Dead Girls Tell No Tales

t e n

"As you wish, Malika," Farha whispers, bowing, eyes glinting with satisfaction, "This way."

Laleh furrows her brows, mouth set in a straight line. "What if Khalifa finds out?"

"He won't," the Queen mutters, unsure. At least, she hopes that he doesn't. Perhaps if he did discover her intrusion, he would put an end to her misery. But then, his sadistic torture is something she wishes not to endure. "He really won't."

Yet as she furthers from the enclosure of her chambers, following an uncertain woman who has raised doubts in the past, Shahrazad considers it again.

It is for Afshar, she thinks, creeping down the main hallways. The route downstairs is winding, through dubious corners and complex doors, and even though she poorly attempts to memorise the path, the cellar is impeccably made. Almost completely shielded from the rest of the palace.

Dingy space after space leads to a cavern-like area, the bottom and top of which are grossly dank and putrid smelling. A lone, flickering torch is fastened to the damp side, and the metallic, pungent scent of blood lingers in the air in warning.

Her footfalls echo sharply, coupling along with Farha's, until a beaten voice calls, "Still obsessed with me, Khalifa?"

Shahrazad's breath hitches. It's true. It is him.

The eunuch points towards the end of the dungeons, where two bloodied hands glibly smother the cell's doors. "I'll let you have your moment. I'm standing outside, is that alright?"

She barely nods, taking careful steps towards the cell, heart beating in her chest. She's not sure what to expect, and it fills her with terror. "Afshar?"

There is a second of silence, interrupted by a soft, broken whisper. "Shahr?"

As she nears, her heart breaks. He is lying on the dirt floor, face pressed down, fingernails limed in grime and dried blood. Portions of his neck are caked crimson, back decorated with whiplashes, hundreds of them. He has been mercilessly hit, partially healed wounds freshly opened.

"You're alive?" he whispers through crooked teeth, dim eyes brightening softly. "You look like a Queen, Shahr."

Shaking, she holds his hands, raising them to her eyes as she cries. It's been ages since she wept. Sobs wrack her body, reverberating against his weak skin. "I'm so sorry."

"It isn't your fault, it's his," he growls, resolve clear. "I'll kill him."

Shahrazad stutters, unable to correlate the innocent boy from her past and this vengeance hungry Afshar. She used to love that naivety about him, those chaste feelings immature and foolish. "Murdering the wrongful won't make us any less guilty."

"No, it is fair," he grits, groaning slightly at the pain his movements bring. The uncountable lines on his back dot with coppery liquid threateningly. "He deserves to die for his crimes."

She touches his shoulder hesitantly, pulling away when he winces. "Why did you join the rebellion?"

His breath emits slowly, like the activity is incapacitating. "Your baba asked me, and I was initially hesitant but when I learned that he had taken you-- I couldn't stop from becoming a rebel. That monster deserves something worse than hell."

Choking, she realises that this Afshar isn't the same. He is not her quiet, childhood friend, the one she had fallen for during her teenage years, no.

Under the torment, the bloodied frame, he is a different man. And she supposes, that beneath the glamorous jewels, she is not the Shahrazad either.