I, Mutant
folder
X-Men - Animated Series (all) › FemSlash - Female/Female
Rating:
Adult ++
Chapters:
19
Views:
7,129
Reviews:
1
Recommended:
0
Currently Reading:
0
Category:
X-Men - Animated Series (all) › FemSlash - Female/Female
Rating:
Adult ++
Chapters:
19
Views:
7,129
Reviews:
1
Recommended:
0
Currently Reading:
0
Disclaimer:
I do not own X-Men Evolution, or any of the characters from it. I make no money from from the writing of this story.
16
I, Mutant Chapter Sixteen
Disclaimers Apply
A/N Goddess Foxfeather, Queen of Mad Plotbunnies, BUSIEST WOMAN ALIVE ™, Prophetic Muse, Hamster Witch and Uberbeta… *glomp * Because the world needs more glomps. ;) InterNutter, TC, Maxwell Pink, Dracena, and Greywolf are loverly and wondermous for archiving/hosting. J ProPhile: Sorry I had to cut out. L Morgan: *test stalk * Readers/Reviewers: Thank you SO much for reading/reviewing as you can! The next two chapters have smut, by the bye. ;)
“No!” She shrieked the word over and over in Arabic, begging him to open the trunk. Achmed did not listen to his charge, instead sitting down on top of the woven containers, muffling her cries even further. The checkpoint was not one of the most stringent in the country but the soldiers would not take kindly to a screaming little girl in a trunk, no matter how much he tried to bribe them. She couldn’t breathe, even though there was plenty of room. She felt like unseen hands were gripping her throat and someone was pressing rocks against her chest. It was so dark that she felt maybe the gods had taken her sight as punishment. This land did not want her, this man just used her. She screamed again and the wagon lurched forward, sending her rolling onto her side in the huge woven trunk that stank of wet blankets and stale spices.
“Shut your mouth,” Achmed ordered, opening the trunk just a sliver. “We cannot let you out until we get out of their sight. You will not suffocate in there!” He closed the lid again and resumed his seat.
She was panting, dizzy. She had never liked closed in spaces, never. She had a very dim recollection of being closed in like this somehow before, under stones and dust as if she had been buried. One of Achmed’s friends, someone who had known her parents it seems, told her it was a past life, one of her ancestors maybe. Achmed had dismissed that idea with a scowl, warning her against such blasphemy against Allah, Azza wa jalla.[1] She whimpered piteously between gasping breaths, her fingers pressed against her lips. The world was swimming and dying around her, and she was ready for everything to stop. The wagon lurched again, sending her crashing into the side of the trunk. Cool, sweet air flooded her face as the lid was lifted, Achmed’s scowling countenance “We’re here,” he announced in a rough whisper, shoving a small bundle of metal and wooden implements at her. “You have but a handful of minutes,” he continued, pulling her shaking, panting form to her feet and setting her on the sandy ground. They were between shops, in the old quarter of the town. She could feel the ghosts around her, angry and sad, plucking at her salwar and hijab. She did not let the fear show on her face though. Her guardian hated that. With a deep breath, she padded around the back of the shop and found the thick door, a new addition to the old sandstone walls. This would be quick. She was a master thief, after all, even if she was only six.
Her loose clothing was irritating her sunburned skin, the dry grass making her legs itch. Egypt lay behind her, so far away that she could barely remember it or Achmed. She had left him in someone else’s house, sleeping off his Ramadan fast. She had lost count of the days, lost count of the sunrises and moonrises. All she knew was the she was tired. Her family lay to the south, far away to the south. She adjusted her headscarf, no longer the constraining al-Amira hijab she wore in Egypt.[2] Words, bits and pieces of ideas and memories, had led her here, led her across Africa to this point. She stopped walking and turned her young face skyward, her blue eyes open to the scorching, cloudless sky. “Help me,” she breathed. “Help me find home…”
Opening her eyes to the cool darkness of the thatched hut, she smiled slightly. Home. Rain dampened the earth outside and dripped a bit down the walls, not enough to concern her but enough to bring the smell of wet life into the small space.
“Ororo,” a soft voice called, fingers rasping the grass walls of the hut. “Ororo, it’s time.”
She rose to her feet, tying her kanga[3] loosely under her arms. She padded out into the light rain, holding her hands out and smiling at the tribal elders. Her white hair coursed down her back, nearly to her waist, her blue eyes clouded white. “The rain will cease today,” she announced. “It has been the three days and nights you have prayed for and made offerings for.”
A wizened old woman stepped forward, pushing aside the leader and his brothers, her yellowing eyes narrowed as she glared at Ororo. “You bring us the rain and you take it away with a thought. You come from the land of the unbelievers and bear the mark of the priestess…” she paused her ramble to sweep her hand at the girl, barely sixteen summers old. “You are either a gift from the Bright Lady or a curse from her brother.”
Ororo’s lips parted to reply but the words stuck in her throat. Before she could marshal herself, children seemed to burst forth from nowhere, bearing flat baskets of precious fruits and grains, lengths of cloth and fine jewelry crafted by the women of the village as an offering. Someone pushed a stool beneath her and she sat automatically, letting them lift her heavenward. She tilted her face skyward, lifting her hands over the tribe, raining down blessings as the sun parted the clouds. The rain still fell, covering her, dampening her hair and skin. The wizened old woman who had called her out was staring still, her lips moving silently in a mockery of the songs of praise. Ororo felt a chill run down her spine and wondered, for the first time, if this was all a lie.
--------------------------------------------------------------------------------
[1] It is one of the things to say after “Allah,” and means “glorified and exalted is He.”
[2] An Amira Hijab is a certain style of hijab that’s two pieces, one that is like a wide cloth headband and the other is like a hood that covers the top of the head and the front of the neck, sort of like a one piece thing with a hole cut for the face. It’s easier to wear and keep proper than the wrap around hijabs.
[3] It’s like a sarong but bigger and meant to cover the entire torso and most of the legs.
Disclaimers Apply
A/N Goddess Foxfeather, Queen of Mad Plotbunnies, BUSIEST WOMAN ALIVE ™, Prophetic Muse, Hamster Witch and Uberbeta… *glomp * Because the world needs more glomps. ;) InterNutter, TC, Maxwell Pink, Dracena, and Greywolf are loverly and wondermous for archiving/hosting. J ProPhile: Sorry I had to cut out. L Morgan: *test stalk * Readers/Reviewers: Thank you SO much for reading/reviewing as you can! The next two chapters have smut, by the bye. ;)
“No!” She shrieked the word over and over in Arabic, begging him to open the trunk. Achmed did not listen to his charge, instead sitting down on top of the woven containers, muffling her cries even further. The checkpoint was not one of the most stringent in the country but the soldiers would not take kindly to a screaming little girl in a trunk, no matter how much he tried to bribe them. She couldn’t breathe, even though there was plenty of room. She felt like unseen hands were gripping her throat and someone was pressing rocks against her chest. It was so dark that she felt maybe the gods had taken her sight as punishment. This land did not want her, this man just used her. She screamed again and the wagon lurched forward, sending her rolling onto her side in the huge woven trunk that stank of wet blankets and stale spices.
“Shut your mouth,” Achmed ordered, opening the trunk just a sliver. “We cannot let you out until we get out of their sight. You will not suffocate in there!” He closed the lid again and resumed his seat.
She was panting, dizzy. She had never liked closed in spaces, never. She had a very dim recollection of being closed in like this somehow before, under stones and dust as if she had been buried. One of Achmed’s friends, someone who had known her parents it seems, told her it was a past life, one of her ancestors maybe. Achmed had dismissed that idea with a scowl, warning her against such blasphemy against Allah, Azza wa jalla.[1] She whimpered piteously between gasping breaths, her fingers pressed against her lips. The world was swimming and dying around her, and she was ready for everything to stop. The wagon lurched again, sending her crashing into the side of the trunk. Cool, sweet air flooded her face as the lid was lifted, Achmed’s scowling countenance “We’re here,” he announced in a rough whisper, shoving a small bundle of metal and wooden implements at her. “You have but a handful of minutes,” he continued, pulling her shaking, panting form to her feet and setting her on the sandy ground. They were between shops, in the old quarter of the town. She could feel the ghosts around her, angry and sad, plucking at her salwar and hijab. She did not let the fear show on her face though. Her guardian hated that. With a deep breath, she padded around the back of the shop and found the thick door, a new addition to the old sandstone walls. This would be quick. She was a master thief, after all, even if she was only six.
Her loose clothing was irritating her sunburned skin, the dry grass making her legs itch. Egypt lay behind her, so far away that she could barely remember it or Achmed. She had left him in someone else’s house, sleeping off his Ramadan fast. She had lost count of the days, lost count of the sunrises and moonrises. All she knew was the she was tired. Her family lay to the south, far away to the south. She adjusted her headscarf, no longer the constraining al-Amira hijab she wore in Egypt.[2] Words, bits and pieces of ideas and memories, had led her here, led her across Africa to this point. She stopped walking and turned her young face skyward, her blue eyes open to the scorching, cloudless sky. “Help me,” she breathed. “Help me find home…”
Opening her eyes to the cool darkness of the thatched hut, she smiled slightly. Home. Rain dampened the earth outside and dripped a bit down the walls, not enough to concern her but enough to bring the smell of wet life into the small space.
“Ororo,” a soft voice called, fingers rasping the grass walls of the hut. “Ororo, it’s time.”
She rose to her feet, tying her kanga[3] loosely under her arms. She padded out into the light rain, holding her hands out and smiling at the tribal elders. Her white hair coursed down her back, nearly to her waist, her blue eyes clouded white. “The rain will cease today,” she announced. “It has been the three days and nights you have prayed for and made offerings for.”
A wizened old woman stepped forward, pushing aside the leader and his brothers, her yellowing eyes narrowed as she glared at Ororo. “You bring us the rain and you take it away with a thought. You come from the land of the unbelievers and bear the mark of the priestess…” she paused her ramble to sweep her hand at the girl, barely sixteen summers old. “You are either a gift from the Bright Lady or a curse from her brother.”
Ororo’s lips parted to reply but the words stuck in her throat. Before she could marshal herself, children seemed to burst forth from nowhere, bearing flat baskets of precious fruits and grains, lengths of cloth and fine jewelry crafted by the women of the village as an offering. Someone pushed a stool beneath her and she sat automatically, letting them lift her heavenward. She tilted her face skyward, lifting her hands over the tribe, raining down blessings as the sun parted the clouds. The rain still fell, covering her, dampening her hair and skin. The wizened old woman who had called her out was staring still, her lips moving silently in a mockery of the songs of praise. Ororo felt a chill run down her spine and wondered, for the first time, if this was all a lie.
--------------------------------------------------------------------------------
[1] It is one of the things to say after “Allah,” and means “glorified and exalted is He.”
[2] An Amira Hijab is a certain style of hijab that’s two pieces, one that is like a wide cloth headband and the other is like a hood that covers the top of the head and the front of the neck, sort of like a one piece thing with a hole cut for the face. It’s easier to wear and keep proper than the wrap around hijabs.
[3] It’s like a sarong but bigger and meant to cover the entire torso and most of the legs.