❝In a murderous time, the heart breaks and breaks, and lives by breaking.❞

--Stanley Kunitz, from "The Testing Tree"

THEY WALKED IN SILENCE.

Though her hijab Scheherazade would catch glimpses of the guard that walked by her side–a square jaw, a thick beard, the curve of a scar just above his left eye. She let herself think of how it had happened, how perhaps he had blocked the blade of an enemy soldier that come too close to the sultan. Perhaps he had been captured as a ransom and tortured as a result. Perhaps it was an old thing, from training with his fellow guards, the very ones that walked behind him. He had not dodged the arc of the scimitar fast enough. His hesitation had cost him his beauty.

Perhaps, she thought, and here she sucked in a breath so sharp that she felt him turn to look at her, perhaps it was given to him by the one he loved the most. Perhaps they had fought, and they had threatened him, and he did not wish to kill them but let them scar him instead.

Perhaps this was the sign of his loyalty, a flame flickering in the night.

They paused underneath an archway. Up ahead, one could see the haze of incense burning, the lanterns hanging from the entrance of the khayma illuminating the figures inside.

"Sayidati,"  the guard said, and she almost did not turn. He touched her once, then, gently, and pulled back as if he had been burned. From the corner of her eye she saw him glance toward the khayma, the muscles in his jaw tense as he swallowed.

"May the sun shine on your path," he murmured, removing a weapon from its sheath.

"And may it never set on yours," she murmured in response. He knew what this was, and so did she.

In Al-Zahureem, one only spoke those words when they were about to bid a man farewell for the last time.

"I have seen many things," he told her, "but I have never seen a woman walk to her death like you have."

He opened his hand, palm up. Inside, there was a knife, ivory hilt gleaming in the torchlight.

"This was my father's before me, and his father's before him. But before this, it was the sultan's. It always has been."

His hand curled into a fist once more. "When the sultan took the throne, I swore to protect him with my life, with my honor, and with my blade. I have done all three, but I have done something else as well."

A breath. "I have loved him. With everything in my being, I have loved him as well as any other man could hope to from a distance."

Scheherazade heard the words that he did not say.

As well as any soldier could love his superior.

Slowly, surely, he took her hand and placed the knife in hers, only pulling away when her fingers curled around the handle.

"I am giving this to you," he said, "because I cannot let him use this blade to kill a girl again. Whatever you do with it, know this."

He lowered his voice to a whisper, and began to trace faded words that had been carved onto the blade of the knife.

'Iinah min ajl aleadala, he said. It is for justice.

'Iinah min ajl alsharaf, he said. It is for honor.

He stopped before the last line, eyes focused on whatever it was that awaited her in the khayma, but she knew what he would have said if he had chosen to continue. She could see it, now, and she placed her free hand over his as her eyes followed the arcs and curves.

'Iinah min ajl alhabi. It is for love.

"Shahid!" Someone called from inside the tent, and he straightened.

"Yes, sayyidi? "

"Is she here, Shahid?"

"Yes, sayyidi."

"Leave her at the threshold. I do not believe she needs to be carried in like the last bride."

He swallowed. "Of course, sayyidi."

To Scheherazade he said nothing else, stepping back from her and motioning across the courtyard. It seemed to her that he wanted to leave but then thought better of it, catching her by the arm just before she was out of reach.

"Sayidati,"  he said, softly, almost reluctantly, "he has the blood of many girls on his hands, but do not try to kill him yet. Promise me that you will not."

She kept her peace, though in the pit of her she was thinking of a thousand ways to tell him that she could not.

He is a murderer. A lier. A thief. A tyrant. I cannot let him stay and I cannot let him leave and I cannot let him be.

"Promise me," he repeated, and she relented.

"I will try," she said, and she did not know for whose benefit she spoke. Only that when she looked in his eyes she saw that he did not trust her. She did not blame him–he had heard enough promises broken to disregard the word of a girl who did not even know herself.

But she saw that he did not resent her, and that was enough.

"May the gods give you rest, whichever one is fitting when you are gone," he said, and as he walked away to rejoin the entourage she spoke through their distance, the emptiness that grew between them.

"And may you sleep and wake again before they give you yours."

THERE WAS NOTHING INSIDE the khayma to be afraid of, except, Scheherazade supposed, if one did not ignore the murderer standing in the middle of the room. Through her hijab she could make out less than she was used to, and coupled with the dim lighting he appeared to her as if he was a shadow.

Ibn al zalaam, she thought to herself. The son of darkness.

Despite that fact, his clothes did nothing to suggest that it was true. He wore a heavily embroidered thobe, dark gold and shimmering at the neck, with a crimson bisht draped over it, the edges trimmed with gold. Even the iqal that kept his white keffiyeh in place had golden threads woven through the goat hair, and the edges of his sleeves glittered with jewels. On his finger there sat a ring, and around his neck–though she could not see the stone that adorned the end of it–was a thin chain, the filigree delicate beyond belief.

He, Scheherazade realized with a start, was meant to look like her.

"Stand by your sultan, girl," one of the guards hissed, and she turned. Made her voice honeysuckle sweet, but dipped her words in poison.

"I am not a girl," she answered. "Do not address me as such. And if you want me to stand by your king, obey his orders and lead me to him."

The guard sputtered, and she smiled.

"I cannot see him from underneath this veil."

For a moment, no one moved. Then she heard footsteps, saw the flames of the lanterns flicker with hesitancy before she felt a hand on her arm.

A whisper. A tilt of the head. The rustling of fabric. "Your king stands next to you, little viper. Can you see him now?"

She said nothing. Only swallowed, and let the sultan lead her to where he had stood before.

In front of her, there were two cushions and a table. Behind the table, a man draped in white murmured blessings underneath his breath as he sharpened a blade.

"Sit," the sultan told her. "Or would you rather I do first?"

She made her way onto the cushion, clutching Shahid's knife underneath the folds of her dress. Do not try to kill him, he had said, and so she would not try.

That did not mean she would not kill him accidentally.

"We are here to create a union," the officiant said as she felt the sultan's weight sink down beside her, placing his blade on the table and taking a stick of bukhoor in each hand. "May the sun ever shine on your paths."

He waved the incense above a scroll three times, the edges curling from the smoke that rose from the mabkhara beside it. Then he slid the scroll forward, unfurling it until Scheherazade could see what it was.

A contract. Everything had already been set in stone–this was only a formality, something to settle the people if they protested against the marriage. If she had not known better, she might have been charmed.

No one could say that she did not agree, after all.

She watched the sultan toy with his ring, whispering something in a guard's ear before slipping the ring off his finger and placing it beside the scroll. Then he leaned toward her.

"Can you write?"

"Yes." She hesitated. "Though I would prefer the convenience of a seal such as yours."

He chuckled. "The seal is for formalities, little viper. The real seal"–and here he traced the faint web of veins on her hand as he spoke–"is al-dem al-sahar."

Blood magic. To seal the marriage one needed the blood of both parties, and to get it you had to cut the palm of your hand. Only royalty used it as a way to solidify their claims to the throne, however, and so Scheherazade had never had it done herself.

"Are you afraid, habibti? " Endearments now. He drew Shahid's knife out from under her skirts, the tip flecked lightly with blood. A crimson drop beaded on the surface of his finger, and he wiped it off on his thobe. "I would not think you were–you came prepared, after all."

Do not test me, girl. She saw in his eyes, in the way that he held the hilt of the thing in a firm grasp, like he had owned it since childhood even though she knew he had not.

Like he had drawn blood so many times that it meant nothing to him.

"Kashif," he said to the officiant, "it seems that the bride has brought her own knife. I hope you will not mind using a different blade than my own."

"Not at all, sayyidi," he answered, taking the knife from his sultan and holding it over the plume of incense before turning Scheherazade's hand palm up.

"Hmmmmmn," he murmured, studying the finger that Akilah had wrapped in cloth. "There is already a wound here, sayyidi. Surely we can use this instead–"

"Kashif." A pause. "There must be fresh blood. You know this."

The man touched two fingers to his brow and dipped his head. "My apologies, sayyidi."

He passed the knife back to the sultan, taking a copper bowl with wax and heating it over the fire when the sultan turned back to her.

"Your hand, habibti." When she did not give it to him right away he whispered in her ear.

"It will not kill you."

Not at first.

So she took a breath. Let it out. Gave him her hand and prayed that it would not be the death of her.

He cut her palm in a groove that she had had since childhood, and she watched the crimson ooze from her like water from a sieve. And all the while that shadow, that serpent that was a sultan saw, and smelt the blood, and only smiled.

She could not tell if it was a genuine one from underneath her veil.

Kashif–she still did not know if he was a elkahin, an al-nabi, or simply one of the city's many men that had agreed to marry them lest his daughter be the next bride to fall–took the knife from him and gave it to her, deftly catching her blood in another, smaller bowl.

"Cut him so that the contract may be binding," he said to her, and she trembled as she let the blade hover over the sultan's open palm. The knife was in the hand that had been cut, after all, pressing against the flesh like a branding.

Do not try to kill him yet. Promise me you will not.

She closed her eyes and thought of her home, and her baba and Akilah and Shadid and then she cut.

But she did not cut to kill.

The bowl received his blood as well as hers, and Kashif poured the blood into the copper bowl with the wax before handing her a strip of linen. She saw him wipe the handle of the knife in his robes, placing it in a compartment below the table.

Then, he spoke.

"You, who are here, speak. Witness. Testify of yourself, and the gods will testify of you when the time comes."

The sultan took one end of the linen and began to wind it around her hand, his voice a goading of sorts amidst Kashif's chanting.

"Repeat what I say, habibti. And take care to mean it."

Ana melzem lek, 

I am bound to you,

Kent molzameh ley wanna lek. 

As are you to me.

She held the other end between her fingers, feeling the blood soak though the linen as he wrapped his own around her palm.

"Should I ask you if you mean it as well?"

Bahadha al-dem sakhtim hudha alahed. 

With this blood, I seal this covenant.

Bedmic thetm nafs alahed. 

With your blood, you seal the same.

He laughed, tucking the loose pieces into the bindings and holding his hand out for her.

"No one asks the sultan whether he means what he says, habibti. They simply know that he does."

When she reached over to wind her end around his hand she thought she tasted ashes on her tongue, thick and acrid and heavy with the scent of lies. She did not know if that was the truth.

Casser hudha alahed wassouf casser nevsk. 

Break this covenant, and you will break yourself.

Once it was done and she had tied a knot as firmly as she could, Kashif took their hands and placed a sliver of bukhoor between their bindings, the wood biting into Scheherazade's skin. From the corner of her eye, she saw him tilt the contents of the copper bowl onto the marriage contract.

Luqud wadat, 

I have promised,

Wassouf ahaqaq delk. 

And I will fulfill it.

The wax hissed as it hit the scroll, its color a dark red from the blood that they had both given up. With his left hand, the sultan reached for his signet ring. With his right, he gripped her hand tighter.

Al-ha tasma witfhihm. 

The gods hear and understand.

Scheherazade turned her head as he pressed his ring into the hot wax, knowing that as she did so she was bound to this monster, this murderer, this thing, and yet knowing that she would be dead by the morn's light.

If she did not fight to live.

If she did not ask to live.

"Nedah yakon delk," the sultan said, and she echoed him. Traced the tughra of his name with wary eyes as the ring peeled back to reveal it. Followed the path of the wax as it dripped down, down, down, past the parchment and onto the dish that had been placed there to catch the remains. Memorized the face of the guard whose task it was to take the contract to the gates of the qasr outside for public display, committed each flaw to memory when he stepped forward to receive it.

"Sayyidi?"  He asked, and the sultan nodded.

"Inform those in the dining hall that we will be joining them in a moment. And take the contract to the square as well."

He paused. "Make sure you do not touch the seal, boy. The wax is not yet dry."

"As you wish, sayyidi." The guard held the scroll in somewhat trembling hands, and Scheherazade could almost hear the fear in his voice. He knew, she assumed, what it was like to bear the sultan's wrath and did not want to meet it again.

She could not blame him for being a coward.

Only that he had waited to so long to show it.

The sultan stood to his feet when the guard had gone, nearly pulling her up with him.

"Well, habibti? " Something glittered in his eye, something cruel and iron-bent and unmoving. It made her shudder, but she did not let him see that. "Are you going to let your subjects see their king?"

She swallowed all the words she wanted to say. Stood to her feet as well and tried to ignore the feel of his skin against hers. Threw her shoulders back and knew the suffocating stillness of the night breeze when they walked out and every soldier that stood by the khayma's entrance took a knee without a second thought. In another life, she would not have been so loyal.

But then again, in another life she would not have married this king.

"Nedah yakon delk,"  she had said. Let it be so.

And so it would be.

Til morning.

khayma:

origin: Arabic, meaning: in traditional Arab culture, a  khayma is a tent with a prominent top and arched entryways. commonly used among nomadic tribes, in WITA it is the style of tent that Scheherazade is married in.

the poem on the blade:

origin: Arabic, meaning: while not an actual poem in the real world, in WITA it is a common folk saying that pertains to a determination to be devoted to someone and/or something. when asked of their motives behind their decision, the party inquired of would normally recite this from memory, and, satisfied, the others would give their blessing. as it is rendered carved on Shahid's blade, however, it is most likely that one of his ancestors added it to the weapon while the metal was still malleable and in the forge before gifting it to the one of his choosing.

thobe, bisht, iqal  and keffiyeh:

origin: Arabic, meaning: in traditional Arab culture, these are all fairly common articles of clothing. the  thobe is a long tunic, traditionally white and made of cotton, while the  bisht is a long, flowing outer cloak that ranges in color from black to brown, beige, cream or gray and is worn by royalty/men of high ranking at weddings, funerals, feasts and religious gatherings. the iqal and the  keffiyeh are a band of goat hair and a traditional headress, respectively, with the iqal being what keeps the  keffiyeh in place. in WITA all four are worn by the sultan at his wedding.

bukhoor  and mabkhara:

origin: Arabic, meaning: in traditional Arab culture, bukhoor are wood chips or sticks, normally made of oud wood, that have been soaked in essential oils are burned on hot coals in a special censer, or mabkhara. bukhoor are normally burned at weddings or just before Friday prayers for Muslims. in WITA  bukhoor and the  mabkhara used to burn it are both used in the khayma, during the wedding.

elkahin  and al-nabi:

origin: Arabic, meaning: both of these words have religious significance. elkahin means priest, and al-nabi (or  nabi, as they are commonly called) means prophet. in WITA and Al-Zahureem weddings are normally conducted by either of these, but it is evident that the sultan does not conform to traditional renderings of normality and, as such, has neither in his presence during the event.

the wedding vows:

origin: Arabic, meaning: while also not an example of actual vows in the real world, in WITA these function dually as both a blessing and a curse. the consequences, as seen in the vows themselves, are dire and would require a strong sense of betrayal for one to think of disregarding them. however, as it is also linked to the blood magic tradition of royalty, the vows are, as a result, not commonly said among poorer folk, as they prefer to bind the marriages simply and with more speed.

tughra:

origin: Ottoman Turkish, meaning: during the Ottoman period, a  tughra was the calligraphic seal/signature of the sultan that was placed on all official documents and correspondence, as well as being carved onto his seal and stamped onto any coins minted during his reign. it was traditionally made up of six elements and almost always included the words "forever victorious" somewhere in the imperial design. designed at the beginning of his reign by the official royal calligrapher, each sultan had his own individual tughra–several of which can still be seen today. in WITA the  tughra is the official seal of the sultan of Al-Zahureem, which is also made up of his name.

*eternal screaming into the abyss*

Y'ALL IM SORRY BUT IT HAS BEEN A HOT MINUTE AND I AM GLAD TO BE BACK

this is the first real update of 2020 (story wise, author's notes don't count) and i had to do it during January or else

this is probably one of the longest chapters i have ever written (over 2500 words, y'all, and that's excluding the glossary and this author's note), but i did this to make up for the long wait since the last chapter. (plus, you know, it's a belated birthday gift, so. doesn't do any harm to indulge myself.)

i promised angst

and y'all i hope i delivered

Scheherazade finally gets married? check

first glimpse of the sultan? (*unintelligible screaming*) sorry bout that, check

weird chanting officiant guy who appears to like incense a lot? check

i had to do so much research for this chapter i kid you not

i think i might have gone a bit overboard on the description but y'all know how it is when you're trying to write something the way you see it in your brain and the only way to do that is to flood the reader with sensory detail

i sowwy UwU

but TT squad if y'all kept your eyes open there was a slight reference to the talisman... *whistles*

also, btw, i've been learning Arabic recently and i am proud to say that i did at least one (one!) translation from Arabic into English for this chapter (it was the translation for "son of darkness," if you wanted to know)

now

about Shahid

*takes a breath*

tbh, Shahid was supposed to stay how he was from the last chapter–that guard who kneels down in front of our girl Azade to let her know that the sultan is ready for the wedding–but he took a turn that i was not suspecting

and, y'all, i'm actually glad it happened

i think that Shahid is the first character i've written whose definition of love is a bit in the grey area. to me, he borders on platonic love that could (could, y'all, i'm not saying this is definite) be seen as something else entirely, and the fact that he entrusted his knife to Scheherazade and yet it still ended up in the sultan's hands is interesting, to say the least.

(also i ended up listening to The Bells of Notre Dame/Made of Stone from the musical "The Hunchback of Notre Dame" while writing this and i??? have no idea??? why???? but all i'm going to say is that it is a masterpiece, please go listen to the entire soundtrack and mourn the fact that it never reached Broadway, thank you for coming to my TED talk)

i think this author's note is getting a bit long so imma end it here for now

hopefully i can update again at the beginning of February because the next chapter or so leads us into the showdown between Azade and the sultan, and when i tell you i have wanted to give y'all that scene since last year i'm not joking

(there is a reason none of the characters (except Ehsan) have called him by his name so far, bear with me now)

#prayforella, y'all

stay ruinated, darlings,

–ella <3