Archive: Yes, but ask me first, please.
Notes: This is a companion piece, a little observation on Ardeth's character and life by someone who has known him since a child.

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I've known our beloved Mawlana since he was little more than a squalling babe in arms, an angel child whose laughter was as rain to the arid sands. Ay! He was such a beautiful child, so innocent, so easily given to smiles. His mother, Allah rest her, nearly died in her labour, but after two full days, out popped little Ardeth, wrinkled as a dried fig, screaming loud enough to rouse the entire camp. No one was prouder than the Mawlana, his father – he beamed until I though he'd burst! A son. A firstborn son he could teach everything he knew. I remember bathing this tiny baby, counting his fingers and toes while his mother rested, and wondering what would become of him.

I watched him grow, from toothless infant to naughty toddler. But I, like his mother, could no more stay angry at him for pranks than stop the sun rising. He would run to me, arms outstretched, shouting 'Auntie! Auntie!', knowing that several sticky kisses later he would have whatever he wanted, be it sugared almonds, a handful of honeyed figs or a place to hide from his father if he'd misbehaved. I've lost count of the number of slapped rumps I've saved that child from… the scamp.

From the moment he could grasp a scimitar, it was clear he was his father's son – he could ride, shoot and swing a blade with ease. All boy children are taught such skills, the desert is a harsh mistress. And such a clever child! His brains he inherited from his mother, whose mind was so sharp the Mawlana claimed he could go into battle swinging her from his fist! It makes me laugh to recall the number of times she bested him in a battle of wits. A great part of him withered with her passing, dying at the breach birth of her last child. Ardeth too – he changed overnight from boy to man, his grief hardening to resolve. He became serious as his father, his smiles became fewer.

I still mourn the loss of his smiles almost as much as the death of my dearest friend. I, who know the ancient herbal lore, who had supervised the birth of a generation of warriors, couldn't save her. She died, ay, she died in agony, the child with her. A sister to Ardeth and Faris. Barely eighteen, his brother sixteen. No age to lose your mother. Not long after, we almost lost the young sayadi when he decided to investigate a tomb at Hamunaptra. An afreet nearly disembowelled him, but he somehow managed to drag himself clear. A patrol brought him in, half dead from blood loss and fever. I didn't sleep for a week as I dressed the wounds and kept him dosed while his body fought the hellish fever.

Many a Med-Jai would be dead if not for the skills of us women folk, something the young would do well to remember. I may be old, my back bent, fingers gnarled with rheumatism, but I wasn't always so! Even now, Ardeth comes to me, usually late at night, looking for advice. Oh, he is proud, will not ask directly, but calls for a medicinal pack for his saddlebag, or antiseptic herbs to treat small wounds. So, I sit and wait, talking of this and that until I get to what is bothering him. And when he leaves, he kisses my brow and calls me aunt, always polite, always respectful in a time when the young seem to grow ruder by the year. Only yesterday, a child of ten cheeked me! Ten! Wait until I see his father…

I worry about the Mawlana, for he became so after his father was shot during a raid at Hamunaptra. He tells me I worry too much – but who's here to worry when both his parents, peace be upon them, are dead? Ay, I'm sure the menfolk think that's all the women do – sit and worry when they're away. There are those women who fight, they take the sacred marks on their cheeks and learn the warrior's ways, but they are few. Most fathers and husbands will not allow it. The women of the Med-Jai are lucky – we are taught to read, write, and calculate. We're educated as women of other tribes are not. But not all that's worth learning can be found in the barrel of a gun or point of a sword. The Mawlana knows this, which is rare for a young man… but all men are young to me! I'm eighty and not long for this earth, and when you've lived so long, all men are boys.

Boys or men, they all need to marry, to raise heirs to carry on our sacred task. Just because the City of the Dead is buried does not mean we can sit back and drink tea! This is important, more so for the Mawlana – for who will take his place? Ay, he needs a wife and children. The burden would weigh less if he had a wife to share it with. He rises alone, rides off to fight, to defend the world from the Creature, Allah protect us from him, returns and beds down alone. It's not good for a man to be so alone. He believes it unfair to inflict such long absences on a wife, I think. But one day, handsome, young Ardeth will wake old, lonely and childless. The old take comfort in their children and grandchildren – I have seven children, twenty grandchildren and three great grandchildren, and I live for and through every one, though they will surely be the death of me! The last was born last month – Nabeeha, a lively girl who already has her father wrapped around her little finger.

No, Ardeth, Allah bless and keep him safe, is married to his holy duty. He has twice returned He-Who-Shall-Not-Be-Named to the underworld and lived to tell the tale. Each encounter has changed him – you can't look evil in the face and remain unscathed. Each time he's returned with his soul flayed raw, nearly breaking this old heart. We Med-Jai have a saying 'live today, fight tomorrow'. He fights, he fought to be born, he fought the Creature, he fights the loneliness of his calling… but does he live?

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