Amara's Departure

["Lauren Turner" <lturner2@chat.carleton.ca>]

From the perspective of Amara.  RL Date: March 6, 2002.
A scene in which the death of the Sultana finally reaches closure...of a
sort.

------------------------------------

Platform of Eagles -- Bajazet Embassy (Kaitain)

        Reaching up towards the sky, high above the top of the Embassy, this
large platform accommodates the landings of Ornithopters. Painted in the
center of the wide pad is a large mural of a stylized eagle meant,
obviously, to be viewed from above. Several guards ring the outer perimeter
of the platform, ensuring it's security. At the East end of the platform,
are a set of heavy plastasteel blast doors, that lead into the lift that
travels down into the Embassy itself. Wind whips across the platform,
causing the large Bajazet banners suspended above the doors to flutter and
dance wildly on it's currents.

Players:
 Ruhail
Exits:
 Heavy Doors  <E> leads to Gallery of Windows -- Bajazet Embassy (Kaitain)

He has spent much time here since your sister's death, Ruhail the Sultan -
this day is no different. On the ornate railing that girds the northern face
he leans, and looks out across the sprawling opulence that is the Imperial
City. To him, it is but wormwood, carven and laid out in a neat and lovely
funerary array.

The silence of the suspensor lift is matched by the silence of its sole
occupant. Slippered feet make almost no noise as brisk strides carry Amara
across the platform. The set of her shoulders, her expression and the
tension in her jaw all betray her barely masked anger.

        If he at all marks the entrance of your feet upon the marble deck,
he makes no sign. Only the city is the draw of his vision, and he is
consumed in the dazzling stretch of its vista.

Approaching steadily, Amara comes to rest mere inches from your side. Her
hazel eyes, usually attentive and inquisitive, stare fixedly at your
profile, willing you silently to turn and face her. Her hands lie flat at
her sides only through an incredible force of will; it's all she can do to
keep from gritting her teeth. A moment passes, and then words are whispered,
"You go too far." Low. And betrayed.

THis long pause fixes itself upon his throat before his eyes leave the
cityscape; toward the earth they turn, now. "Stay your tongue, Amara," he
says in a tired voice. "Please."

Any pity, any compassion she once felt for the man before her is gone. Left
with a word from the young Vizier below in the Embassy. "I will not." The
words are bitten off, each swallowed like the bitter pill they are. "Not
again. You asked me once if I would believe in your judgment and like a
fool, I said yes." She pauses before continuing, "I recant. No trust. No
belief. You looked Sarina's killer in the eye and you let...her...go."

        "No," he says. "I had Sarina's killer extinguished, as Allah
dictated, and her family with her." Pity and compassion are things that are
not foreign to him in this moment, merely...detached, like a brooch fastened
at the throat - clasped tight and close to the one, but not part of it.

You say, "You took the life of the hand that lifted the blade, but let free
the one who planted the seeds that blossomed into murderous hate. And that
one...she admits to what she did! She has admitted it, and yet she walks
freely about this embassy. Free. Employed. Rewarded for her sins."

        He shakes his head. "You are wrong, Amara," the thin man says, and
his voice rings with a hollow timbre. "She has become imprisoned in a way
far more significant than that misguided slave ever could be."

         "Oh yes," Amara responds. "I can see how she suffers. Bedecked in
finery. Granted a lovely new home. My...what turmoil she must face." Hazel
eyes narrow to slits, as the sister of the Sultana continues, "The girl
asked for death and you denied it. You made that choice. And so the soul of
my sister writhes in agony at justice unfulfilled." Every word is hurled
with as much venom as Amara can muster, for never before has any act been so
vile to her mind.

        "Amara," he sighs, elbows flattening against the railing, "By the
grace of Allah, if you would look past the surface of things, you may still
yet learn. What I have done, in setting Felizia as I have, is to do far more
to honor our departed Sarina than petty vengeance. If you will listen to me,
I will tell you."

If any empathy remains in Amara is certainly does not show. The sighs fall
on deaf ears, and the weariness pushed aside by eyes blinded by rage. "Why
should I listen to your lies?"

His head shakes, and he looks to you finally, eyes containing that
exhaustion that your anger yet denies. "Because I know what she asked you.
Asked both of us. And that is a bond forged by Allah's will, not any
mechanism of politics or vice. Now. Will you listen?"

His head shakes, and he looks to you finally, eyes containing that
exhaustion that your anger yet denies. "Because I know what she asked you.
Asked both of us. And that is a bond forged by Allah's will, not any
mechanism of politics or vice. Now. Will you listen?"

Amara swallows, finally displaying some measure of indecision. Still, her
gaze is level and her voice firm. "I will listen," she concedes.

He nods. "I cannot say that I have succeeded in this, but...in doing what I
have done, I have endevoured to give Sarina what she always wanted, always
until her death."

Amara balks openly at this. "And now you would feign to know the heart of my
sister and her wishes?" The measure of uncertainty vanishes again, melting
back into the core of rage that burns within Amara Bajazet.

"Yes," he says. "I do. Not because I believe I know my wife, but because she
screamed out for it with every action and philosophical conversation that
she had with anyone. Amara, you know well what she wanted, don't you?"

"She didn't want to die," Amara shoots back, clearly uncomfortable with the
turn the conversation has taken. The steady gaze wavers slightly, and she
speaks an inward prayer that the words she cannot bear will be forthcoming.

        "No," he says. "She did not. But she wanted something more than life
in the shadow of her husband, too - she wished for validity, Amara. She
wished for her views, for her vision, to be realized."

Something inside Amara breaks at this. "She was valid!" she cries, the words
rending her soul. "She was..." the grasping for words is almost visible,
tears springing unwilling into the eyes of the sister who loved her twin,
but in the end was distant when it truly counted.

        "She was a woman in a world where men were gods before their wives,
masters before servants!" This comes from his lips with a thunder most
peculiar in its vehemence. "She herself could not lead her people because of
the edicts of ten thousand years - I, myself, am evidence of this! She had
to abdicate her claim on the throne, a throne that she would have well
served with her wisdom and her intelligence, because of the way she was
born!"

"So millennia have passed and the Bajazet House remains blind to the
validity of women," Amara says bitterly. "Do you think that I do not know
this, as well?" Her gaze, having moved away momentarily, returns to meet
yours. "How does this justify your choice?"

        "Think of what she wanted, Amara," he says, fists clenched upon the
railing and reflecting the intensity of his being. "Tell me what she
wanted - for women, here. Speak the words out loud."

"She wanted equality," Amara says flatly. "Equality in all things."


        His jaw tightens a moment, then relaxes, springs of muscle working
behind the flesh of his jaw. "And look at Felizia. Born a common girl,
enslaved, cast in the fires of ignorance and inequality; a slave freed,
educated, made a functionary of the court, and then one of its greatest
officers before becoming a lady of the Sultanate. What greater archetype can
there be for Sarina's vision? What more could she do, could she show all the
wives and daughters of those noblemen who still find comfort in their
tyranny? What do you think they see?"

"An exception to the rule," Amara responds, the tone of her voice returning
to its icy calm. "Hypocrisy in the name of so-called progress." The is a
pause as Amara rallies her wrath about her, "there can be no example made
here save the weakness of a man who will die with his guilt. Sparing this
girl shows only that appearances are more important than fact in the weak
rulers of this House. I mourn my Sister. I mourn her inability to be all
that she wanted. And I mourn, most of all...her choice of husband."
Unyielding. She waits only a heartbeat before she says softly, "I am ashamed
beyond words at the depths House Bajazet has plunged to. My return to New
Adrianopolis will be made in all haste. I cannot and will not stay here."

Amara appears ready to retort, hands clenching and jaw tightening. But
instead, her gaze drops and she looks away. What more can she say? Upon her
sister's grave a legacy of equality may be founded...as misguided and unjust
as its roots seem to be. She doubts it. Doubts with all her heart that this
will /ever/ be the case in the House of the once-proud Bajazet, but will
argue no further. "Do as you will," she whispers, "but remember always why
you do it alone." She turns, not waiting for dismissal, and begins walking
away.

"Must you leave?" His voice has shifted again, back into the quiet, rusted
sigh of his weariness. "Why cannot you stay, and ensure this succeeds? You,
too, gave Sairna hope that her vision was attainable..."

Checking herself mid-stride, Amara halts...if unwillingly. She half-turns,
and speaks, "As you say..." a ghost of a smile crosses her lips at the irony
of this admission, "it is my own grief that blinds me. The wounds are too
raw, the hurt too fresh. I would do damage to myself and others by being
here...the source of my discontent." There is a ruefulness to her tone and
her facial expression, the fires within dying down now in the cool waters of
departure. "I must go." Having no more strength to argue, and no more will
to carry on, she turns again and walks across the platform to whence she
came.





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