❝Maybe the moon is beautiful only because it is far.❞

--Mahmoud Darwish

SHE SAT BOLT UPRIGHT for the entire time, the desert winds taking her tears and flinging them into the dusk.

Baba.

The name was poison on her cracked lips, now, death and destruction and disgrace and everything else that could tear someone's heart in two. She loved him–she had loved him–but now she did not know whether to spit at the mirage her memories provided or to comfort herself with the lies of the past.

He had left her to the wolves, those foul things with teeth and claws unlikely to be rivaled. Samhini, that was all he had to say, as if the fact that the words were falling from his unworthy tongue would change anything.

Scheherazade tried to tell herself that she did not care what he did, did not care what consequences he suffered because of it, did not care that he chose himself over his own daughter. But when the tears came and went and her eyes became crimson red she knew–ah, she knew it was not so.

It would never be so.

She sniffled a bit, though it was not so much from the crying spell than from the gritty sand that whipped about in her face.

"You'll have more than enough to cry about when we reach the palace, girl," her captor sneered, jerking on the reins as they entered the city gates and almost causing her to fall off. "Save the tears for when you're swinging from a rope, or better yet drowning."

Azade said nothing, the thought of it turning her stomach to bile.

She didn't want to die.

All these people ahead of the fated caravan, trading in the souk, living their lives as if they did not have a supposed madman ruling them–did they know who she was, that the next bride of the sultan rode among them? did they care?

The crowds parted as the horses passed but said nothing. Nothing was worth being uttered, in fact, for death was their shield, their sword, their buckler.

Death was their existence, for it was their sultan's.

The twisted, crowned parapets loomed above her like mountains, marble gleaming in the afternoon sun. Stairways curled around their solid trunks, leading up to lookouts from the towers. Her father had come here many a time, under the previous sultan's rule and under this one's too. 

But that was before he went mad, before the rumours began and the girls started dying.

No matter what her baba said otherwise, she knew he believed the legends that crept out from beneath servants' quarters and into the streets.

Minutes passed before they stopped–she did not know how many, only that they were as agonizing as a man's final moments on this earth–and her wrists were bloody and chafed when the bonds were removed. Instinctively, she started to rub them, but stopped when she caught the vizier's eye.

Do not show yourself to be a weakness, her baba had told her, and though she wished to forget it was all too fresh in her mind. Show yourself to be a strength, and no one will dare cross you again. You are not a reed blowing in the wind.

Scheherazade set her mouth into a thin line, yet she knew that if anyone would look hard enough they would see her jaw trembling with the effort. She was a lamb to the slaughter awaiting the butcher's knife.

Blood would water the earth then.

"Should we take her straight to the quarters?" Akeem asked. His son–who Azade had not paid attention to until now–shook his head.

"Azzam wants to see her first," he answered. "The sultan wants a virgin bride, as always."

"And every bride is a virgin," the vizier growled. "What evidence does he need?"

"The usual, Father," he drawled. "He refuses to go through with the wedding without it."

Akeem muttered an oath under his breath–Azade assumed that he was less than pleased that she was causing so much trouble already.

"The sun does not have centuries to go before it is set," he growled, "and if she is not presented tonight then another will stand in her place until tomorrow evening. Tell Azzam, Zayn, that he must be quick with these things."

"Azzam will be as quick as he likes," Zayn snapped, and for a moment Azade admired his boldness. "You forget, Father, just like Mohammed has forgotten, who will hold the sultan's ear when you are dead and gone."

He took a breath. "Tread carefully, lest you stir up a hornet's nest in the kingdom's path."

Akeem said nothing, though inwardly Scheherazade marveled at his cowardice. Baba would never have tolerated such words coming from her lips, especially since she was unmarried and under his care. No, at best he would have struck her in the privacy of four walls–at worst, he would have shamed her publicly.

Zayn strode over to her steed, then, his eyes piercing through her like a hawk's.

"Sayidati," he began, though the slight malice in his voice was unmistakable, "if you would, we have an examination to attend."

She nodded, removing her feet from the stirrups and easing her way onto the ground. When she smoothed out her skirt her raw and bloodied wrists caught on the smooth fabric and she held back a hiss.

The vizier's son offered her his arm, draped in black velvet and embroidered with gold thread. Scheherazade looked at him for a moment, glanced from his arm to her own, and quietly walked past him.

He acted like she was to be pitied. She knew she was, but she did not want a reminder.

Every step she took on the marble was carved with blood in her imagination, spilling out around her until the crimson waves rose and fell at the threshold of the doorways.

They stopped in front of a door covered in ivy, ivy that was entwined around the handles of the wood and acting like a lock and key in the absence of one.

Zayn knocked. The leaves of the vine curled away from his touch, some of the edges even turning black when his fingers skimmed against them. It both fascinated and disconcerted her, and Azade swallowed thickly before the door opened and the darkness inside gave way to partial light.

"Come in," a young servant girl answered, though her words were only a whisper, "he's been expecting you."

They both said nothing, entering the place that seemed to be teaming with life. In one corner a turtledove sang in a cage, while in another, a parakeet nudged at its owner's shoulder.

"Azzam." The vizier's son was curt, hands clasped behind his back as he spoke. "I brought the sultan's bride for you to... examine."

Azzam never even looked up from his work, waving a dismissive hand in Zayn's direction.

"You are excused, then–I don't want what happened at the last examination to happen again."

A slight smirk played on his lips, then, yet he simply bid Scheherazade farewell and stepped outside.

She was alone with Azzam.

"Name?" The question was quiet, so much so that Azade almost thought it had been the wind and not the hakim.

"Why should I give it?" She spat, betrayal still bitter on her tongue.

"I need it."

"You need nothing from me," she hissed, the words snakelike and dangerous, "nothing but a purse full of gold dirhams, that's what! You and your kind threatened my father, my baba so that he'd give me to you. If you want my name you'll have to scream it on your deathbed, scream it to the gods and pray they'll answer. My name is poison on your lips."

"I am not here to take the brunt of your attacks," Azzam murmured, crushing a scroll between his hands, "I am here to examine you and to see if you are as pure as they claim you are, just as I have done since the very first bride. Now tell me your name, or I'm afraid I'll have to use sterner tactics."

"Scheherazade al-Khayzuran," she growled, eyes following him as he wrote it down on a sheet of parchment.

"Ah," he mused, "you are of Mohammed's line, then. Fine man–such a pity his daughter is being sacrificed to a beast."

He tucked the parchment away, rolling up his sleeves and snapping his fingers at a stool not too far from her. When it rose into the air, surrounded by a strange aura, she stepped back, startled.

"Never seen magic before?" Azzam asked. Azade shook her head, though that was only half the truth. She knew of the famed magic carpets and the djinns of the desert, nothing more.

"I see," he said. "I'll need you to sit down, of course. It'll only be a moment."

She took cautious steps, only lowering herself onto the stool when all four wooden legs were on the ground. Azzam strode over to her, kneeling in front of her and slowly lifting her skirt.

She grabbed his wrist.

"I don't believe this is part of the examination," she managed. He laughed.

"How else am I supposed to know?"

"You could take my word for it."

"And lose my head if those words are a lie? I'd rather not."

Scheherazade scrambled for words. "Am I not your sultana?"

"Not until the ceremony," he answered smoothly. Azade gritted her teeth, still clutching to his wrist.

"I forbid you to touch me."

"Forbid is a strong word," Azzam offered, raising an eyebrow. "Perhaps we could work out an arrangement?"

"No arrangement is necessary," she said. "Let go of my skirt–when the dawn greets my corpse in the morning you can examine it then."

"A waste," he replied, wrenching his hand out of her grasp. "Now, I have a job to do."

Her heartbeat was erratic, now, memories of dark alleyways and repeated refusals coming back to her in a foaming flood. When his fingertips skimmed the inside of her thigh she flinched.

That did not go unnoticed. Almost immediately he withdrew, opening his mouth before closing it once more. His eyes, dark as the tourmaline green caps of the stormy ocean, glittered with intrigue.

"You are... frightened?"

She took a shaky breath. "Do you do this to every bride of the sultan?"

"You did not answer my question," he prodded, and there was a hint of kindness in his voice. "Are you frightened?"

"Somewhat," she admitted. He nodded.

"You've never been examined before?"

"When I lived with my... baba," Azade explained, "there was no need. If there was blood on the bridal sheets on your wedding night that was proof enough."

A slight smile played on Azzam's lips. "There's blood on every bridal sheet with the sultan, Scheherazade, and it's not because of virginity."

She swallowed thickly. "The last time I let anyone touch me like that I almost lost my life."

"I see." Azzam stood. "Well, then, I'll let you go. If anyone asks what you were doing here, tell them it's best not to peer into things they don't understand."

"So you're just letting me go like that?" Azade's voice was incredulous. "And if you lose your neck because of it?"

"I will not," he answered, touching a gilded bracelet that sat snugly around his forearm. At the angle she was sitting Azade could see Arabic lettering curling delicately into the precious metal. "I can tell you're speaking the truth. Those who wish to lead others astray will reap the rewards eventually."

She waited in silence, for a moment, ruminating over his words before clenching her fists and lifting her chin, nebulae in her gaze.

"Truth does not matter in the grave," she whispered, though her voice was frail and her vision began to blur. "Both truths and untruths alike congregate in the earth's womb."

"That may be so," Azzam acknowledged. "But the truth could mean your life or your death."

He paused. "If you learn anything in this world, Scheherazade, may it be to spin yourself another dawn tonight."

Azade stood, not wanting to hear any more mockeries about her fate. She knew what was ahead–she'd see blood and war and she'd kiss the marble with pale lips that gasped out her final prayers before it would all be over. There was nothing left for her, not even her baba–perhaps if he had fought and they had still taken her away she would have held that final tendril of love close to her heart instead of cutting it in two.

She stopped between the ivy-covered threshold and the pillars when he spoke again.

"The sultan plans to swallow the morn."

sayidati:

origin: Arabic, meaning: my lady

hakim:

origin: Arabic, meaning: physician

dirham:

origin: Arabic, meaning: an ancient unit of monetary value, today used by the Moroccan, UAE, and Armenian governments. used in WITA, the value is the same as the UAE dirham, which amounts to 27¢ in the US.

djinn:

origin: Arabic, meaning: a mythical creature, commonly known as a genie, frequently mentioned in both Islam and the Western fairytales. 

ummm...

hi? 😫

*pleasedon'tkillmepleasedon'tkillmepleasedon'tkillme*

i know, i know, it's been a little over two weeks since the first chapter of WITA came out, fresh off the press. but i wanted to make sure i didn't make the mistakes of last draft (not being happy with my work) and so i wrote and rewrote until i thought it was something passible.

i'm still not completely happy (authors never are), but i'm happy enough to let you darlings get the second chapter, just like you asked.

in other news, AZZAM IS HERE. yes, you know who i'm talking about, TT readers, but for those of you who don't, he's the physician that was introduced late into the first draft and was described as... well, you'll have to wait and see. 

there is, however, a bit of–how shall i say this–magic in the air (*wink wink 😉*), and Azade will have to get used to it, although, i admit, i did ramp up the tension (apologies, but the little darling's got a past, loves).

the banter in this chapter, i think, was a little more poetic (yay me! 😂), which satisfied my Shakespearean writer's heart because the first chapter was more action-focused. i'll be taking it somewhat slower for the next few chapters.

that should be all for now–keep your eye out for another update, perhaps later this week if i'm feeling generous. 😘

stay ruinated, darlings (today, for some reason, i feel less fake-deep: is that good or bad?),

–ella <3

p.s: also, question of the day: what was your favorite line?

(please, don't pass this by. i am an extremely self-doubting author and constantly need validation from my readers. (and that's a mood.) )