short of making Hadi a Caliph, either of the Caliphate or granting him independence, Harun had little else he could gift Hadi. He, who but a decade and a half ago was no one of note from a family not even worth remembering, would have his blood intertwined with the blood of the Abbasid Dynasty. His grandchildren would be royalty. His grandson would be the Caliph himself.  

If his father were here, he would be weeping with joy. Sobbing until he couldn’t breathe. 

Yet, Hadi couldn’t help but see a hidden edge to the gift. His daughter would one day leave for Baghdad to be married. Far from home, far from his seat of power. She would be queen… 

And also a hostage. 

“You honor me, my friend,” Hadi said, uncertain how he should feel about it or what to do about his doubts. He wanted to believe that it was an offer made with honest intent, but those doubts still lingered. The kind of injury Harun had been dealt wasn’t one that would heal so easily, even if Hadi proved without any doubt of his intentions. 

With that, the first half of the display was over. At least his part in it. The executions would come, Hadi knew, but it would be a lie to say he felt any particular investment in seeing them. In the end, he didn't bear them any particular ill will. They just chose the opposite side on the battlefield.

The executions would be more for Harun, Hadi thought. A confirmation for himself that he was back in control of the Caliphate after nearly losing it all. His absence would be noted, but not particularly missed. Probably. And if it was? Well, they could take their complaints to the Caliph. He had better places to be. 

Khalid was placed in lavish quarters, resting upon a bed with the covers tucked up to his chin. His face was covered in a sheen of sweat, warmed by his wounds. Thus far, there was no infection to speak of, but the fact was Khalid had taken more than a dozen. Some of them, by all rights, should have killed him. 

Hadi did not expect him to suddenly open his eyes or anything of that nature. Life was not a fairytale, after all. However, if he did, then Hadi figured he would be relieved to see a familiar face who could assure him that he got the job done. 

“You must wake up, Khalid,” Hadi remarked to him, sinking into a chair by his bed. “They have begun to call me the Sword of Allah, like your name sake and ancestor. You're going to be quite sore about that.” Then he chuckled, “That, and there is so much work to be done.” 

The next few years were going to be complicated. Tedious. Harun was forcing changes through, and Hadi didn't know what the future would hold for the Caliphate. Just a vague hope that when the war Harun spoke of arrived, they would be ready. 

He spoke with Khalid for a time about everything and nothing before there was a sharp knock at the door. “Lord Emir? There… is someone who wishes to speak to you.” 

There was a swell of irritation that Hadi swallowed down with ease. A small sigh escaped him, glancing apologetically at Khalid, before clearing his throat. “Let them enter,” he said, turning his gaze to the door. 

It was a woman. One finely dressed with a veil covering the bottom half of her face. She almost seemed to avoid his gaze as she entered, rounding the bed until- 

His blood felt like it froze in his veins as he saw a familiar scar upon her face, near her eye that clipped the edge of her eyebrow. He had never seen the scar before, but he recognized the wound. The last time he saw it, it was inflamed and raw, freshly made by Yusuf in a fit of drunken rage. 

The servant bowed his head, “Introducing Lady-” 

“Inara,” Hadi completed for him, a breath lodged in his throat. Never in a thousand years would he expect to see her again. “I… what…?” He wasn't gifted with words, but he found the ability to speak to entirely left him. 

“I was amongst the few who opened the gates for you,” Inara replied, her tone more controlled. Not unexpected. Despite the years that had passed, he felt like a teenage boy visiting her for the first time with coin he stole from his father. Tongue-tied and all. “The Caliph has been generous with his rewards, Sword of Allah.” 

Hadi was half caught between standing and sitting down. “I thought-” he caught himself, pausing to collect his thoughts and emotions. “I thought you were dead, Inara. After the duel- I looked for you. Visited the brothel, but the Matron told me you were gone.” 

There was a hint of emotion in Inara as she slowly crossed the distance and Hadi found himself standing to greet her. A waver. “I… It was unsafe for me to remain,” Inara admitted quietly. “After Yusuf was maimed, I didn't know if he would seek revenge. And you… you could not have protected me if he had.” 

The words weren't wrong, but they still stung. As the truth often did. He hadn't even been a Sheikh at the time. Honestly, it was nothing short of dumb luck that he hadn't been killed to make a point in the immediate aftermath of the duel. 

“Then you were gone,” Inara continued, her voice soft. “Your father forced you into the army. Like he always threatened he would.” Her eyes crinkled in a way that felt too familiar for how much time had passed. Nearly two decades. “I suspect that he's quite pleased with the result.” 

“Insufferable would be more accurate,” Hafi replied. “As far as he's concerned these days, he can't be wrong.” 

His heart clenched when she laughed. Feelings he thought he long since handled and buried bubbled to the surface. There was a reason why he fought a duel to defend her. He had been young. Stupid. More than a little drunk. And utterly convinced he was in love. 

“I didn't expect to ever see you again,” Inara admitted, her hand plucking at the hem of her sleeve. “Certainly not at the head of a parade with the crowned prince as a war hero.” 

Hadi blinked. “You settled in Baghdad?” There was a question he didn't have the heart to ask in his tone. Inara heard it all the same. 

“I did,” Inara admitted. “The matron had friends here who sheltered me. I thought…” She paused, and he could almost see the expression under her veil. How her eyes would squint, her lips thinning, the slightest tilt of her head like she was gathering her thoughts. “I thought about approaching you,” she admitted. “But by then, years had passed. You were a war hero. Elevated to a Sheikh and regent to an Emirate. Approaching seemed only to complicate your life.” 

She really was clever. Too clever for her own good. If she had approached then, she would have been a target. A weakness to exploit. He had more power then, but his enemies were greater than the great-grandson of an Emir. 

“My life is full of complications, Inara. A few more wouldn't have changed anything.” He replied, understanding but… 

“Ah. I see your silver tongue hasn't lost its luster. Just what every lady wishes to be called -- a complication,” Inara remarked lightly. Then the humor fled. “After that? I… I had a life, Hadi. In Baghdad. And you… you had a life of your own. I…” 

There was a small lapse in silence, neither of them sure what to say. Hadi had assurances, but none made it past his lips. In the end, she didn't owe her anything. And she didn't owe him anything. Decades ago, their paths diverged, and that's all there was to it. Perhaps if one of them had lingered -- if she hadn’t fled to Baghdad or if he fought harder against his father, they might have traveled the same path further. 

But they hadn’t. They were the result of thousands of decisions made in the past which determined their present. 

“I wronged you,” Inara admitted quietly, making Hadi’s eyebrows rise. 

“I fought the duel of my own will. You left for your safety. You did not wrong me, Inara,” Hadi assured her. However, he wasn’t sure what to make of Inara slowly shaking her head.

She seemed at war with herself for a moment, her gaze flickering to the door before settling back upon him. “Were… did… Did you ever learn what drove Yusuf in such a rage?” Inara questioned softly, a hand reaching to the scar near her eye. A frown began to tug had his lips for a number of reasons, feeling like something was coming. 

“I always assumed it was because he was an arrogant brat and a drunk one at that,” Hadi replied, a growing caution in his voice. The conversation had turned. A tension growing between them, and he was forced to consider how she might have wronged him. 

“I was ill that morning.” Oh. “At the time, I was Yusuf’s favorite, and when he learned that the child I carried was not his…” Oh. “He was wroth.” That was a vast understatement. 

The realization crept up on Hadi with every word. A slow encroachment as his mind tried to provide alternatives or excuses. He felt paradoxically hot and cold at the same time. Like his blood was ice and burning while his stomach had inverted. “Then…?”

“He demanded that I discard the baby,” Inara admitted quietly. “And when I refused, he…” She trailed off, because he was well aware of what happened next. Screaming, the scent of burned flesh, a furious duel between two stupid teenagers that didn’t have any winners when it ended.

“Then?” Hadi stressed, feeling faint. 

“Please enter, Zavian,” Inara requested gently. The door opened once more and this time a man stepped through it. And, for the briefest of seconds, Hadi was convinced he had another brother. A brother who looked exactly has his father did. 

But that belief faded like smoke in the wind because Hadi knew both he and his younger brother both looked identical to their father. It wasn’t his father that the man looked like. 

It was him. 

That was his son. A man grown. Strong, handsome, and looking at him with eyes full of expectation, uncertainty, and cautious hope. 

There were a number of appropriate reactions to learning you had a long-lost son. A son he never knew of. Perhaps embracing him. Or denying him. Some kind of emotional outburst. Hadi didn’t go with any of them. 

Instead, his eyes rolled into the back of his head, and he fainted from the shock.