The Slave Sultana 7. The Dream

With a barely controlled bow the faithful slave assured her that he would relay her wanton words to her Master in all its uncensored profusion. Sweat of lust still popped from his inky face. Although he was castrated long ago she was pleased to sense his shuddering virility tensing in the listening air. All the mighty coiling of his massive frame, the feral want that still bubbled within her, she smelled it all. 

The musk, his quick brutal breath and the fact which secretly pleased her the most: that she was able to lit a dead fire back to life. For two seconds his eyes tortuously lingered on the cum and opium scented piss stains that still drooled from her lips and his eyes widened as she smiled back, as natural like a cherub, or the Whore of Babylon. Until with a final reverent bow he closed the bejeweled slabs of her gate and retreated from her quarters in a sweat-drenched panic, his hurried booming steps fading in the massive tunnels of the harem. 

At that moment, with the seeds of her master shining on her lips and her loins in heat leaking she felt triumphant. All the thousand other whores of the harem would have heard it and knew she had won this night. She knew that the lust she kindled would be delivered by her messenger and lit in full detail before her master. Her Master would come, racing to her as he usually does: barely able to contain it in his silk embroidered breeches...like a hungry demon. 

But there was something else. 

For in the lingering echoes of that harsh closing door something else stirred in her head and wouldn't let go, wouldn't let her smile.

A thought struck her, so heavy that it cut her smile and bent her head.

Too much sweet wine perhaps, with too much honey and perfumes which loosened her mind's gates and let all rush in straight to her boiling brains. The cork bounced then roll off in a long trail along the smooth marble and onxy tiles. Her whole burning body was dazed, her creamy legs danced to their own tunes. And in her defenseless state, old things, old names, old cloths, and old shame too, rushed in her from all sides.

She watched the blue shivering moon beneath her pink feet, and a familiar oval face with pale blue eyes and blonde hair both like her own reflected back from the shining tiles. It was her father's eyes, sad, downcast, lost in his endless works, then looked up and found her.

It must have been an old image that have seared deep in her head. It was nighttime, and she remember it was after he spent the entire night worrying in the moonlight when he looked up from his great desk and found her watching him. At first he seemed to be shocked, his tired red rimmed eyes were wide as if wanting for her to explain why she was still not asleep as children should. Instead...an expression of reassurance came to his scarred face, he brushed aside his purple cloak and stood up from his ornate chair, his armor clanking on the wooden boards between them both and his mailed hand gently wrapped around her hair where he bent down and pledged a warm kiss on her forehead, as if assuring her of a world that would still be the same.

“The cannons of the Turks will stop eventually, then we'll sleep, we'll both sleep a good long sleep won't we?” He felt so different, a sheath of iron armor between her face and his familiar chest, but she remembered his great hand softly covered both her ears and the world, all of it became silent like a spell that totally bleached off the sound of the Turk's thundering cannons. She remembered eventually sleeping in the blissful silence, her small head between her father's palms, slumped against his mighty shoulders, accompanied only by the familiar heartbeat in her father's palms as the world subsided into peace.

...He always had to fight an uphill war didn't he?

...Stupid girl. 

She whispered to herself in her head. A tear had gathered on her right eye and though no one was watching her she thought of wiping it away. But she was too late and it cut down her cheeks, and tumbled down. It exploded on the moon- reflection which, until then had bore the moonstruck memory of her father's smile.

Gingerly she straightened her cry. A a sudden realization that she might have looked ugly in that compromised moment brought a spike of fear to her hummingbird heart. So she straightened her face, and tried her best to look presentable again despite the wine.

What she remembered the most about her father was his booming strides, the sound his armor made, and the band of his nervous “court” that constantly followed him. He did not have a court worthy of either Caesar, Basil, or Alexios, instead, instead he had a liveried entourage of beggars consisted of stable boys, nervous squires, and fat Italian merchants who- depending on the days of the week also played the part of pirates, mercenaries, and courtiers. She remembered her father's endless letters to strange Frankish Kings, Latin princes, and even a few times, Popes. The crest of a double headed eagle shimmered on his gold sword hilt.

Father...

There was another tear.

If he lived again, he would have~ like that spark of memory, looked up at her familiar face with recognition, and came running with the same concerned hug.

But what would he see then?

Her naked legs, her full breasts, and scoop of white hips splayed on Persian rugs and oriental divans, who smelled of rosewater, aphrodisiacs and lubricants? Her hashish covered nipples erect for her Sultan- lover? A daughter whose drooling mouth are still impregnated by the seeds of her Turk?What would he say when he regarded her white naked hips- hips still of a lineage of Roman Emperors?

Is this still Irene, his daughter, the last Princess of the Greeks? Or a play thing, despoiled of her royal station and memory, and her cloths, of no Kingdom and no religion, an orifice for his own killers?But how could any father, who was the bright last hope of a dying race, claim such a daughter now? Would the memory of all true Greek men, women, children, and her father's eyes claim her again as their own? Perhaps it was the drinks, but the thought of him possibly walking away forever, his strides back to the eternal shades made Irene weep. He was, after all...her first crush, and she had once wanted to be his comfort. Sinful thoughts, heedless and unspeakable~ those thoughts were, even when she prayed. 

Thought where he was Lot, and she was like Lot's daughter. She was so pretty then and she thought...she could take away his pain whenever he missed her mother. She had killed mother when she was born, but they all say she looked liker her. And she knew father missed mother so. But he never got her meaning, he never got her advances. His only mistress his work and his duties.Her hand found her enthralled breast, still tearful

I...have breasts now...

“Go, stay with your sisters and your servants and only dress in plain clothes” Was his last command to her, and when she asked where would he go, he simply kissed her head and told her he would stay with the Great City and his men until the end.

She remembered horses galloping, those of hers and her women's from the secret gates of the Great City's while the Turks spilled in the next few weeks and entrenched their siege lines. When the Great City, which had been named Constantinople for more than 1000 years fell, she smiled woefully as she thought of her father's end. The city that was first founded by Constantine finished in the end by a worthy Constantine. 

They never found his body. Some had said that on the last day before the final battle, the Emperor himself disrobed and took off all of his regalia and divided his possessions among-st his men so he would die with them as one of them. 

They said he died as one of the nameless corpses and was buried in a mass grave with them, no more and no less a worthy Greek who fought devoutly to the end. Indeed no Turk truly killed the last Roman Emperor. Other said that angels appeared and whisked him off, or that they casted a spell and made him into an ancient statue of a warrior, like one of the many ancient sculptures of warriors that stil stood today, and that be thus became the “Marble Emperor” and when the city would be deprived of its Turkish conquerors he would come back again. Some even said that the Emperor and his small court dressed as monks and fled the city and that he is alive even now in Italy with a new family. Some even said that her sisters had found their way to him.

Regardless. She hope that at least one of the version where he was alive was true. She was a believer at least in that. She had been sinful, possessed of sinful thoughts, but she wished Lord Christ would be so kind to her papa even though she secretly knew it was her immoral lust that caused the Lord to break her father's Kingdom and chastise them with the Turks. If he had lived and raised a new worthy brood of children she would be smiling at his good fortunes. He had been her first crush and first pain, and now, they were but two divided stories, two separate destinies fatally diverging in geography and identities...she knew well, even had he lived, they would never meet again except perhaps in some strange coming day.

If she had chose Islam- as is now her preferred faith, the faith of Mehmet, her Sultan- lover, would he look up again and recognize her?