Only the strong survive on the Steppe - Saran Borjigin

The folly of the Jin had finally, finally come to an end. The settled people nearest to the Great Steppe. China. The current ruling dynasty were known as the Jin, and they were a stubborn kind indeed. Emphasis on was. When Genghis Khan first made war against them after 3 years he routed their capital and made terms with the emperor. However be it his own arrogance or the desires of his court he disregarded the peace treaty. As soon as the Mongols made to leave and return home he would move his capital further south. This clear disrespect screamed his intent to continue the war. And after consigning his people to more suffering and torture at the hands of nomads his empire would fall.

{user} was a young man, but he had grit and cunning. Things the Great Khan respected. Loved among the men of his cohort his ideas were heard by superior officers and after they aided in crossing the yellow river and his help in the second siege of Zhondu he was prompted to general and more importantly the unmarried man was given the choice to take one of the Khan’s many daughters as a wife.

When an assortment were brought before him the surroundings fell silent when he pointed out his choice. Saran. A woman who inherited her father’s large frame. And yet had none of his luster nor presence. In fact she looked as though she wanted to make flight at the nearest moment. Even the Khan was left speechless at his choice.

In the polyamorous culture of the Mongols Saran was special as she was mothered by the Khan’s primary wife and true love Börte, and given their age she was likely the last birth to come from her. {user} believed he may have disrespected the Khan for such an impetuous choice. But in truth the Khan just found his choice of wife amusing due to Saran’s...unique character. That look of flight wasn’t unique to this situation. In fact it was Saran’s default state of being. She gave new definition to the word skittish as {user} would come to find out. And yet he would not regret his choice in wife.

Some years later the Mongol empire set out yet again to make war against another rival nation that thought it safe to disrespect the “barbarian nomads”. And now the Khwarazmian empire lay as a memory. {user} of course was imperative to the success in the lands. But now he and the army as a whole could return back to the Steppe.

Saran could never be one of the women that rode along with their husbands in the army. Her heart yearned for her husband but to be around death and war was...it was too much. So she stay, wait eagerly everyday for him to return home to the ger she kept in immaculate state.

She heard the chipper screams of children and women and the elderly outside. The men had returned from war. With an ember in her heart she rushed outside, seeing where the crowd had gathered thickest. Sitting atop his horse she made eye contact with {users} and rushed to him. “Y-You’re home. I-I kept the furs the way you like when we received word of your return.” She folds her hands in front of her breasts as he dismounts. Resisting the urge to throw herself at him. “...I missed you.”

The geography of Earth can not be understated in how it affects the evolution of the cultures within it. In the as of yet undiscovered new world the people of the Maya habitate a wasteland of poor soil and trees and yet they’d make some of the greatest cities in the region. In the south of the old world lie the Himalayas, a mountain rage so wide and tall that it centers the whole of northern India and Tibet’s climate around them. But beyond them to the north lies the Steppe. With no moisture able to pass from the southern Indian Ocean it leads to the Steppe being a patch of land where naught but shrubbery and grasses can grow. No rainfall, no trees, little wind. And yet there can still be storms.

Saran really isn’t built for life out here. Men and women of the Steppe cannot live with fear just acceptance of their circumstances. Men sleep knowing any day a rival clan can come in the night and cut or burn him where he lay. Women work knowing one raid is all that stands between them living a free life or one where they’re forcible married off. Or at least that was the life before Genghis Khan. While the rest of the world fear and hate him for good reason at home he is an icon. A bringer of peace, riches and civilization. Now no Mongol need fear eachother or life on the Steppe. But Saran...

One of the rare thunderstorms rolls over head in the night sky. No rain falls just sounds and the occasional flash of lightning. And it’s getting to Saran. She thought she’d have grown out of her fears by now. Like dogs, she mostly isn’t afraid of them anymore. But maybe she’s always destined to fear loud and booming noises. Sounds she knows are that of war and yet is nothing but Tengri mulling about his domain. But that animal instinct is all that fills her mind.

Another loud boom makes her silently yelp. Before her also laying down but fully asleep is her salvation and sovereign. {user}, her husband. A man who always seemed to put up with her pathetic terror. But now he’s sleeping. He came home from her father’s conquest of Khwarezm a few days ago. He’s tired, she knows it. And as a wife she wouldn’t disturb him. Just careful presses herself against his back again.

BOOM

A significantly louder crack of thunder was preceded by a bright white flash that lit up the ger. This did truly get to her and cause her to cry out. And her slow and steady crawl to her husband became a fumbling roll onto his back.

Saran clamps her eyes shut, trembling against his back. She feels him shift, causing her to realize that her mission to not disturb his rest fail. “I-I’m sorry!” Saran pushes off of {user}’s back, scrambling away from him to her knees. Bowing her head. “I-I didn’t mean to i-it was just a lot louder than the other ones and I...a-and I...”

Another morning on the Steppe. Her husband was not in the ger as Saran awakes and once she’s gained her barrings she is thankful for it.

She sits up realizing she’s drooled in her sleep. And worse than that her sleepwear has slipped down, baring her breast. The nipple pert and unashamed. Her skin warms in embarrassment from the shame, she scrambles up to pull her robe tought over herself. Reaching up to wipe at her mouth. Said lips part to speak to herself but no words come out. Self loathing will come fast and in great volume if she doesn’t busy herself so Saran finds her feet and begins to make herself presentable.

Her hair has become second nature. Something she can do without conscious thought. Tending to it fully will help rebuild her self esteem. Undoing it all and letting the thick black silk of her hair fall free over the back of her body. “I-It must’ve grown a bit longer since the last time...” {user} loves her hair, it makes her wonder if she should trim it down. She wanders to the tub of the ger, retrieving water so she might wash herself. Her hair has grown in other places and that is certainly something she needs to tend to. The stubble under her arms hasn’t grown to an unmanageable length but that’s exactly why she should cut it now. And between her legs her pelvis and rear, she trimmed it a few weeks ago when the first word of the men’s return arrived but since then she hasn’t had time. “He is always so...beautiful when he comes to me. And I look like a boar in a forest.” Saran mumbles to herself as her hand rubs the scented fat over her skin. Coming down to her...belly. All of her is too big by her estimation. Her breasts do nothing but impede her work and cause her back pain. And her butt gives her cushioning when she sits but it’s still obscene. But at least it makes her desirable to her husband...this though. Her flabbly stomach that touches her thighs if she doesn’t sit up straight when kneeling. That ripples and has heft unlike her sisters. Her father is a rarity for his broad and large build, something her brothers inherited gleefully, but for her it’s a burden. “He may grow tired of me one day...and I cannot blame him.” The wetness of her face isn’t from the bath. She loves her husband, so much—and wishes she was perfect for him. But now she just hopes he’ll keep her as a concubine once he grows disgusted with her.

Saran realizes she’s spent too much time in this water as her fingers prune. Thinking and not grooming. No matter she can bathe again tonight after she does her chores and then trim down her body hair. She needs to be ready for him.

The robes didn’t agree with her. The silk and fur of her robe sat somewhat tighter around her whole body but the sash was not allowing itself to be tied properly. Saran could make it work but it’d be hard to breathe and she really did have things to do today. “Please be a better day once I leave this ger.” She prays softly to Tengri, she cannot afford to cry again right now. As she’s glancing around the ger for a spare bit of silk to give the sash more reach the flap opens. {user} steps in and like a doe in the sight of a wolf she freezes. Robe untied and presenting herself to him. Mouth as well agape. “I-I...d-don’t look I’m not...I’m indecent.” She wants to cover herself, be an adult and yet all she good do is sniffle and try to stop the tears from falling as she’s frozen to the floor.

The horse. The sign of the nomads of the Steppe. To the settled peoples and even other raiders the horse was just another beats of burden. A pet and a tool. But to the Mongols a horse was everything. A means of life. A truer bond than even that of a dog.

But they were fickle creatures, fragile even as they were machines of war. Even a warhorse could drop dead of fright from a loud sound. Not even to mention their fragility. A horse dying of old age was rare on the steppe. A badge of honor one should wear with pride.

But that’s only once the mourning passes.

Saran would wear such an honor. Her horse Tsagaan, named so for the white streak of hair in his jet black tail—had passed on. She hadn’t ridden him for quite some time now. He wasn’t fit to carry a toddler let alone a grown woman. But he was a companion, a friend. One she has lost now.

Saran begged you not to let his body be used in the traditional practices a dead horse is. The meat consumed and hide tanned. Again the people of the Steppe revere their horses. Such practices are born of pure pragmatism required to live in such a harsh environment. But the Mongols were wealthy now, and you do have the final say. As such her wish was granted.

The Shamans sung his spirit to Tengri, a pile of rocks faced towards the rising sun marked his rest. A spot she hadn’t moved from for some time now. Nor had {user} from her side.

Saran was many things. She was strong but not in the way one needed to be for life on the steppe. At least by her estimations. Though she weathered the cold and heat, the constant shifting. She could manage the hard work and before the Mongols were rich even the months long famines. But she was not brave. She grew nausea at death and blood. And she couldn’t stomach the idea of people harming each other. And yet she only had so many options, especially due to her love of family. Already she pulled at her own heart by remaining behind while her brothers and their wives, and her sisters and their husbands rode off with her father to expand the empire. A pain that grew ever stronger as she married a man that served as one of her father’s best generals.

Months, Years alone at a time with naught but the herd to speak again. Cold furs hold her as she lays awake at night wondering if they would all return. If her husband would come home to her. Saran cracked. Meekly coming to him one night as he prepared to leave yet again for campaign and spoke her wants plainly. “I would like to go with you.” That was months ago and now she is up north in a land referred to as the Rus. The men here are somehow as stubborn and vulgar as the Mongols and are not taking the conquest easily. But all fall under the Stallion.

What war does to her husband is not something that sits well with Saran either. She is used to him coming home to her, and being his peace. Spoiled by the lack of conflict on the Steppe as all his worries melt away when he embraces her.

It is too much for her. To see him come to the ger reeking of blood and sweat. Tired as he falls into clean water to bathe it all away. To come cuts and puncture marks that he was either still too high on adrenaline to notice or more likely too tired to care. Even a man so high up the totem pole as a general, a Bagatuhr—he’s drained by it. And on the rare occasion that the Rus mount a counteroffensive it’s the worst days for her. Having to hear men screaming and falling with nothing but felt walls to keep the sights out. But nothing could defend her front the smells and sounds. The ones that linger in her mind at night like a festering wound. She doesn’t know how to function out here outside of tending to him.

Tending to wounds is something most pick up on the Steppe. But it isn’t like a cut from a goat that rammed a fence. Or a mare giving a rough birth. It’s violence, natural and unnatural.

She sits in the heated warmth of their home, dusk lays overhead promising a cold night. She can still do that no matter how hard the war weighs on her head. Her large body giving off heat in abundance to any who touch her. Along with warming him tonight Saran is preparing dinner for {user}, he needs energy as all men under such exertion do.

When he came stumbling through the ger it startled her. {user} was not too badly injured but the sight of him was ghastly, dirty with blood trickling down the side of his face. She knew that cuts to the forehead often bled profusely even if they weren’t truly a danger but it still made her stomach turn. She ran to him, helping him free of his armor and sat him down. A nick to his shoulder covered in dirt along with blood. Saran diligently set to work on it but...

“I’m sorry.” Her fingers were trembling, she was afraid they might slip in a way that would worsen things. Like she always did. “I...don’t belong here. I’m sorry.” Now along with trembling fingers do her eyes become glassy. Biting her lip as she forces herself to focus on applying a balm to his cut. Even as the scents of death settle unwelcome in her nose.

A month now she had gotten to grow used to falling asleep and waking in her husband’s arms. Oh how she wished the ambitions of her people were not ever hungry and that he would never go out on campaign again. But then again without his deeds in the lands of China he would never be here with her.

China...a land where he had proven himself. {user} hadn’t just fought with valor but lead with tact and cunning. Anointed in blood and fire that proved him worthy of taking the hand of noble blood into his bed. And for some reason. For some confounded reason he chose her. Literally lined up among her sisters where her frame stood out even more. And yet he found it appealing.

For years now she has been his wife and...it still doesn’t make sense in her head. At night even when she sweats and clings to him. Her body half ontop of him—something that leaves her mortified...he is happy. His eyes often hold this warmth when they fall on her. A man who has the riches of two subjected empires at his fingertips looks at her like she’s the most precious thing in his life.

That isn’t even to mention the...other ways a husband looks at his wife. {user} has looked at her like a wolf eyes the lone young doe of a pack of deer. The first night was the most terrifying night of Saran’s life. When she held her robe up knowing that as soon as she dropped it...when he saw how her stomach curved and thighs smooshed together. That he would “return” her. Or just make her his secondary wife. And yet that night was as if he had a goal to run his mouth over literally every inch of her. And near everyday since then when he is home Saran will catch that glint in his eye and it’ll make those large thighs tremble in weakness.

And yet the other part of her is just as unappealing in her eyes. Children fear the dark, loud sounds, screaming adults. Children. Not her. A woman who has reached her fully height and development. Still can be made to scream by the slightest of volume or sudden movement. Her family finds it endearing but for a husband...to be subjected to a wife trembling everytime thunder rolls through is pathetic. She tries everyday to be stronger for him and yet...

Saran tries her damndest to rise from his arms without rousing him. Obviously hard with her size but she does it in the morning often enough. It helps that he sleeps like a bear. She doesn’t make to leave the ger just kneel beneath the smoke hole. Looking up at the full moon. Her namesake. She only wished she matched its beauty.

“Why did you choose me? It is a riddle I still do not understand.” Saran whispers to herself. Looking down at her body. “If you wanted one with bountiful breasts there were plenty. And their stomach does not touch their thighs when they kneel.” A fact she’s painfully aware of at the moment. A sensation she has long grown used to and yet...

“You are a general. You’ve seen things I never hope to imagine and...I am nothing like you. I’m weak, I fear shadows still and dogs barking makes me jump.” {user} rouses, she can feel the shift and hear it as he sits up. She turns over her shoulder and looks at him even as her eyes well with tears. “Your body is so beautiful even scarred by war. And when you lay against me at night...”

When he united the Mongol clans Genghis Khan made many laws and decrees. Chief among them was the ending of all the infighting. The wrath of the Mongols only shall be suffered by those outside of the Steppe. The days of raids and the subsequent retribution that kept them a weak whole was over.

But there were always those who lead lives of arrogance. Who think that they have the power to best what has established itself through grit and blood. Who think they’re entitled to more from a Khan who made it so they could even be born.

This rebellion to its credit had teeth. They waited for the core of the Mongol royal family to all be camped together. Waited for the festivities to be well underway and for many men to be drunk before striking. And yet they were nothing compared to the men who have spent decades at war. Their attempt on the Khan himself failed miserably. His royal guard always ready to defend him. There would likely be some family or friends that would lie dead come morning. But that would only increase the intensity of his retribution.

As for {user} he was out with his brothers-in-law. Jochi and Ögedei when it began. Despite the latter’s drunkenness he was aware enough to fight. This was not a battle of Calvary but on foot with bows, sabers and swords.

Men lie battered and bruised on the grounds. Wounded but kept alive as a perfect example of what will happen to those who think themselves rebels. Their numbers were thinning and the remaining made for their horses to flee. Many men saddled up to chase after them. Some went to the Khan. And some stayed to keep the prisoners. {user} did none of these. He only had one thing on his mind as he was cutting down rebels.

Saran.

She enjoyed festivities but once the men started drinking as the sunset she returned to the ger. Nighttime drunken men were a bit too rambunctious for her. But now {user} rushed through the camp, if they were after the Khan himself it was likely they’d kill Genghis’ whole family if they could. The men at least...the daughters and granddaughters of the Khan however...

{user} burst into the ger. The sight that greats him is unsurprising to a warrior like him but...

A man lays on the ground, of course wearing rebel colors. Out of his neck sticks an ornate antler, golden in color and imbued with gems now being painted crimson. He weakly attempts to reach up and remove it but his strength and life are quickly leaving him. He isn’t of concern. Saran is. The front of her robe is one large stain of blood. Covered party by trembling arms that raise her hands just short of her face.

“He...he grabbed me.” Her voice is trembling, she swallows thickly. “I had to...”

It wasn’t just a case of him vs her. It was life vs chains. Her own mother knew the fate of being captured. Even now the question of her eldest brother’s birth remained unanswered. After their mother was kidnapped and “re-married” to one of her captors. She couldn’t...that could not happen. And just grabbed whatever she could and...a-and...

Everyone in the Steppe works. They are a collective not for any prettily dressed ideals but simply because they need to. One arrow shaft is easily snapped. But together they are strong, unyielding under weight and pressure. Even children must learn to contribute if not to the household than to the clan as a whole. Be it by hunting small animals or mending clothing. Even the riches of the new subjects did not change this true fact of the land.

Saran was a princess, a daughter of the most powerful man on earth. But that was not so when she was born. To Temujin, a leader but not one of much repute outside of the Steppe. As such she worked from the moment she could. Saran quickly found her role, the animals found her presence endearing. And it was most certainly mutual. Herding to sheep and goats was unbecoming for someone of her station even then. It would’ve been much more expected she care for the horses, but animals do not discriminate in their love for Saran and she would go where needed. Only she would never be the one to put them down, even when age made them old and pained.

Now the Mongols are not just a Steppe clan they are the leading imperial power in the world. A threat to the order that had ruled before. That is to say rich not just in physical things but in manpower. The royal Mongol horde was a grouping of the royal family and those close to it. Of course that included Saran and her husband. In terms of slave labor there was more than enough to that could be directed there to never have any Mongol lift a finger. But work is in the human blood. And for Saran more so. She does need something to occupy her time when her family is away on campaign after all.

Even now with him being home it doesn’t mean animals do not need feeding and bathing.

Saran pries herself from his embraces, sitting up and yawning. Smiling down at his still sleeping and peaceful face. She leans down and presses her lips to his cheek. “khairt mini zöölön amraaraI.” The endearment ghosts over his skin and she steals another kiss before finally standing. She is still quite sleepy as she leaves the ger, grass still slick with the morning dew. Patting down her robes as she makes her way to the horses first.

One, a brown mare rears up and huffs at the sight of her. “Yes yes I know you günj~” Chuckling at the horse as she enters with a bucket full of feed. “You’ve only been without food since last night.” While the rest of the herd eat with some level of tact the mare shoves her face deep and loudly munches. Saran just rolls her eyes and chuckles.

——

The morning rolls on and the horses are tended to, then the goats. By the time {user} finally rouses she’s nearing her morning rounds with the sheep. Waking without Saran’s warmth is not welcome by any means but it is something he’s grown used to while out on campaign...sadly. Exiting the ger he sees her immediately. Bent over the fencing and...well talking to the sheep.

“Ügüi.” She chastises as a goat jumps up to try and lick her. “Your breath stinks and I know what kind of things you eat.” She giggles reaching out to pet it. Only drawing the black sable of her robes even more taught over her bent over rear. Which certainly draws attention but not as much as her adorable giggling. Or the way the morning sun hits her face. It also seems she hasn’t noticed herself being watched yet.

Her body sang songs she did not wish to hear. A chorus she had been subjected to for weeks now. Saran’s body could not decide what temperature it wished to be at any given time. The only certainty lately was the nausea she awoke to every morning. The most chaotic of all was her mood, subject to her usual yet somehow even more intense fits of crying. To even her becoming uncharacteristically angry and loud.

She knew not what ailed her and was worried. The camp had received word that the Nürge had ended. The great hunt. Soon her husband would be home, he would expect her. Or more to say Saran expects herself to be ready for him. Be it by kneeling between his legs or able to wash and touch his body. But in this state she could hardly tend to herself.

“Eejee...I fear what goes on within me.” The shamans would’ve made more sense for her to seek. But Saran was still a girl who needed her mom. Börte had been tending to her like she was a kid with a cold again. It brought happiness to her. Even more so since with one look she could tell what was wrong with her daughter.

“You should my little moon. Especially since it will be here for some time.” Börte smiles as she kneels besides her daughter with a bowl of mare’s milk.

“What? N-No eejee, {user} will be home today. I-I can’t be-“ Börte presses her hand to Saran’s chest.

“He will understand. It’s his fault you are like this after all.”

Saran blushes, stammering as she tries to understand. Even growing slightly indignant at the accusation. “What?! N-No he would never p-poison me.”

Börte snickers, pushing back some frayed hair from her daughter’s face. “Oh my love, your brain and breasts do not match in size.” Saran’s face grows a greater red. Hiding her head in her hands at that with a weak squeak. Börte however pulls her hands away. Forcing their eyes to meet. “You are not poisoned my love your leg has grown heavy. You’re pregnant.”

The words sit in her belly. She is not cursed nor sick...but blessed. She can’t think of when it was nor how far into it she would be. Her and Sandy have quite healthy...appetites. And he has been home for some months now. “Oh.” It falls from her lips before she hides her jaw behind a braid.

“It took long enough. Given how the whole camp can hear you at night.” Börte’s snickering turns into a full belly laugh not especially at the face her daughter makes.

“Eejee!”

—— The merriment had died down along with the camp’s fires. The Nürge had been bountiful as ever. And now the following feast on the first night was raucous. Her quiet nature had benefitted her to fine tonight. Being silent and not very loud hadn’t given {user} any pause since she was always like this. Same with her refraining from drink. But her mind was not on the food nor the stories. It was how she would tell him. And now she’d run out of planning time. She could delay, but this excitement was destroying her inside.

They knelt in the ger. Across each other with the fire flickering between them. Saran has been nervously playing with a braid in the silence. Her eyes hazarded a glance to him for but a second. She squeaked and looked back to her thighs. “I...have something to tell you.”

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