A Court's Maim

کُنڈا | Lock

Chapter 12.

Midnight crept up the lonesome mansion. Even in the starless reverberations of the winds, the callous grey shoals of cloud striking against the ancient architecture. The columns borrowed from the Greeks, the windows from England and the statue work from Rome — it was an array of juxtapositions. Around it the lonesome airs with the crispness of abandoned neighbors allowed it's freshness and the vast allure of it to last. Propped on the end of the street, it's solid glass doors with the backbone of iron, held through winds and torments of all kinds. Fines paid around kept the guards lips shut and it's melancholic secrets, generations after died.

Inside the living room time and sound had frozen. Stillness covered each motion, with lights yellow like the sun burning through the game of stares. Down in the dumps — the mood had crumbled with an intensity. Ghastly eyes with hollowed out affections, steamed at the sight of the comfortable woman. How with ease and motions smooth as flowing water she nibbled on the crème brûlée, stealing a spoonful every now and then from the man beside her. The twinkling mirth in her eyes made up for the lack of stars in the sky. Her calm — triggering.

The stifled sobs from the corner of the magnificent room were the background noise. Merging with the rainfall that showered the trees. As outside the temperatures fell, the room simmered. Complacent with the requirements she kept her lips sealed, swirling the spoon in her soft fingers in the dessert. The light bitterness from the burnt sugar and the fluffy inside smoothed over her pink tongue. With a grip around the porcelain ramekin, she felt the vanilla bean flavor of the custard choke her throat, tones of the caramel coming through. The stem of the spoon rose above her gentle grip, her face the explanation of merriment. Closer to her roots than ever — the authentic taste from her mother's hand was unbeatable.

Aliyaar's hands smoothed over the veins of the vessel, reaping in the steam that blew over the cusp of his hand. The ridges of his thumb and index finger held on to the spoon, creases appeared on to the soft skin of his forehead as he chewed with a deep gaze. A mile a minute, he thought. Strapped into the midst of an incoming trouble he silently avoided meeting the gazes of the rowdy —in law's. Smoothing over the custard, his mouth coated in it's richness, the underside of his jaw moved. With his side pressed into the arm of the couch, her body slouched against his arm. Her hair curled over his arm, and nothing but the soft sounds of her own laughter could be heard.

What she offered to her cousin was a formidable gaze and no consolation — but that was Barekhna. Aliyaar held back the smile that forced itself on to his simpering mouth, propriety stated he be mournful. Though he felt anything but. His sympathies laid with the heavily pregnant woman whose world had all but crumbled. Although, Aliyaar could not hide the pride he felt at his wife's moral compass. One of a kind — unusual to see her like that. She deserved it though. Years of trauma and pain from their end had pushed her into a blind corner. He would only enjoy from the sidelines as she created a mess, mischief her friend.

Siren — it was a bloody well suiting title.

Placing the delicate ramekin on to the trolley, his fingers rubbing against Barekhna's hand accidentally, he felt his ears heat up. Warmth radiated from the tips of them and he could all but feel it gush around him. Vibrations in his cheeks — the only inclination of a blooming blush. Under the guise of a cough he hid his face from sight. Barekhna's burning gaze melted his flesh on the left side of his face until it was one with the bones and nerves.

Kismet — destiny it had a funny way of working, it pulled you in and snapped you around it's thick hold. It was a deceit — cheat and a liar. Amongst everything it was the backbone of hope. Kismet, he wondered, running a hand through his lush flossy hair, fixing the cuff of his shirt as he sat amongst the emotional family. Kismet, it held six letters and destroyed beyond measure. That was why he sat beside a woman as wondrous as she was, as her husband. They were two rivers that bled in their own paths but destiny forced them to move as one. Then, there was Saliha and her husband — the picture of a put together couple. Both, born to rich parents, fell in love and the rest was history. Yet kismet it deceived.