shirafati-fanfic

The Proposal:

A rewrite of the

conversation between Sitara and Shira from ch36 of Jaadugar: A Witch in Mongolia.

Authors note:

The following is a work of Fanfiction for the above mentioned series.

The original scene is well-known for highlighting the misconceptions between the two depicted characters, Sitara and Shira.

I love them both so so so so so much. And I know they are based on real figures in history, but I wanted to take some liberties to see how the conversation would go if they actually made it through the scene unscathed rather than hurting each other :))

This work of fanfiction is intended to highlight their platonic love, but I couldn’t help that the shipper in me bled through in some passages.

This was made with the idea that Shira realises and acknowledges Sitara’s true feelings and pain and in turn, Sitara grows to trust him more, and in the end they find out they have more in common than they initially thought.

I based the dialogue heavily on the translated work of lynmychii on Mangadex, ( This fanfic wouldnt exist without your hard work Lyn, so thankyou!!! ) please also check out the original work and support the creator of the Manga, Tomato Soup!!!

All art depicted is by me, Pear!

Anyways, please enjoy :))

Shira pushes the curtain to the side and ducks as he steps into the ger. He follows Sitara’s lead, taking a seat on an adjacent sofa to her. Although she seems happy to see him again, a distance lingers still between them. No amount of physical proximity was going to make what Shira had to say easy.

“How many years it’s been,” Sitara starts it off. Meeting with Shira like this never caused her worry in the past. Whenever he were to deliver bad news, he’d always make a huge fuss, running after her, flailing his arms clumsily; she could easily brace for impact for what was in store. But today he approached her in a composed manner, which meant she could breathe easy. And conveniently enough, Shira’s visit was right on time.

Sitara had only just begun to seek out a messenger to collect Prince Guyuk in place of Arghun, whose availability had been intercepted by the Great Khatun. She knew Shira was someone who was always willing to help, - albeit in exchange of friendly promises to garnish his career endeavours, - she just had to make sure they were on the same page after all these years; that their allyship hadn’t been severed.

“Where have you been all this time?” She was genuine in asking, but thought it’d be a good move to let him talk about himself a little bit before asking for any favours. Shira never passed up an opportunity to show off his accomplishments.

“I’ve just been working quietly under Lady Sorghaghtani. I imagine you’re still serving Lady Toregene as always, huh?”

Interesting… he didn’t bring up anything else about himself- no gossip, no exploits, nor any complaints; instead immediately switching the attention back to me.

She didn’t expect it, but it’s a nice change of pacing for her. Perhaps Shira had matured in their time apart.

“Yeah,” Shira hears the warmth and relief in her voice as she says it. Sitara blushes fondly, thinking of how far she and Toregene have come; then remembering how the two of them ran around like crazy looking for hints to locate the mistress all those years back, “Thanks for your help back then, Shira.”

“It’s nothing,” Shira shakes his head, “I’ll always come right away if you send for me.”

There’s that dependable Shira who can’t help but pat his own back.

“So, what brings you here today?” She asks; as eager as she is to sort out her request with him, she needs to find out his intention first.

Shira lets out a soft sigh. His eyes dart between places on the floor and he fidgets with the cloth of his robe as if he were carefully constructing his thoughts.

“It’s… related to that.” He says contemplatively, juxtaposed from his usual direct manner and confident prose.

Oh, Sitara thinks - is it something regarding the Lady perhaps? Usually he’s fast to bring me news of the other households or Central court, this is new.

“I wanted to ask you about your goal here with Lady Toregene, she must have become someone very important to you.”

“Oh! Well, you see…” Lucky for her, she’s already prepared herself on how to respond to him in case this came up, of course he would bring up the rumours that began to swell after Prince Kochu’s passing.

“As you might know, Lady Toregene is doing just fine. She’s mostly worried about Prince Guyuk right now as you might imagine. Is there a matter in the royal court?”

Shira breathes in sharply, noticing that she’s taking the conversation in a different direction, “And you, are you doing fine too?”

Sitara’s heart starts to race.

He ignores my answer and proceeds to further inquire about my wellbeing?

Well, I am fine. That wouldn’t be a lie, would it? I can smile and say I’m fine like always. I don’t have to share anymore than that.

She usually has no problem convincing others they knew a lot about her without actually sharing anything of crucial personal detail. She just has to share the right amount to get them to trust her. Although, Sitara has never explained to Shira the full spread of her feelings and the anger she’s nurtured all these years towards the empire, and she didn’t plan to. That wasn’t something she wanted him to shoulder- that and she didn’t know if she could trust him with that information, considering he didn’t seem to harbour a mustard seeds’ weight of anger towards their circumstances.

“I’m fine as can be, Shira. You came all this way to ask me that?”

Shira is met with that smile. The one that worries him the most. The smile that hides the truth.

To Shira, this smile shines brightly like a delicate spider using its colours to indicate warning and danger to those who dare to probe further. To Shira, it’s the smile that means turn away. It means, This conversation has ended. However, Shira was determined to know what went on behind that smile, and those sweet eyes, and hoped to get through to his friend he cared for dearly.

Fine, here it goes.

“Fatima, listen… You are the one who cares most about protecting what is precious. And you care what happens to Toregene. Which is why… I’m asking you to leave her.”

Sitara’s breathing slows as well as her beating heart so as to not appear to be shaken by the proposition. Where was this coming from? First she had lost everything by force, and now she’s being asked to leave someone she cherishes voluntarily? Looking at him, he’s completely serious. Maybe even slightly nervous. Sitara conjures up some justifications in her head.

Shira must be under a spell. Maybe he’s dizzy from the ride over. He knows asking me for such a thing is impossible. Where could I be more needed than here by Lady Toregene’s side? Could he be nervous because he’s about to lie to me? He couldn’t be of the dishonest kind, could he?

“Why is that?” Sitara knew that whatever he said next would determine where he falls on her compass, an enemy or an ally who can be trusted.

“The Great Khatun and Lady Sorghaghtani are beginning to draw closer to one another in terms of who will take over after Prince Kochu. In the political stage, Lady Toregene has always been the black sheep from the house of Ogedei. If they manage to combine the power of their respective houses and conspire against your mistress in favour of their choice, she’ll be dismissed from the Mongolian court of Law.”

Sitara doesn’t seem convinced. Her lack of reaction prompts him to continue.

“I’ve… not been a great help to you. In fact, liaising with me has most likely sabotaged your place in this,” He looks downwards, with a pitiful smile, “The great khatun knows you and I have worked together in the past… running around under their noses; conducting improper investigations… She already holds Lady Toregene with low regard, so she could punish both of you for the murder of Prince Kochu if she did as much as suspect you. But If she sees you’ve moved on from Toregene, don’t you think there’s a chance they’ll spare her from being a scapegoat this time?”

“I’ve already lost her once. I can save her again come what may. You don’t have to worry about my capabilities.”

Sitara draws away, adjusting the fabric of her hijab around her neck.

If he wants to say it, he needs to say it now.

“Fatima… I…” He almost falls out of his seat leaning forward, “What I came to ask you today- With me… would you ever…”

She turns back to find him stumbling over his words.

What is he saying?

“Won’t you come back to Persia with me?”

Shira knows how it sounds. Sitara knows how it sounds. A proposal of this nature in another world would constitute union between the two. But here it brings back memories of all sorts. Feelings, familiar faces. Memories which Shira was present for the brutal destruction of. In the forefront of Sitara’s mind, all she can think of is the face of Lady Fatima, then the buds of the flowers that were supposed to bloom in Safar. Her thoughts move swiftly from one to the next, and the memory arises of the last time this kind of proposal was offered to her, in the bunker with her Lady. What hope that bloomed, that familiar feeling. It all came back to Sitara. The world where she lives happily in the courtyard, listening to Uncle’s students practicing their recitations.

For a split second, she could smell the roses. For a split second she could hear the elegant Athan silencing all clamour in the streets. For a split second she could feel herself spinning under the warmth of the sun in Tus, then she realised that in a reality where she could live under the conquered Persia, she’d be submitting to the empire, and her true feelings would be buried.

“It’s just an idea,” Shira blurts out.

Sitara snaps back to the present. Shira begins tumbling over his words, explaining where they would go, what they would do if they were to go. He suggests they could ask a favour from Lady Sorghaghtani and work within the newly reframed Governing office. To ask her to move with him there is sacrificing a lot, with no reassurance that the Governor would even decide to accept them there. Yet still his brain keeps generating words that won’t stop spilling out, all sorts of concerns he’s thought through all without even consulting her about.

“Shira…”

“Huh?” He pauses.

“This isn’t another one of your grand opportunities is it?”

“Uh…”

“In order to work for the Persian Governor General’s office, you’ll need to become a scribe. Can you actually write that well?”

Shira looks at her dumbfoundedly and begins to sweat. He scratches the back of his neck and shifts his turban around uncomfortably. His eyes dart back and forth between her and the floor. Eventually, he gives in.

“I’m… desperate here. Fatima.”

His eyebrows crease and sure enough, this is the most distressed she has ever seen him. How strange to see Shira begging her in this way. Isn’t he usually be a little more optimistic?

Sitara thinks back to the night in their adolescent years where he stopped her from walking out into the bare steppe, the night where she had left the tent in hopes that someone would relieve her of this body, this world.

At the time, she could barely process it, but she found it brazen of him to apologise for what happened to her home, the way he glazed over it so quickly, and the way he ridiculously welcomed the future with bright eyes and a beaming smile, and encouraged her to do the same.

And faster than he ever brought up that brutal incident, she remembers how fast he was to close off his own past and circumstances.

Sitara decides to momentarily put aside the big picture and focus on Shira. Why does he act like he knows everything, why does he flaunts his knowledge of interpersonal relationships and take every chance to advance in the Steppe? It was in this moment Sitara realised something critical that she’d overlooked all along:

He's been doing the exact same thing as me; making others feel as if they know his character without ever actually sharing a single detail about himself. Walking along the hills a new man, someone who couldn’t be recognised as his former self, much like me; taking on the identity of the daughter of a scholar.

She tilted her head at him slightly, playfully. If she could extort information from all sorts of Lords and Empresses, maybe she could get her Shira to sincerely open up a little to her.

“You want me to come to Persia with you, but you want me to do all the work, is that right then?”

She swears she could see steam puff out of his red ears. He struggled to get a cohesive word out.

“Shira, you always come to help me whenever I’m in trouble, don’t you?” Sitara inches a little closer on the sofa, “This is you getting me back for all the favors you’ve done, isn’t it?”

“Fatima… It’s not like that I swear! Wallahi, it isn’t like that…” Shira has gone fully red by this point. He feels his own cheek with his palm.

I have got to calm down. I can explain it to her rationally. But… How would she feel if she knew who I was back then, before we met… Is it superficial of me to think she’d look down on me? She wouldn’t… She’s the Fatima you’ve always known. In the end, she’s just like me. A pebble caught in the crease of a wheel in the empire’s carriage, forced to keep rolling and rolling, trying not to fall off or get caught in a rut.

He fears he has no choice but to peer into his memories and trust that he can bare himself to her for a second. He composes himself and begins explaining, as unremarkably as he can, “I’m useless at that stuff you know? I could never read the tabloids back then. Who had the time for that? I swear, everyday you’d see merchants and travellers from all over the world, coming and going, and not all of them could read either. Not to mention they were rich. Is that something everyone needs to get by? I’m sure we’d be just fine with our combined skills, don’t you think?”

Sitara can’t stop herself from gasping at his wild hypothesis.

How dare he sneer at people who read? It’s obnoxious, why, it’s outrageous! Astaghfirullah. Who does he think he is? A nerve has most definitely been struck, nay, plucked!!!

“You’re joking, right? Right? It’s literally our duty to be well read, how could you look down on educated people like that? You think your brain stops growing once you hit a certain age? My oh my,” Sitara stands up, going into full scolding mode. He could have sworn he saw her pull up her sleeve.

“You’re wrong if you think that learning ever ends, or could ever not be beneficial. You’re wrong for thinking that knowledge and being well-versed could ever be a pitfall. Is reading just a trivial thing that fails to entertain you? Do you find yourself to be more intelligent by thinking matters of the world don’t concern you? The world is ever-expanding and frail human beings like you and I will only be here for a blink of an eye in the grand story of the universe.”

“Fatima,” He puts his hands up in surrender as she closes in on him.

“Even if you don’t know how to do something now, there will never be a right time to begin. You’ll never know until you know. Until then you must keep making mistakes in order to predict what actions to take in the future! You must!!!”

Shira stares up at her in awe, backed into the groove of the sofa with her righteous fists mere centremetres from his face.

“Fatima,” Her curls hang just above his face, her hijab- loose and unkempt. A familiar look festers in her eyes, a flame ignited. It was the real Fatima, in fact, it might have even been Sitara who was scolding him. He smiled, thinking of that unfortunate day, how bravely she faced her enemy and demanded for him to return the book.

‘Male or Female thieves, cut off their hands for what they’ve done! That book doesn’t belong to you,

You must return it!!!’

A small huff escapes his lips and he looks up at her in awe.

“I’ve never met anyone as bright as you, Fatima.”

“And I’ve never met someone like you who rejected something as crucial as knowledge!”

“Everything about you, even your face, it radiates entirely of Nur.” He whispers.

Nur, she recalled.

The Divine light bestowed upon the human heart by Allah (SWT). A person that has Nur emits purity, devotion, hope- a manifestation of the one who believes in the heavens; reminiscent of the cold glow of the moon, or the light of day.

My face… has always been a weapon of defense. There’s no way he genuinely thinks that I… I’m…

The flustered Sitara backs down slowly and plunks herself beside him. The two of them sit and face forwards, looking at the light coming through the peak of the ger. The dust particles floating in the air, passing by hurriedly, fading in and out of obscurity as they pass through the light.

“I always wondered what would’ve happened if I never picked up that book. I’ve tried to find ways to make it right for you since then.”

One of Sitara’s braids somehow made its way out of her hijab. Subconsciously, she began to fiddle with the ends of it.

“If I had known the value of a single book, the weight of it… If I had known that the book in my hand cost the same as a human life... If I had someone like you who could have taught me back then… Maybe there is a chance I could have skimmed past it and left your home untouched.”

A tear falls down Sitara’s cheek. She didn’t realise there were even tears forming, but she let it run. Her eyes trace the wooden boards in the ceiling, and finally into the direct light of the pale sky.

“Honestly, If I could spend the rest of my life making it up to you, I would. But it could never alter what happened. I know it’s shallow of me to say something like that so lightly. I find moving forward quite easy. But for you… and… many many others… I get it. Sometimes you just want to watch the world burn. But… Whether this empire burns, or grows, or changes, or stays the same, it doesn’t affect me at all at this rate. All I am sure of is that my life truly began here. I guess I’m no greater than the sum of my parts.”

“I’m sorry, Fatima. The pain I caused might never go away and it might even manifest itself in scary ways, but if I ever did something to ease your burdens, for even a split second, I think I’ll die happy.”

He spends a few more seconds fixated on the brightest ray of light shining into the tent, which has shifted slightly since they walked in.

“I guess I’ll head back. Or maybe I’ll transfer to Persia on my own. Gosh… looks like I failed my mission huh? I severely underestimated you. Well, it’s no surprise really,”

He flashes that cheeky smile at her. Then with a hearty pat on both his knees, he takes a stand.

“If there’s anyone that knows the best course of action to take, of course it’s none other than the Great Fatima.”

“Wait…!”

Sitara looks up at him from the sofa with watery eyes. Despite their differences, Sitara can’t help but see herself in him. The homesick child who regarded learning at no value. The child she was before she met that one person who changed the course of her life and every action she took afterwards.

It was Master Muhammad who taught me to seek the knowledge of the world. How fortunate I am to have ever met someone like that. How could I ever have grown to love if I continued to refuse back then? How could I have ever learned to direct my anger towards greater things?

Maybe to Shira.. that person…can be me.

Isn’t that the beauty of the mind? We share knowledge from our expansive minds; our complex thoughts and fragments of what we know, and as a result of teaching, we absorb those precious people and experiences, and they become a part of us.

She grabs his arm at the last second.

“Will you… wait for me?”

Shira’s eyes widen in astonishment.

“Just until I’ve sorted out my affairs. You know, I’m in the midst of something important… But after… Let’s go to Persia together, Shira.” She smiles a sweet afternoon smile, reminiscent of the one from earlier, but not a warning sign, rather an expression of eagerness in what’s to come.

“Fatima…” He helps her up, taking hold of both her hands, and just as he looks into those dazzling eyes, his also begin to well. The salt touching the longtime bruise under his right eye causes it to sting, a feeling he hasn’t had in a while.

Unfortunately, his eye starts twitching frantically.

You’ve got to be kidding me! In front of her? As if I couldn’t be more pathetic!

He turns away with an exasperated noise and covers it with his hand so she doesn’t see it.

“Goodness gracious,” she says.

“What are you doing?!” He jumps back at having his cheek held.

“Stop moving will you?” She moves his hair out of his face, trailing her thumb lightly over the bruise. She moistens the tip of her hijab’s loose end between her lips and dabs it softly under his eye.

His wince turns into a chuckle.

“Genuinely, what are you doing? Ouchie-!” She pinches his cheek.

“Just accept my help when it comes to you, God knows you need it,” she smiles.

The tears stop but the warmth of her hand on his cheek lingers. He smiles back awkwardly.

“Thankyou.”

🌸🌸🌸

The two walk down to the paddock.

“By the way, Fatima… I’ve always wanted to ask… Lady Toregene isn’t threatening you is she…?”

That smile she had on faded away. She covered her mouth.

What?

Lady Toregene, threaten me?

“My, my…!” Sitara bursts into a fit of giggles.

“What?”

“Shira, you’re too much,” She laughs so hard her eyes begin to tear up.

He massages his brow in annoyance of himself.

“Toregene- blackmailing me, imagine that!”

“Alright alright… Well it wasn’t that bad of an idea.”

Sitara finally calms down and wipes her eyes with her sleeves.

She looks at Shira tapping his finger, reconfiguring his approach. He feels her gaze and turns his head, his hair puffed up like an owl’s feathers, and the irritated look on his face sends her laughing all over again.