A Garden Of Hydrangeas

خدا | God

Chapter 29.

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A dim light cast over the face peeking through the shelves. A body, towering over the frames stepped out, the orange flames of the candle in hand warmed his skin tone. A cool blue shirt fit his frame, the scar on his cheek — an addition new, creeped over his chin, wrapping around the ends of his brow. A dignified grin masked the cusp of his lips, now horribly butchered. The tapered grin was more painful to see that Arham would imagine. The man thrived in their disbelief, nearing them with his feet placed strongly on the floors, the ends of his leather boots sinking deep into the rugs. He toyed with the rims of his gloves, tearing them off of his hands, slipping a piece of paper over the desk. His finger tapping the document as he sat down with leisure, not at all hurried.

"Bur—han?" Arham spoke, still mystified with shock, his words and tone foreign to the ears of everyone.

"You are of course gravely mistaken if you imagine it is the ghoul of your beloved assistant. Yes, it is me, Burhan Naeem, of course, Naeem to you." He cackled, licking the end of his lip, resembling a sated cat.

"How? We buried you! You died in my arms!" Arham spoke in horror, the whites of his eye spilling into his hazel, his skin a pale shade stolen from the moonlight.

"Surprise?" He quipped, clicking his tongue, "dare I say, kaisa laga mera mazak?"
[How did you find my joke?]

Shock.
Surprise.
Stunned — three of the most emotive human emotions, the most powerful skills to use against an enemy. Like shadows they move, creeping up the trees and threading in through the vast branches. They take, what they desire — and what they don't is thrown. In silence they reek of power, in words, they are destruction. Leaving the opponent's in a state of awe — is a capacity that possess the soul. Questions, remain on the tip of the tongue. Behind it, masterminds plot for days on end. This strength is all that is needed for the men to fight behind doors, to dry them with their blood. Despondency, unlike any fills the other. It is an accomplishment on it's own. All else, perishes.

Burhan popped a slice of orange off of the green plate, white rims and gold leaves on top — classic Mushkpur design. He hummed at the tangy flavor, crossing his legs at the ankles he motioned for the rest to have a seat. Burhan's fair skin turned a hue of blush red under the lights, his eyes skimming over proof — faux proof arranged by Azhar. The man had more brains than nought. He would give him that, Burhan mused, involuntarily licking his lips again — a habit developed after he lost a bit of them. Mutilated in the battle he and Raheel had took part in. Depressing as it was, the snake had been eating the apple more closer than they had thought. The haunting was a part of the essence of the estate — not far removed from the sufferings.

"Will you tell us how you're still alive?" Asghar pressed his hand on to Burhan's shoulder, his eyes pointing like arrows.

"It's a long story. Have a seat, everyone." He nodded, playing with the butterknife.

In a state of disbelief, as Arham took to the seat before the man, he could not help but doubt his eyes. Although the pitch and tone were spot on, the curly hair, brown eyes filled with leagues of warmth signature to Burhan's face framed him — he still held a grain of distance. Collapsing his shoulders against the frame of the wooden chair, Arham observed the man. His eyes squinted, the night blindness getting to him under the orange flames. There was a peculiar air about the man, somewhere between his death and revival to life, the man lost his innocent air. Instead, he looked cruel. He sounded and played the part of an aristocrat better than ever — wrapped in furs as if he had landed straight from the North Pole. Looking through the jagged lines on his face, Arham found some similarities too. His legs still shook with unease, he was still fond of oranges — what had caused this change?