"THE PRISONER," LALEH STARTS this morning, winding into the room with the first gleam of the sun, "Happens to be a rebel."
Shahrazad gathers the unbrushed thicket of curls behind her shoulders, widening her eyes. She had expected that the man was, in fact, after the blood of the King, but it still surprises her that he had the courage to directly break into the palace. "Has he said anything at all?"
"With the methods Khalifa is using, he might as well," she points, the tinge of coldness her voice had undertaken the previous day vanquished. It is quite comforting after their disagreement, and Shahrazad is glad for it. "If you're wondering why I'm talking to you, it's because despite yesterday, you are still better company than that Farha."
A familiar figure creeps into the gaps of the ajar doors, thinly smiling through chapped, fuchsia painted lips. "That is no way to gossip about a poor woman."
Laleh scoffs. "You're hardly that."
"Well, I'm not here for you," Farha sharply grins as she pads over towards the shutters. "I would like to speak to the Queen."
Staring at the domed ceiling, mosaic splattered high arches seeming unreachable, Shahrazad nods. She can merely listen to what the eunuch has to offer with a grim mind and an unsound heart.
The cushions dip, caving into the flooring. It is a hissed whisper slithering past her ears, curling into her stomach in uncertainty. "I believe the prisoner might be of interest to you, Malika."
"Why do you think so?"
"For one, he is quite the companion."
Shahrazad grips the ivory stand beside her, clutching it until her knuckles resemble its shade. The shallowness of her breath burns her lungs, scorching an ample fire. It can't be a coincidence, this cannot be happening. "Afshar."
"That is what it means in Farsi, does it not, my lady?"
Beside her, Laleh holds onto her delicate shoulders, glaring deeply. "Stop it this instant."
"No, where is he?"
"Where all the devil's prisoners are," Farha breathes smugly, smile dark, "The dungeons."
Everything seems to fade.
She cringes at the picture her mind conjures. It paints the image of Afshar being dragged, bruised, beaten to bleed. Shahryar whips him, laughing cruelly, blood staining his glittering crown. She recalls the indentation in his hands, the hands she held, the fingers that touched her, and bile crawls up the column of her throat. She let him do that.
It is all her fault.
Shahrazad uses the wall as a pillar, rising nervously on unsteady feet. "I have to see him for myself."
"You're out of your mind," Laleh protests, seizing her wrist. "This is a bad idea. Farha is probably lying."
She shakes her head, turning towards the eunuch with a firm gaze. "Lead me to the dungeons."
"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.
"I am so glad that you're doing this," he says, coughing a mouthful of blood. "Plotting his demise, god, he doesn't expect that his death won't come from the prisoner."
"It's nothing like that."
At this, he looks at her from cut infected eyelids. "I promise that I will not tell him anything."
"I mean it, Afshar, I'm not going to--"
Behind her, Farha appears, breaking her sentence midway with a firm hiss. "We should be leaving, Malika, the night is approaching."
"Kill him Shahr, kill him like he killed those women."
"Afshar, you don't understand--"
Sobbing wildly as Farha steers her towards the stairs, she can simply weep as he muses quietly into the depths of the cavern.
"I wonder what he'll look like when his bride stabs him in the heart."
THE UNMATCHED BRILLIANCE OF STARS connect in pitiful mercy at her numb frame. Shahrazad aimlessly stares at the ceiling, hair spilling across the cushions. She remains unmoving even as he enters, replaying the blood, the harsh, cold strike of reality.
"Quiet, are we?" Shahryar speaks first, and from the corner of her eyes, she views his staunch profile. He plucks grapes from the copper bowl, peeling the skin before he pierces his teeth into its flesh.
She says nothing.
"Talk to me, love."
Her wary gaze flinches at the endearment, recoiling from the abject horror she has witnessed today, and the bloodlust driving his bones.
Shahryar pushes the curtains apart, allowing the cool gust of wind to swirl inside the room, intermingled with the granules from the desserts.
It's almost as if blood reeks from him.
She remembers Afshar's shattered limbs, his bent teeth, his lashed back, and the thought urges vomit up her throat. "Did you kill the prisoner?"
"Maybe, maybe not," he grits sardonically, "Why are you so interested?"
She stills. "A King shouldn't be slaying his subjects."
Dark content filters across his handsomely crafted face. "I'm a monster, Shahrazad, it's just what is expected."
"That's not an answer."
"I wasn't giving one."
Sliding between the fluffed pillows, she resumes her indifferent silence.
Blood, blood, blood.
His eyebrows arch. "Why aren't you continuing the story?"
"I don't want to," she says simply, turning away from him.
Shahryar clenches his jaw tightly. "What makes you think that you can display such impudence?"
When she snorts, he grabs her wrist, fingers locking around it in a vice-like hold. "You seem to forget that your life depends on it, love. It would do well for you to honour that, yes?"
Shahrazad curses under her breath. "Sinbad?"
"Sinbad," he affirms, sighing deeply. "The first tale that the Princess tells him."
Chewing the inside of her cheek, she begins, albeit reluctantly. "The woman behind the veils laughed, tapping her feet impatiently. 'Allow me to start my first story,' she said, leaning into the sofa."
The storyteller spins her web of magic, entrancing her king for another night. "Sinbad sat straighter, listening with rapt attention. After all, it was a matter of life and death for him. 'Go on.' The Princess only smiled. 'Tis a tale of unusual complex. There once resided an exceptionally talented sculptor in the interiors of the dusty pyramids. He was assigned to work on sculptures and treasuries, but bitten by loneliness, he began crafting a beautiful statue'."
Shahryar places his palms against the floor, leaning backwards casually, beguiled.
"The voyager attempted to see her through the veils in vain, greeted with her barely there silhouette. Instead, he grudgingly listened. 'Day in, and night out, the winds blew strong, crippling his form. Summers scorched, and winters made him shiver. Yet, his expert hands continuously chipped at the shapeless block of marble. The guards laughed and ridiculed him, but they didn't see what he saw: everyday the stone took a different, altered shape. It was beautiful. As the nights wore on, the sculptor realised that he was, in fact, creating a woman'."
The King laces his fingers together. "That is definitely pointless."
Shahrazad barely comprehends it, thoughts flitting to the man in the dungeons. He's suffering in agony whilst she mindlessly entertains his torturer.
He is bleeding, bleeding, bleeding.
Faint tears line the strong layer of kohl. "Sinbad was amused, falling into the rhythm of her clever story, and she said, 'The dexterity of his fingers created wide, flowing hips, etching a delicate, hourglass figure. In all senses, she was utterly captivating. Soft shoulders, and slender collarbones adorned her. However, as he reached for her face, hammering in tiny details, he drew sad eyes. This lovely woman, flawless in her exterior, could not escape the grief of this world. Downcast lids, lowered lashes, and miserable irises'."
His curious eyes carry an underlying emotion, one that she can't place.
She steels herself, forcefully shushing her mind from being preoccupied with Afshar. " 'One night, when the winter was unreasonably cold, the sculptor lit a candle by his working stool, watching the woman under the flickering gold from the light. She was beautiful, no doubt, her misery more human than stone. As he allowed his craft to make her embrace pain, irises brighter than the universe itself, he stilled. And then, running his calloused fingertips across her face, he wondered if she could be real. For, being companionless had rendered him to focus all of his attention to her, and only her. Unbeknownst to him, he had fallen deeply in love with his own creation'."
"Why is love such an important aspect of people's lives?" He asks, rubbing his chiselled jaw thoughtfully. "It is for the weak."
"You've said that before."
"And justly so," Shahryar corrects, and she cringes at the blue and purple blossoms bruising his hands. "It leads to ruin."
Warming breezes remind her that the night is fading, and that dawn is approaching steadily. The guise of the stars and the moon fail to hide his wickedness. It enhances his inner beast, the madness in his gaze, the curling of his lip. So, she decides that he does deserve hell. "The Princess smiled at Sinbad's interest, continuing the tale. 'One of the guards had, meanwhile, entered the workspace, and enchanted by the maiden, he draped an extra fabric he owned over her. The sculptor thought nothing of it, unable to take his eyes off the beauty. He was absolutely besotted with her. In his eyes, she was the sun, and he was at her mercy. Beside the sculptor was the royal Prince who was visiting the pyramids, accompanied by this guard. The statue's otherworldly beauty made him remove the casket of jewels he was carrying, and he adorned her with the most magnificent of gifts. She was now, in all their views, a goddess. And before them, something magical happened'."
The King tilts his head. "What?"
Shahrazad shrugs lightly. "Sinbad asked the same. The Princess behind the three veils was almost finished with her first story. 'The statue came to life, like she had been blessed by the constellations themselves. Her star dusted eyes blinked, lips folding into a smile. Now, a conflict arose. All the three men claimed that they were in love with her,' she concluded, 'Now tell me, voyager, whose love was truer? The sculptor's, the guard's, or the Prince's?' Sinbad thought hard."
"The sculptor's, of course," Shahryar pipes adjusting his crown. "After all, he spent all those nights over her."
The storyteller shakes her head. "Wrong. Sinbad narrowed his eyes, positive that he had the answer to the question, 'The Prince.' From behind the wheels, there was the tinkle of clear laughter. 'Why? Shouldn't it be the sculptor?' But the voyager only smiled. 'The sculptor gave her life from his craft, hence he is like a creator. The guard dressed her in cloth, provided her the basic necessity, so he is the provider. However, it was the Prince who adorned her in jewels, showering her in gifts like a lover'."
She feels the darkness vanish, awaiting the coy sun. "The Princess nodded, impressed. 'Well done, seafarer.' And the first veil fell."
Ending her tale, Shahrazad sits straight, locking her elbows on the platform of her knees. "Tragic that a smart man such as yourself answered incorrectly, Khalifa."
His nostrils flare. "The only tragedy here is your presence, love."
"I can absolutely sense the love there," she mocks, shuffling the netted drapes of her itchy clothing.
"Would you have me 'shower you with gifts,' then?" Shahryar imitates, standing proudly like the tall pyramids themselves, golden in the warm, basking hue of sunlight.
She flinches, pursing her lips in agitation, and an inkling of something else. Something that has her heart skipping. "Are you claiming to be my lover?"
"Maybe, maybe not."
a/n: finally done with my exams, and i got into the university of my choice!! literally so excited and happy rn. since i'm free of school, and hols are in, expect quicker updates ;)