Post by devilinthedetails on Oct 25, 2018 11:06:55 GMT 10
Title: Walking on Crocodiles
Rating: PG-13 for references to execution
Prompt: Journey
Summary: On her journey through Carthak, Kalasin questions a unique form of Carthaki justice. Somewhat of a sequel to "Free as a Chariot" but can stand alone.
Walking on Crocodiles
The Shusini tribespeople of the desert southeast of the gleaming twin cities of Amar and Apal built no structures except the proud temple to Enzi, crocodile god of the Zekoi that brought life and death to Carthak. The Shusini worshipped Enzi above even the great gods, appealing to him for justice rather than to Mithros, which was why Kalasin could be found, flushed with the heart from the sun blazing off the golden sand even under a pavilion fanned with palm fronds by slaves, trying to persuade her husband that the trial about to enfold before her and a hundred other spectators was nothing more than a gory execution.
“You aren’t going to allow this miscarriage of justice to occur are you?” Kalasin demanded of Kaddar, refusing to do the terrifying arithmetic of how little time she had left to intercede on behalf of the Shusini man accused of murdering his wife who would be tried by crocodile. If he survived walking across a line of sacred crocodiles kept in the temple’s pools, he would be judged innocent. If he didn’t, he would be deemed guilty, and his death would be regarded as a righteous punishment by a wrathful Enzi.
“A miscarriage of justice?” Kaddar arched a cooly inquisitive eyebrow at her, his ceremonial regalia making him appear as distant to her as her family in Tortall. “That’s an interesting term for a trial that is not only legitimate but sacred to the Shusini.”
“It would no longer be legitimate if you abolished the abominable practice,” pointed out Kalasin, chin lifting stubbornly.
“The Shusini would revolt if I imposed such a restriction on them.” Kaddar shook his head. “I’d be denying their traditional justice and religion in one sweeping move if I did that, Kalasin.”
“Their traditional justice and religion needs to change if it entails practices like walking on crocodiles, Kaddar.” Kalasin’s jaw clenched around even angrier, bitter remarks about the backwards customs of the Shusini.
“Carthak has been able to maintain relatively uncontested control over its diverse provinces by largely allowing the regions the autonomy to retain their religions and culture in exchange for the acceptance of Carthaki trade and imperial authority.” Kaddar had assumed the patient but pompous tone in which he always instructed her on the Carthaki history of which he seemed to be convinced she was utterly ignorant.
“My father wouldn’t tolerate such a custom anywhere in his realm.” Kalasin stuck her nose in the air, matching his hauteur with her own. Her father was still her ultimate image of how a man should rule. Ever since she was a child, she had placed him on a pedestal, admiring the deftness with which he administered his kingdom and balanced its competing factions as a juggler would balls.
“Are you so certain of that, my dear?” Kaddar’s voice was quiet but somehow that only made it seem sharper to Kalasin. “Have you ever asked your father about desert justice?”
Kalasin’s throat went dry as dust, and she was tempted to order a slave to fetch her a glass of pomegranate juice but knew that would merely delay her inevitable disappointment in the compromises her father had to make to rule, so she admitted in barely more than a whisper, “No, I haven’t.”
“Desert justice is when the Bazhir release someone accused of a heinous crime into the desert without food or water for the desert to decide if they are innocent enough to deserve life.” Kaddar sounded somber, not smug, but that didn’t soften the blow of his words and the disillusionment they created inside her. “Few survive desert justice, but the Bazhir believe it is essential to sustaining their sacred balance.”
“My father respects the Bazhir or they would never consent to his rule over them.” Kalasin had to swallow several times before she could speak.
“As I must respect the Shusini or they’d never consent to my rule.” Kaddar repeated his earlier explanation, and Kalasin realized how skillfully he had maneuvered her into conceding his viewpoint. As if he could sense her humiliation, his hand stretched out to squeeze her wrist. “I hold your father in high esteem, darling. He gave me as trustworthy advice as a foreign power could when I inherited the throne, and he is doing what is necessary to maintain peace in his diverse kingdom as I must do the same in my empire.”
Kalasin wanted to reply that her father returned Kaddar’s high esteem—he wouldn’t have arranged her marriage to Kaddar otherwise—but her comment faded into a gasp as priests in crocodile masks paraded out of the temple to lusty cheers from the crowd, dragging a chained prisoner clad in no more than a loincloth.
It was time for the grim ceremony of walking on crocodiles to begin. With the bloodthirsty shouts of the horde of Shusini echoing in her ears, Kalasin folded her palms over the pregnant swell of her stomach, devoutly praying to Enzi and any listening deity that her unborn baby wouldn’t hear any closing of ravenous jaws over human flesh and blood.
Rating: PG-13 for references to execution
Prompt: Journey
Summary: On her journey through Carthak, Kalasin questions a unique form of Carthaki justice. Somewhat of a sequel to "Free as a Chariot" but can stand alone.
Walking on Crocodiles
The Shusini tribespeople of the desert southeast of the gleaming twin cities of Amar and Apal built no structures except the proud temple to Enzi, crocodile god of the Zekoi that brought life and death to Carthak. The Shusini worshipped Enzi above even the great gods, appealing to him for justice rather than to Mithros, which was why Kalasin could be found, flushed with the heart from the sun blazing off the golden sand even under a pavilion fanned with palm fronds by slaves, trying to persuade her husband that the trial about to enfold before her and a hundred other spectators was nothing more than a gory execution.
“You aren’t going to allow this miscarriage of justice to occur are you?” Kalasin demanded of Kaddar, refusing to do the terrifying arithmetic of how little time she had left to intercede on behalf of the Shusini man accused of murdering his wife who would be tried by crocodile. If he survived walking across a line of sacred crocodiles kept in the temple’s pools, he would be judged innocent. If he didn’t, he would be deemed guilty, and his death would be regarded as a righteous punishment by a wrathful Enzi.
“A miscarriage of justice?” Kaddar arched a cooly inquisitive eyebrow at her, his ceremonial regalia making him appear as distant to her as her family in Tortall. “That’s an interesting term for a trial that is not only legitimate but sacred to the Shusini.”
“It would no longer be legitimate if you abolished the abominable practice,” pointed out Kalasin, chin lifting stubbornly.
“The Shusini would revolt if I imposed such a restriction on them.” Kaddar shook his head. “I’d be denying their traditional justice and religion in one sweeping move if I did that, Kalasin.”
“Their traditional justice and religion needs to change if it entails practices like walking on crocodiles, Kaddar.” Kalasin’s jaw clenched around even angrier, bitter remarks about the backwards customs of the Shusini.
“Carthak has been able to maintain relatively uncontested control over its diverse provinces by largely allowing the regions the autonomy to retain their religions and culture in exchange for the acceptance of Carthaki trade and imperial authority.” Kaddar had assumed the patient but pompous tone in which he always instructed her on the Carthaki history of which he seemed to be convinced she was utterly ignorant.
“My father wouldn’t tolerate such a custom anywhere in his realm.” Kalasin stuck her nose in the air, matching his hauteur with her own. Her father was still her ultimate image of how a man should rule. Ever since she was a child, she had placed him on a pedestal, admiring the deftness with which he administered his kingdom and balanced its competing factions as a juggler would balls.
“Are you so certain of that, my dear?” Kaddar’s voice was quiet but somehow that only made it seem sharper to Kalasin. “Have you ever asked your father about desert justice?”
Kalasin’s throat went dry as dust, and she was tempted to order a slave to fetch her a glass of pomegranate juice but knew that would merely delay her inevitable disappointment in the compromises her father had to make to rule, so she admitted in barely more than a whisper, “No, I haven’t.”
“Desert justice is when the Bazhir release someone accused of a heinous crime into the desert without food or water for the desert to decide if they are innocent enough to deserve life.” Kaddar sounded somber, not smug, but that didn’t soften the blow of his words and the disillusionment they created inside her. “Few survive desert justice, but the Bazhir believe it is essential to sustaining their sacred balance.”
“My father respects the Bazhir or they would never consent to his rule over them.” Kalasin had to swallow several times before she could speak.
“As I must respect the Shusini or they’d never consent to my rule.” Kaddar repeated his earlier explanation, and Kalasin realized how skillfully he had maneuvered her into conceding his viewpoint. As if he could sense her humiliation, his hand stretched out to squeeze her wrist. “I hold your father in high esteem, darling. He gave me as trustworthy advice as a foreign power could when I inherited the throne, and he is doing what is necessary to maintain peace in his diverse kingdom as I must do the same in my empire.”
Kalasin wanted to reply that her father returned Kaddar’s high esteem—he wouldn’t have arranged her marriage to Kaddar otherwise—but her comment faded into a gasp as priests in crocodile masks paraded out of the temple to lusty cheers from the crowd, dragging a chained prisoner clad in no more than a loincloth.
It was time for the grim ceremony of walking on crocodiles to begin. With the bloodthirsty shouts of the horde of Shusini echoing in her ears, Kalasin folded her palms over the pregnant swell of her stomach, devoutly praying to Enzi and any listening deity that her unborn baby wouldn’t hear any closing of ravenous jaws over human flesh and blood.
Maybe once we'd have seen it during Smackdown!