❝This is the way which a girl becomes a woman / this is the way which a woman becomes a wolf.❞

--Erin Moran, from "940 Main Street," published in APEP Publications

THE HENNA NEVER DRIED completely.

True, the servants tried their best, but there was only bronze melting away into blood–the designs that had been ruined embedded themselves in her skin quicker than those that had not.

And so this is how it ended, she supposed. Rivulets of fate curling themselves around her wrists and down her arms.

Her death, in ink.

Nothing else.

Or perhaps, if one read the patterns right, her victory.

It was, she supposed, the same with stories. With the one that her baba had told her before he left.

The butterfly, dead. It seemed that way, at least. If one was attentive enough they would have heard the dying flutters of its wings, a fragile thing of fire and blood.

Its death, in fire. In the hollow behind her baba's tongue when it was all lips and teeth and sorrow. In the moment he walked into her room and asked for her to listen.

Its death, in the moment that she did.

Nothing else.

If she acted on impulse, it would be the same with the sultan.

His death, in a poisoned blade. In her decision to kill him and be done with it. In her hatred. In her grief. In her disregard for her life, if only to take his own.

His death, in silence.

Nothing else.

And yet she did not want to die.

She stood so that the servant girls could place the hijab on her forehead, and it was as if her legs were made of iron.

She stumbled. Fell. Broke her fall with her two hands and watched the henna on the pads of her fingertips melt away into crimson, like blood. Rose to her feet and saw the mark that they had left behind on the marble tile and took it as a warning. Swallowed the scream that was rising in her throat and squeezed her cut finger until it oozed blood. Took that blood and smeared it on her forehead like a battle cry, like a silent weapon, like war paint.

Like death coming to kiss her and she biting his tongue instead.

And yet, still, she did not want to die.

Someone took her finger and bound it up with linen, placing a gold ring over the wound for good measure. Another took the incense and walked around her three times, murmuring a blessing underneath her breath. Still another pinned the hijab to her hair, taking rose petals and scattering them over her.

But Akilah... ah, Akilah–she drifted over and wiped the blood from her brow.

Scheherazade screamed, albeit silently, and felt the burn of it singe her throat.

Why?

She raised her chin to meet Akilah's gaze, and the seamstress spoke to her in that moment.

In a look that could drown your soul if you did not know how to swim.

You do not need your blood to prove a point, Scheherazade. This is not a war. This is a redemption.

She shifted so that one of the servant girls could place her babouches on her feet, but she did not look away.

Whose redemption, then? Mine or the monster's?

There was no answer, at least, it seemed, for the present. The seamstress' gaze faltered, but her former words remained.

This is not a war.

Scheherazade begged to differ.

"We are finished, sayidati," the girl that had secured the hijab said, putting two fingers to her brow. "If you have any last request before we inform the sultan–"

She held out a hand, causing the girl to stop mid-sentence. She had many, she supposed. She wanted her freedom. Her life. The sultan's head. A thousand different things that she could ask for and yet things they would not be able to give. That they would not dare to do, because to do so was to go against the will of a madman–to do so was to start a war.

This is not a war.

"I want," she said, so quietly that one strained to hear it, "I want nothing."

Only the assurance of my life.

And that you cannot give.

The girl bowed, taking the arm of one of her fellow servants and whispering something in their ear. Scheherazade did not catch the words, but she knew that even if she had they would have escaped her, like smoke in the breeze.

It was not meant for her to know.

That was the truth, but she wished it a lie.

"Sayidati," a voice said, breaking the silence as it did so. She turned to see Akilah holding a thin brush and a bowl of henna, something ancient in her voice.

"Sayidati," she said again, "you asked me a question, earlier, and I did not answer you. I will not answer you now, but you will know it when it comes. Now be still."

She came closer, dipping her fingers in the henna and smearing it on the brush. With the hand that held the brush she drew the outline of a teardrop, then took her tips of her fingers and emboldened the mark. The brush returned, the motions of fluid silk against skin as it skimmed the surface like nothing Scheherazade had ever felt before. Once she was finished Akilah stepped back, reaching for a mirror as she did so.

Scheherazade looked, and there was nothing.

Only the loops and curves of Scheherazade's name, encircled by a teardrop.

شهرزاد

"For a thousand nights I have done this," the seamstress said, voice wavering. "I have done as it is my custom and written a thousand names on a thousand girls' foreheads. And in the morning I have taken my hand and I have rubbed their names out so that they may take it with them to the grave."

A pause. "I have never seen my henna last more than a night. I have never seen a girl leave the sultan's room alive. It has been a losing battle for a thousand nights. Tonight, it is not. Tonight, it is a survival."

A distant noise caused her to drop the mirror, the dull sound of it shattering into a million pieces reaching Scheherazade's ears. She did not mind. Her eyes met Akilah's once again, and though she said no words she knew.

This is not a war. This is a redemption.

Behind her, the double doors opened, revealing a group of soldiers decked in ceremonial armour. One of them–the leader, it seemed–dropped to one knee in respect before he spoke.

"Forgive me, sayidati, but the sultan is ready for the wedding to begin. It is dusk."

She took a breath. Smoothed out her skirts and did not look at Akilah for fear that the answer would come when she was not ready. Tucked her tongue behind her teeth and let the hijab fall over her face.

This is a redemption.

Then fate would choose who would be redeemed.

hijab:

origin: Arabic, meaning: traditionally, a hijab is meant to cover the head and chest of Muslim women around non-related Muslim and non-Muslim men. however, the word is derived from the Arabic  ḥijāb, or veil, and as such can also refer to a traditional veil. some versions of more conservative wear, like the burqa, build on this and combine the veiling with a full-body garment, though the part of the garment that covers the eyes is somewhat transparent–allowing the wearer to see though it. in WITA, the definition corresponds with the traditional veil, also seen in ancient Jewish weddings, and is interpreted as such.

babouche(s):

origin: French, from the Arabic, from the Farsi, meaning: a heelless slipper that originated in Morocco.

*coughs*

*chokes on dust*

*coughs again*

*dusts off draft*

hewwo?

y'all, it has been a good while since i updated and istg it was not on purpose

i've had this chapter sitting in drafts for months now but it just wasn't clicking with me

so i trashed it and told myself that it was obviously going to be a while

and it was

but did i make the most of it? the heck yasssss

i finally made the leap and asked y'all for Bollywood recommendations, y'all did not disappoint

Padmavaat! Bajirao Mastani! Ram Leela! Jodhaa Akbar! yassssss, y'all, yassssssss

thank you Asha for the recommendations 

they were a trip and i'm not even through my watch-later list yet but 

imma be lovin' it ™

i also found the 2000 miniseries "Arabian Nights" and bingewatched that cause the sultan in the series is the faceclaim for the sultan in WITA

it did not disappoint

hence why this is being published

cause inspo be lit ™

(you want a link to it, DM me–i'm technically watching it for the second time cause it's that good in my opinion)

anyway this was the bridge chapter i was talking about

and even though it's a filler i feel like it added to the anGST cause last chapter Scheherazade was trIGGERED and this chapter it like we trying to calm down and it ain't working

also that last part about Akilah's name henna never making it past the night? vomited onto the keyboard by yours truly

the attached picture is what it's supposed to look like–obviously, the calligraphy is different from the picture cause tHAT AIN'T SCHEHERAZADE'S NAME THAT'S UP THERE, but the general frame and design is what i was going for

so technically i said all of that to say this

yup

that's technically it

hopefully the update schedule will actually work in my favour this time

next chapter we be exchanging vows

it's the wedding, y'all

tHE WEDDING

#prayforella, y'all

#alsoprayforourquEEN

stay ruinated, darlings,

–ella <3

p.s: question of the day: did Akilah sound a bit spooky or was it just me and my melodramatic self?