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[dolly]

"hannibal ad portas"

latin, "hannibal is at the gates", used to indicate disaster

forged in the heart of a coastal city-state turned empire, baraka nee barca was a respected general known for her swift thinking and effective campaigns. until her capture in the second conflict with their eastern neighbor. her days are harsh until the lady priyanka accepts her into her household.

-⚔︎-

the long, jagged scars on her back itch. rain is coming. it's the temperature, she thinks. something about it irritates her weary body. she sits on the stone walls of her lady priyanka's garden beds, stretching her limbs. they pop and crack like old door hinges.

"you sound horrendous," says lady priyanka. baraka jumps to her feet, sliding the sword from the scabbard on her hip. "and such a lousy guard, too. you didn't see me coming?" she teases with a covert smile.

baraka huffs. "it's my day off, mistress. forgive me."

"i'll consider it."

baraka's face creases as a new thought crosses her mind. "why are you here, anyways? it's not like you to be distracted during the day."

"very astute. maybe i did make a good investment, after all." her calm, teasing facade wavers. "i came to find you, in fact. i received a letter this morning. an envoy from kodachi arrived. on behalf of their queen. do you know her. queen kiyomi?"

baraka barks out a rough, grating laugh. even to her own ears it's a cringe-worthy sound. "i know that child well. we were in conflict with her trade ministry, often. before..." before she lost. before her battalion was crushed, and she was stripped of her titles. sent to this foreign land to be little more than a hand-servant to some prissy noble. shame curls inside of her. it eats away at her every day like a sickness that refuses to be cured. her own form of cancerous tumor.

"good," cuts in priyanka. baraka is grateful, once again, for her straight-forward mistress. she suffers no fools. not even baraka. "you'll be a good ally in her court, then. i plan to leave by the weeks end. prepare for it." she turns to walk away, before suddenly stopping. she hesitates. "and baraka..." she shakes her head, thinking better of whatever platitude she must be thinking. good. baraka resents pity more than anything. "just prepare, alright?"


-⚔︎-




barcas birth name is derived from the historical general hannibal barca of carthage. barca exists as something similar to a proto-family name for hannibal. it means 'lightning' and was derived from the family being effective generals. in 'sundarah tatah', a south asian-influenced fantasy land, barca's name is localized into the name baraka. this is a feminine arabic version of the same root word of 'lightning'. this reflects a real common linguistic phenomenon, as to give the world more depth. one real example is the arabic leader salah-ad din having his name changed to saladin in english text.



they arrive in the port of kodachi two weeks after their departure. baraka heaves a sigh of relief at the firm, unwavering land under her feet. she's always hated the sea. when she was a young girl, trying to prove her worth beyond her family's reputation, she'd done several campaigns with a naval element. once she'd finally proven herself, the first thing she did was start rejecting them.

she departs as part of the several person unit guarding lady priyanka. they wear simple leather armor with simple blades. enough to protect her without looking intimidating. it's a careful balancing act, as she's come to understand. having this unit is enough to show lady priyanka's power, her worth as someone who needs protecting, but it can never threaten who she negotiates with. it's all so complicated. politics aren't something she's suited for. baraka is far more suited for the battle itself.

they're brought to a waiting carriage for the mistress and given horses to flank her as she travels deeper into the city. despite her campaigns, baraka has never been here, in the beating heart of kodachi; the capital city of heian-kyō. it's a gorgeous place with distinctive architecture defined by their angular, hanging roofs, wooden bases, and few floor-ed buildings. it's the size of them which makes kiyomi's palace stand out over the horizon. it must be five stories. maybe more.

in the palace entry courtyard, it's explained to them where they'll be staying. the mistress and her ladies have rooms set up for them in the guest wing. baraka and the guards will be tossed to the barracks where they can find space for themselves. baraka rolls her eyes at this. "a warm welcome," she mutters to her mistress before they part.

"that is what kiyomi is known for," says her mistress. to anyone else, her flat tone and unmoved face would make this a statement. to baraka, she recognizes the playful deadpan snark. this is one of the many things she's come to respect about her mistress. there is a striking ability she has to insult someone to their face. she is a warrior with words rather than the blade.

in the barracks, they're brought to a hall of close-knit bedding cells. and cells is the correct word. they're little more than cots stacked on top of each other with barely a few steps between them. her eye catches on the sole single cot set off to the side. perfect for a general. only, as she lays her duffle-bag of belongings on it someone clears their throat.

baraka turns around finding a smaller woman with close-cropped hair. she's muscular, but leaner than baraka. younger, too. "this is not for you," she says, without kindness. her face is laid in a stiff frown.

"i see no sign claiming it," says baraka, bemused. she doesn't know this woman meaning she must be kiyomi's own. if she asked nicely, baraka would've put up no fight. she would've apologized for the misunderstanding and moved along. but this woman isn't being nice.

"are you daft? isn't it odd how it's set aside?" she continues. she lifts her chin high, full of righteous indignation. "these beds are reserved only for the highest rank of solider. the royal bodyguards."

"oh. perfect." baraka flashes an overly saccharine smile. "i just arrived with my mistress today. lady priyanka. distant niece of the royal family in sundarah tatah." the woman's nostrils flair and her jaw ticks. it fills baraka with satisfaction at her own defiance.

"kiyomi's guard," she corrects through gritted teeth.

"oh!" she mimes surprise. she opens her eyes wide and gasps. "why didn't you just say, silly? i'll go join my men, then. enjoy." she channels what she can of her mistress in that final word. based on the woman's glare, she doubts it worked.

"you shouldn't be riling up our hosts," says one of her fellow guards as she returns to the two stacks of cots they've filled out. "we shouldn't make out mistress' job harder." a small pang of guilt stings her chest. she doesn't particularly care about kiyomi nor her palace of stooges, but priyanka? she does care for priyanka. the first person who showed her kindness after her fall from grace. the person who treats her more like an equal down-on-her-luck than a servant. whether or not she truly deserves such treatment as a failed general.

"wise as always, nihira," baraka says. she takes a steadying breath to ground herself. it's this kind of ego that got her defeated in the first place, isn't it? she underestimated the enemy and overestimated her own brilliance. she didn't play the game. like what lady priyanka does. she ponders this thought for a long, long while that night. staring mindlessly at the bars of the cot above hers. thinking.


-⚔︎-


that night, baraka twists and turns in her bed. her body is in kodachi, while her mind is at home. words float through her mind. disgrace, disappointment, shame. a perfect highlight reel of her downfall plays over it. every regret amplified ten times over. she jolts up, knocking her head against the upper cot. she curses, wincing. her breath is wild and sparse. she curses again, laying her head back onto the single, flat pillow. she wipes her hand across her face. her brow is soaked in sweat.

[dolly]

-⚔︎-


baraka stands stiffly behind priyanka's chair. her chin is held high, and her face is an unreadable mask. they're in a large meeting room with a ceiling twice their height. in the center of the room is the table priyanka sits at. alongside countless diplomats baraka couldn't name if she tried. kiyomi is there, too. bored, barely paying attention kiyomi. behind her is that pissy guard she encountered yesterday. as stone-faced as baraka.

they're talking in endless circles about trade, about port cities, about how weak her home nation has become in her absence. she grips her sheathed sword's scabbard tightly. it's little comfort in a room full of snakes.

"if we allied, we could take it," says one of the nameless diplomats.

priyanka makes a tight noise from the back of her throat. "it's not wise to go to war when you've been gifted peace." baraka has always thought her wise. wiser than the average lady of her rank. some mistake her kindness for weakness. baraka sees it as what it is; the wisdom of knowing when or when not a fight is worth it.

"it's only peace as long as they don't rally their troops again," says a different diplomat.

priyanka's gaze flickers back, knowingly. they share a secret between them. baraka was once the jewel of the army. without her, any assault is paltry. pride surges hot in her chest. back at the crowd, she says, "only a coward makes excuses to fight." several diplomats bristle at the accusation. priyanka is tight-tounged enough to keep the second accusation implied. if you were true leaders, you'd admit to being the aggressor. you are all bickering children. baraka bites her cheek to keep from smirking.

across the table, the other guard's eyes are ablaze. baraka has to bite harder. oh, does she love when priyanka causes a scene.


-⚔︎-


somehow, baraka always finds the gardens. it was the same in priyanka's palace. before she'd finished her first week of duty, she'd stumbled into that vast field with its stone-lined flower beds and towering trees. kiyomi's garden is grander. it sits in the a courtyard, squared in the center of four sides of two-story buildings. in the center is a massive cherry tree. kiyomi's sigil. the blooming flowers are the same shade as the flowering branches stretching from her. it's gaudy. like an altar to herself.

"my pride and joy." she'd heard the footsteps this time. soft steps coming towards her. baraka turns. she's a lean woman with a freckled face and tied-up hair. her face is bright. her smile is kind, crinkling the corner of her purple eyes. "haru. the groundskeeper." she offers a hand that baraka shakes. unlike her sleek build, her hands are calloused from hard days. baraka feels camaraderie with that. her hands are far worse.

"your work is gorgeous," baraka says, sincerely. she doesn't have a great eye for beauty, but she can appreciate the basics of it. "i'll have to show my lady when she returns." priyanka is somewhere deeper in the palace, being shown something by kiyomi herself with other foreign diplomats. nihira is there in her place.

haru gives a mock-curtsey. she straightens up, laughing. "i can't take all the credit. reiji and izumo - have you met them? - help me for a few coins." baraka shakes her head. the names mean nothing to her. "they're good kids. but if someone trips you, it's probably reiji. they're a bit of a prankster." haru says it fondly, unbothered by an unruly sounding child.

"noted." baraka shifts her weight between her feet. something about haru's genuineness unsettles her. she doesn't sense any trickery to it. no malice, no deception, not even the strain of forcing a smile. baraka has met so few people who are genuinely happy with their lot in life. "you like it here?" she asks.

haru nods. "i do. the pay is good, and my accommodations are included. and i get to do work i enjoy." again, no hidden agendas. she believes haru. they live the exact same life - expenses paid for work they don't hate - but somehow haru is thriving, meanwhile baraka is... she's surviving. cruel envy twists her gut.

"thats... good." baraka's eyes flicker away. they draw over the garden, tracing the berry bushes and large-leafed plants. a sudden hand on her shoulder violently startles her. baraka jumps, heart racing. haru pulls her hand back, eyes wide with caution. "sorry," she barks gruffly. "habit of the job." it's not an apology, but it's at least an explanation.

"you should talk to kaizen. she might have some medication for that." baraka wants to balk. she doesn't need medication. there's nothing wrong with her. at all. haru nods her head to one of the buildings. "her apothecary is on the first floor. second door on the left. she rarely leaves her office."

"thank you," baraka says, with no intention of going.


-⚔︎-


somehow, she finds herself there anyways. over an hour passes between that conversation with haru and her journey to the apothecary. an hour of wandering the gardens aimlessly while haru works the ground. the halls are smaller here. barely enough to hold a woman of her size and width. these halls aren't meant for an empress. only her humble staff.

it's easy to find kaizen's room. it stinks of crushed herbs. like grass after it rains. her door is open, allowing baraka to glimpse through the crack. a woman with remarkable resemblance to kiyomi is hunched over a table with a mortar in hand. she stabs the pestle into the bowl over and over, swirling some green herb paste.

baraka knocks against the open door. kaizen's head shoots up. there's brief panic that settles into annoyance. "hello?"

"baraka." she steps into the room. "lady priyanka's sworn guard." kaizen makes a vague, acknowledging grunt. her attention shifts back to her paste.

"do you need something?" kaizen is the opposite of haru. she's wholly uninterested in company, and sees no need to pretend she is. it's the kind of petulance only the empresses relative could get away with. because they must be related. kaizen has that rare blooming flower trait like kiyomi. except, hers are red roses instead of cherry blossoms. kaizen plucks a leaf from herself, dropping it into her mortar. baraka wrinkles her nose.

"my lady... I was told you have sedatives. for bad dreams." she's a liar. she's been a lot of things, but rarely that.

kaizen grunts again. her frown takes up half the room with its weighty power. "what kind of sedative?" she asks the question like baraka is an idiot.

baraka hesitates. maybe she is, because she's not sure what that means. "uh. to make them less... intense?" she tries.

kaizen huffs, rising to her feet. her body cracks loudly with each stretch. it reminds her of the day priyanka came to her with the news of their travel. baraka's body had made a horrendous crack, and she'd treated it like their own private joke. with her covert smile and beautiful emerald eyes. is this what she'd looked like to priyanka? sullen and pitiful?

a set of drawers sits to the side. kaizen pulls one out, grabbing a wrapped bundle. she shoves it into baraka's hand. "chew one at night. swallow it. it tastes bad, but it won't work if you spit it out." she turns away, sinking back down to her work. there are lines on her forehead even when she isn't scowling. like it's an expression so deeply embedded in her that her body has changed to accommodate it. if she looked in a mirror, would hers be the same? would a perpetually sullen woman with a stiff face stare back? staring back at kaizen, it feels like an ugly thought. a petulant, grisly thought meant only for people ten years younger than her and ten times richer.

does priyanka think of her like that? is it pity or kindness that keeps them together? do they all think of her like that? do they see her how she sees kaizen?


-⚔︎-



ultimately, baraka begins seeing her own worth beyond her big mistake and comes to realize she's in love with priyanka. only for her to watch helplessly as priyanka srts to fall for lady lishu.