Nuë and the Djinn

This chapter goes out to hadaly for a promise I made, and for whom Rasmin negotiates the price of ten pearls.

This is a non-con story, so trigger warning. Don't read it if that bothers you.

I'm writing this shortly after chapter 2 posted, so I'm on a lag. So far, the story doesn't seem to please, and I'm sorry for that. I've got the rest of the chapters already loaded into the queue. I'll see it goes.

Cheers, everyone.

-Harp

Chapter 4

Mihel woke. He was confused and then he remembered all of it. The sorcerer. Levsa.

Nuë.

An ifrit who was bound by his true name was inert, powerless. He had no body, no form in which to act and no way to free himself except to wait. The sorcerer would use Mihel to extend his own life. After an eternity, even if the sorcerer died, Mihel would still sleep in the necklace, unaware of time passing. His true name was written there now.

If another sorcerer powerful enough came and read it, Mihel would be summoned again to serve that one. If nobody came, he would sleep until the necklace was broken, at which time, without a body, his spirit would be freed from this existence and he would finally die.

He would never see his incora again, never see his family.

Mihel had no idea how the interruption of the joining would affect his incora, still so young in this life. She might be driven mad by it. He felt how wrong it was, cut off from himself. Lost, and it wasn't the binding. But Nuë was here, a part of her with him. He could feel her, her white light pulsing in the center of his blue, sheltered by it as his was sheltered in her.

"Mihel," the sorcerer said.

Mihel stood in the other world in front of the sorcerer's mangled spirit. He didn't obey, didn't will himself there. He simply came. In the sorcerer's hand, there was an object. Nuë's necklace, where Mihel's spirit slept.

"Appear to me, djinn," the sorcerer said.

Mihel braced himself for the crawling sensation of being a spirit here without flesh, pain like heat. He chose the appearance of a wolf, his muzzle rippling, the sorcerer looking alarmed.

"Appear to me in your form, djinn," the sorcerer amended.

Mihel's body seemed to appear. Naked as his spirit, chained with iron. Expressionless. It was only an appearance. He had no substance, no flesh. He could feel the wrongness. He didn't belong here without his body, evil magic.

The sorcerer walked around him, a full head shorter, although the sorcerer was a tall man. He faced Mihel. "Magnificent. You are mine, demon, lord of the underworld. With you, I will be powerful. I am Ezrel, Sorcerer of Chaos and Darkness, and I am your master. Enter my body, djinn. Make me like you. Give me the abilities that you possess."

Mihel was abruptly reversed, looking at the place the illusion of him used to stand. He felt himself breathe, his lungs expanding, standing on his feet, a relief to be in a body, any body. But these were not his lungs. These were not his feet. The sorcerer's spirit was pressed to his. Mihel felt a wave of disgust and pity, the man's spirit polluted. Foul. Mihel had never entered a body not his, had never felt any need to do so, his serving him just fine, and he didn't like it. Sorcerer of Chaos and Darkness. What an idiot.

He moved. That is, Mihel felt himself move, but he wasn't the one who was in command of this body. They were in a large round room, doors that opened onto a balcony, fresh air blowing the curtains in. Around them were the trappings of the sorcerer's art that made him so much more dangerous. Books. A table with a variety of objects. Herbs in jars, tinctures, a mortar and pestle. A knife with a twisted, wandering blade. Mandrake root. A fetish, its crude arms and legs sticking straight out. Jewels and amulets, iron spikes. An alembic for distilling, a flask. A dead hand, shriveled and black. Candles. Clean bones, probably human.

It was day, sunlight streaming into the open doors. The sorcerer approached a large mirror that leaned against the wall, Mihel seeing out of the sorcerer's eyes. The man it reflected was tall and lean. He was not handsome--or, if he had been, practicing his magic had ruined his beauty.

Ezrel's skin was drawn close over his skull, his cheeks hollow, a strong brow line and thin nose. The hair on his face was sparse on his cheeks, a scattered dusting, and fuller in front around his mouth. The hair on his head was black and fell to his shoulders, stringy, white streaks from his temples. His eyes were fixed and red-rimmed, his mouth with the corners turned downward, set.

"No different," the sorcerer muttered. The man drew himself up. "Give me your beauty, djinn."

Nothing happened. Mihel felt a surge of contempt. He didn't grant wishes.

"Make me invisible, djinn," Ezrel tried.

The sorcerer thought that the invisibility of ifrit was a power. It wasn't. It was simply that humans couldn't usually see the world that ifrit could. It was all curses and spells and powers to a sorcerer. And Mihel didn't have to do a thing if the sorcerer couldn't figure out the correct words to command his spirit.

The sorcerer looked frustrated. He turned away from the mirror, going to a book and throwing it open. He scanned words Mihel didn't know, just scratchings on the page, hearing the sorcerer sometimes saying words aloud to himself. The sorcerer stopped on a line, his finger following it. He straightened, returning to the mirror.

"Bring me into the underworld, djinn!" the sorcerer cried aloud, raising his arms high, his face looking at the ceiling.

If Mihel could have sneered, he would have. The sorcerer gave a cry of frustration, reaching for the table next to him with one hand and pushing it.

But it didn't just upend. The table and all its contents flew across the room, a tremendous crash, shattering itself against the stone wall. The sorcerer froze. Mihel looked at the sorcerer's hand as the sorcerer did, and the air escaped their throat, an incredulous laugh.

"Leave my body and appear to me, djinn," the sorcerer said, confident again.

Mihel stood in front of him, expressionless, crawling with pain, a naked spirit in a world of flesh.

"Answer my questions," the sorcerer said. "How do I become invisible?"

"I don't know," Mihel answered.

The sorcerer thought. "How do you become invisible?"

"I don't know."

"How can you not know that?"

"I don't know it."

The sorcerer narrowed his eyes, coming closer. He struck out at Mihel's form, a heavy backhand to his face, but Mihel's form was only illusion, his hand passing through it, the sorcerer staggering.

"Answer me!" the sorcerer yelled in Mihel's face when he had recovered.

"Your soul is corrupted," Mihel answered, since he was free to choose an answer, the sorcerer not having given him any particular question.

"Is that why you won't answer me?" the sorcerer said right away.

"I have answered you."

"How do I become invisible?" the sorcerer yelled.

"I don't know."

The sorcerer breathed, looking away, chewing his lip. His hands came, a curious gesture, brushing his hair from his face on each side, shaking his head lightly to toss it back. It seemed to calm him.

"Why can't humans see you sometimes, djinn?"

"Because sometimes I walk in the spirit world," Mihel answered truthfully, no choice.

"The spirit world," the sorcerer echoed, eager. "Enter my body, djinn." Mihel walked with the sorcerer back to the mirror. "Take me into the spirit world, djinn."

Mihel shifted. The sorcerer looked around. He peered into the mirror, but there was nothing to see. It had no reflective capacity in this place. They walked out onto the huge stone balcony. It was a tower. Mihel recognized the city below. They were in Heltas, the crowded graded tiers of the city with their brilliantly hued houses dotting the landscape. It was dim, lights moving, the spirits of people showing everywhere. Beautiful.

"Why is it so dark? Why can't I see?" the sorcerer said. "Djinn, make me see the true world."

Mihel felt a surge of elation. A sorcerer who came to understand the spirit world could do terrible things. But this idiot had just blinded himself to it.

"Good," the sorcerer said, sounding satisfied, seeing only the other world as he walked in the spirit world. "Answer in my voice. Can you fly, djinn?" the sorcerer said.

"No," Mihel answered in the sorcerer's voice.

"Can you fly when you're free?" the sorcerer said, suspicious.

"No," the sorcerer said.

The sorcerer released his breath, turning and going back inside, crossing the room to a wooden door. He opened it, carefully locking it behind himself. Evidently they were going out.

Ezrel began to walk down the stairs, stone, tight and winding. The sorcerer began to walk faster down the circular stairs, and then faster. His feet were flying down, even faster. He began to laugh. He was almost to the bottom when what Mihel had feared the whole harrowing journey happened and the fool slipped backward, missing his step, and he and Mihel collapsed and rolled down the arc of last eight or so, the stone hard, the sorcerer crying out in pain as he landed on his shoulder.

Mihel didn't even have the relief of crying out, only able to feel it. If this idiot killed himself, Mihel would die with him, his spirit lost to his true body, not even able to return to the necklace.

After a moment, the sorcerer got up, checking himself all over, shaking. "Heal me, djinn."

If Mihel could have scoffed, he would have.

The sorcerer waited. "Why aren't you healing me?" the sorcerer demanded.

"I can't," Mihel said, the sorcerer speaking his words. Ifrit couldn't heal themselves, and Mihel was in this body. And there wasn't enough spirit light in all the ifrit combined to heal what Ezrel had done to his own spirit, mangling it.

"When you were free, could you heal yourself with magic?" the sorcerer said.

"No."

"How did you heal from the arrow?"

"I didn't."

"All right," the sorcerer said irritably.

Mihel watched the long hands come again, brushing his hair back on each side, the small shake of the head. The sorcerer walked, still shaking a little, out of the door of the round tower, going carefully down a set of stairs and onto a cobbled road in the city of Heltas.

They walked quickly, the sorcerer's arms swinging, an awkward man. Mihel felt it, unfamiliar. He was used to being larger. Ezrel turned left, a larger road ahead, horses passing on it, people walking. Ezrel approached a man, a Heltasian. "Can you see me?" Ezrel demanded.

The man looked around sharply and then straight through him. "What?"

The sorcerer reached out, Mihel doing it with him, and pushed the man's hat off his head, laughing, the man stopping and turning, bending down to retrieve it, confused, hearing the laughter. The sorcerer kicked it, the hat going rolling down the road, the man in pursuit.

Mihel sighed without doing so. The sorcerer was like an ifrit the first time wandering, playing jokes on humans. All of them went through it their first hundred years or so, before it became boring, although his brother, Luta, had never grown tired of it.

For the next hour, the sorcerer tormented people on the street. He used Mihel's strength, overturning carts, sending them crashing into each other, people terrified. He explored Mihel's speed, rushing around. He must have thought he was original, but young ifrit spent years thinking about ways to have fun at the expense of humans.

Then the sorcerer spotted her, and the inevitable occurred to him. Mihel had spent a thousand years or so alive and at least some of that around humans. Nothing the sorcerer would do would shock him. But Mihel would have to ride the sorcerer's body through the whole revolting interlude, feeling what he did.

The woman was a seamstress, her bag under her arm. She was young, brown curly hair and a pretty, sweet face. Her steps were brisk, the Heltasian dress coming to her ankles, the folds a bright red pattern, a Heltasian vest with stitching over her white shirt. A scarf was on her head, covering her hair, her shoes black over white stockings. She turned down a more quiet street, her heels clicking. The sorcerer followed, moving closer to the wall as if he were sneaking, as if anyone could see him.

Ezrel came fast behind her and a door to an apothecary opened to their right, the bell making a cheerful noise, a man stepping out. The sorcerer stopped, his breath releasing, the woman turning and nodding to the man who was going the same way. Both of them passed into another area, busier.

Mihel couldn't feel the sorcerer's desire, but it was practically the same, sharing the responses in Ezrel's body, sharing the deep sinking in Ezrel's groin, the sense of pressure, the man's cock stiffening. Realizing what he could do, Mihel imagined. The sorcerer stopped, backing himself against a wall, and stood there.

Thinking. Mihel could almost hear the sorcerer's mind working, his spirit darkening and writhing next to Mihel's. Mihel had to remember that he was not responsible for what happened here. He hadn't asked to be bound. He'd go crazy if he didn't remember that. He was a witness, at most an unwilling participant, nothing more.

An hour later, they were waiting in front of a gate leading into a courtyard, the building around it made of stone and clay bricks. The sorcerer was familiar with the place, his eyes darting. He had obviously been here before. A man came, probably a Heltasian slave, by his dress, simple and crude, opening the gate, the sorcerer and Mihel passing through.

The sorcerer waited again at the front door, the same man collecting water from a well and then walking to open it with one hand, his other hand holding the wooden pail. For a brief moment, they almost collided, the clumsy sorcerer and the slave, the second giving a grunt, the water sloshing. The slave looked accusingly at the door frame, the sorcerer stumbling through a little, clearing it.

They entered a main hall, the residence opulent, a staircase going up to their left. There were chairs, ornate chests, wood pegs on the wall from which cloth hung. A dresser. A great deal of art.

A woman entered the room. She was a Heltasian woman, tall with dark blonde hair, large breasts and a curvy figure. Ezrel's eyes went to her, the responses in his body telling Mihel this was the woman the sorcerer had come for.

"Desota," a voice called, a man there at the top of the stairs when the sorcerer looked up. Ezrel pressed himself back against a wall, like it mattered.

Mihel could hear the sorcerer's rough breathing. Mihel didn't share Ezrel's fear of discovery, but he felt the sorcerer's heart pounding, the tightness in Ezrel's gut. It made Mihel nervous, evoking the emotion because those were the body sensations that usually attended that emotion.

He also shared the sorcerer's responses to the woman, Ezrel's eyes roaming all over her, lingering on her breasts, Mihel looking simply because he couldn't look away.

The woman was poised, her expression slightly interested as the man came down the stairs.

The Heltasian man was somewhat corpulent and much older, his face red, his white hair a fringe, his pate smooth. He reached the floor, walking across it, his bearing authoritative. "I'm going to see about a new slave to attend you, Sota," he said. "Since you don't like the last one."

"You know what she did, Grego," the woman said. "You wouldn't even let me punish her."

"Ruining a dress is hardly a reason to have her flogged, Sota. I know you don't like that I stopped it, but word would travel. I have a reputation."

"I heard you already," Sota said, sounding bored. "I don't want her anymore. Get me another one. A pretty one. And make sure she can sing this time. But not too pretty, Grego. What are you going to do with Lithet?"

"Sell her," the man shrugged. "Festa will find her a new situation.'

"I want her to go to a brothel," Desota said.

"I don't think that's necessary. I'm sure we can find her a position as a household servant--" Grego said.

"I want her to go to a brothel, Grego," the woman insisted. "One of the ones in the Veil District."

Grego looked dismayed. "Veil District," he echoed. "She's more valuable than that. I couldn't possibly get her worth if I sell her there. That's where they send the female slaves to whore after they are diseased or aged."

"Do you even care what I want?"

"Of course I do, Sota," he said, seeming to give up. "All right. I'll be back this evening. Jata! Get Lithet. She's coming with me."

A man appeared, the same slave who had opened the door for them unknowing. Jata bowed, leaving.

Mihel felt a wave of disgust. Heltas was a port city that had many advancements, but it also had a system of slavery and a corrupt ruling class. Slaves were mostly comprised of prisoners captured in war who were then returned to serve as a slave class, given crude lodgings and encouraged to couple, their children also slaves, generations of them. Many were Suvians, the people who had once made up the many fishing villages that dotted the coast east of Heltas.

And the more that the slaves' spirits suffered here, the more the spirits of the ones who made them suffer withered, Mihel seeing in Sota and Grego what the sorcerer couldn't, having chosen to blind himself to the spirit world.

"What are you going to do while I'm gone? I won't be long," Grego said, moving to the door.

"I'm exhausted, Grego," Sota said.

"You did stay up almost until dawn," Grego said, opening the door and going through it. "You shouldn't drink so much."

Behind his back, Sota sneered at him, her features reflecting contempt. The sorcerer pushed them from the wall as the woman turned. She went to watch Grego through a window that showed the courtyard. The sorcerer came beside her, not too close.

Grego was standing with the slave Jata. Grego stood as if the other man wasn't there, busy with his gloves. A young woman came out. Lithet, Mihel imagined. She looked terrified. She asked Grego something. He answered and they could hear the young woman's cry of horror from inside the house as she rushed and threw herself on her knees in front of him.

Grego shook his head, saying something, shaking his head again and gesturing at the carriage. Ezrel looked at Sota, who was watching with a small smile. When Sota turned away from the window, through the sorcerer's eyes, Mihel saw Grego glance at it from the courtyard, looking satisfied before he also entered the carriage. Mihel didn't doubt that it was probably only Lithet's worth on Grego's mind, and not mercy, but Grego had no intention of selling Lithet to a brothel. He had lied to his wife.

When they were gone, Sota walked into the next room, and then through another room to a sitting room. Her dress was different than the Heltasian women they'd seen on the street, made of finer cloth. She was wearing a long gown, off-white, puffy sleeves and a red silk ribbon high under her breasts, which rose from the gathered bodice. The dress had short lace sleeves, the rest of the gown falling, hugging her figure, to the floor.

She had a choker high on her neck, blood-red rubies that matched a long silken scarf of the same color draped over her shoulders and arms and to her hands, then falling to the floor, moving with her, studied motions. Her hair was caught up behind her with combs, open flat sandals on her feet.

She walked to a couch, a wooden frame with rope netting on which a woven mat was placed, as well as cushions, Sota sitting and then reclining back. The sorcerer went and stood over her, his eyes still darting all over her body.

Ezrel moved away quickly as the male slave, Jata, came in with a tray. On it, there was a clay pitcher and a metal goblet and a bowl with fruit. Sota ignored him, her eyes passing over Jata as if he weren't there.