٣٦.

"SHE'S SAFE, AND FAR AWAY FROM HERE," THE woman had croaked out, her voice strangled as her life was sucked away from her—both by Salman Chalhoub's hand tightening around her neck and by the potion the woman had taken. No longer did the woman look like Dilruba, for those alluring features and the skin of a divine goddess that Badawi seemed to be blessed with—in Chalhoub's eyes—had wrinkled and stretched and become a paler grey. The hair too had wrinkled into grey and the enticing emerald eyes had diffused into a sickly silver—shriveling up.

It had been a disgusting—a nauseating deceit. Chalhoub's fists were still tight at his side, fury erupting a fresh inside his form again. Never once in his life had he been victim to magic—he had never turned to it himself, but to fall to it? To be made a fool by it? It sickened him with fury.

He was now in the presence of the governor of Hegra, the latter's silence deafening in the throne room as everyone waiting upon him held back breaths of terse fear and caution.

Salman had not himself seen Dilruba Badawi when the governor's men had brought her in. In his manner, he had assumed the provision that he would only go to her when she was brought before the governor. In his haught, he had delighted to see her on her knees in front of the governor and even himself. Visiting her in the dungeons hadn't been a satisfying thought, and it was having paid heed to that thought, that now Chalhoub was thrust into such a dilemma as his present one.

Dilruba Badawi had managed to escape captivity using magic. It could be dark magic, but Chalhoub doubted the girl would lay down her principles to resort to such a thing. Still, Arabia coursed with all kinds of magic pulsing beneath its hot sands, Dilruba could've acquired any kind of magic for her ends.

The man who had brought her in—found her in the marketplace in Thāj—had now been killed as a result of the wrath of the governor, but he had sworn profusely that it was Dilruba he had brought in, and that the girl did not know beforehand that she would be taken. The man had sworn earnestly and desperately, giving all accord to the careful stealth he had taken, still the governor had killed him driven by fury.

It did not make sense. If the man had brought in the real Dilruba, then she had exchanged places with the dead woman somewhere inside the palace. But the dead woman's body—who had started to lose Dilruba's shape and form in front of Salman's eyes, before collapsing to the ground—had not been recognized by any of the palace maids, servants or slaves. Nobody knew who the woman had been, yet one of the governor's guards recalled seeing her in the room beside Dilruba when he had the girl summoned from the dungeons in the middle of the night and had her put her into the room upon the governor's orders.

The guard had thought her a mere maid, so he had dismissed her. But he recalled Dilruba being in the room with that woman for a few minutes—well, the stretch of time it took for the guards to put Dilruba into the room, lock her in, and then go to the governor to inform him that she had been brought up. For that time Dilruba had been alone with that woman, and in that time they had both concocted the wretched scheme.

The woman's body was now desecrated, her head on a pike in the city square, as guards looked for people in Hegra who might've known the woman or could recognize her. So far, no one had come forwards with that claim.

"She will have gone back to Thāj, governor," Salman Chalhoub uttered then, the deafening silence in the throne room stifling him.

"We will catch her again, you needn't worry. I will have more men sent over to Thāj, this time we shall track her to the hole she is hiding in. We will bring her out from there."

"You will," The governor spat then, slamming a thick ringed hand onto the arm rest of the gilded throne he sat on—a governor with all the airs of a Sultan, democracy only a pretense.

"Or so Allah help me."

The fury on the governor's face was palpable, so much so that seeing the anger made Chalhoub's own anger diffuse slightly. He was never one for continuing to garner a heavy emotion when another was doing the job well enough.

"She is still in my employ," The governor seethed then. "She owes me, Goddamnit! She owes me her damn life! I plucked her out of those streets! I rose her to the airs she embodies! How dare she deceit me—how dare she—"

The stout man's hands shook in his anger and distaste, and he cut himself off, exhaling tightly and trying not to explode in his hatred.

"The Sultan of Al-Fāw—," The governor began. "Burhan Abelhamid. He will find her before we do, at this rate. He will get to her before me! Then what the fuck will it all be for?"

"I nursed a fucking sheep!" The man shouted then, his face blotched red as his voice reverberated. "I took it out of the gutter, raised it, and attached it to my teat! Now I can't even use its damn wool when it counts! What the fuck is it all for then?"

"You will still be able to use her, my lord," Salman spoke, his voice firm but calm. "She is still under contract to you. By the law she owes you."

"The law—" The governor scoffed. "Does that fucker Abelhamid have any account for the law? She will hide behind him if he gets to her first."

Salman's eyes glinted. "But the governor of Thāj, my lord, he does have account for the law."

The governor blinked, his eyes hardening in thought, his blotchy face assuming a petulant expression.

"I don't want to involve that man," He waved a hand. "If he realizes Dilruba's value against Abelhamid, he would want to keep her himself."

"Then perhaps you can come to an understanding with him?" Chalhoub reasoned. "For you will need one, my lord. If Dilruba now knows she is being searched by you—now that she even escaped your palace—she will not be easy to draw out. We do not know who she is staying with, or where she is hiding. Finding that out could take a while, but with the governor of Thāj's approval, we can do it freely and openly. And of course, he can lend a helping hand to that search."

"And what if Abelhamid gets to her first?" The governor leaned forwards in his seat.

"Then we must get to her second," Salman managed a slow smirk. "For, my lord, as long as Dilruba and the Sultan of Al-Fāw are on the soil of Thāj, they are under the jurisdiction of the governor of Thāj. With you united alongside the governor—"

"It could be war!" The governor of Hegra roared, "Abelhamid would fight! I told you I don't have the men!"

"But the governor of Thāj does, my lord," Salman dropped to a single knee, his head bowed. "Burhan Abelhamid will—if he has found out about Dilruba's presence in Thāj—not come with his entire army to take her. He will have only a few men. Most likely, he will enter the city of Thāj in disguise. He is not the sort of man to demand the governor of Thāj's attention and a welcome procession. He will be hoping to merely take her and leave."

"But if we attack him, my lord," Salman raised his eyes to the governor. "If we counter him and his few men in the city, with our army on standby and the governor of Thāj army present too. We can easily overpower him. He won't have any time to send for his own army all the way from Al-Fāw. There will be no war. Al-Fāw will be left without a Sultan. We can have him and Dilruba both. Two birds from one stone—or should I say three birds? For what will become of Al-Fāw then?"

The governor grinned at the prospect, and then threw a shoulder back. "What use would I have for Dilruba then?"

"Exactly, my lord," Chalhoub bowed his head again.

"I shall give her to you," The governor uttered then and Salman blinked, raising his eyes to look at his ruler.

"You always wanted her, did you not? She would be your gift then, if we succeed. Do with her what you will."

"And prepare the men, you are accompanying them to Thāj, I shall be following behind with our army. I will keep it at the outskirts, until you send word from the city. You will negotiate with the governor of Thāj on my behalf, and I shall appear to confirm everything later. We will hide the army somewhere so that we can summon it if need arises. Besides, if Abelhamid is already in Thāj by the time we get there, I do not want him stirring."

──── •🏺• ────

RUBAIYAH'S HANDS SHOOK VIOLENTLY, HER HEART pounding so hard in her chest that she felt as though it would collapse on her.

With one hand on her thudding heart, she tried to compose herself, pacing about her chambers as she did so. Akbar had lit an incense in the room about an hour ago—whilst the young girls in the house had been away at the marketplace—and softly twisting flame of smoke dancing upon the small pot inside with the incense burned now, on her vanity, with a serenity that couldn't mirror her own mind at all.

How had this happened? She asked herself fervently. How had everything gone so terribly askew?

The guests—was that what she should call them?—were in attendance with Khairunnisa Sayida and Ferhat, in the living room of the estate.

Ruba's mind had been so stunned—it still was so stunned—that Akbar had instantly understood. He had taken her wrist carefully and led her inside the estate and to her chambers, whilst Ghaliyah had remained and led the guests in. Akbar had been so fretful, though Rubaiyah was so glad for his assistance, she knew Ghaliyah would object to his manner later—have him criticized for leaving her to guide the visitors in. And Akbar was fretful because he knew that too.

Akbar had left her in the chambers then, asking her to simply wait before he returned back. Rubaiyah, however, was finding it harder and harder to wait.

Dread had pooled in her stomach and was drowning her entirely. All her plans for her future had shattered in front of her eyes when she had reached the gates of the house with Ghaliyah's arm around her elbow, and Akbar had solemnly but shakily uttered the introductions.

Ruba shut her eyes tightly, desperate to rid herself of the dark anthracite eyes of the man who had come forwards for her then.

His presence hit like a wave: tall, broad, impossibly muscled, carved as if from dark stone. His skin gleamed like burnished obsidian, catching the light with a subtle, almost divine sheen. Power had radiated from him—not just in form, but in stillness. He didn't need to move to command the moment.

His face was half-concealed beneath folds of a black turban, a veil of shadow drawn across his features. Only his eyes were visible—striking anthracite eyes, dark as coal yet glowing with something deeper, more intense. They were lined with kohl smudged from the journey he had undertaken. They locked on with a gaze sharp enough to draw blood, unreadable, unwavering—making Rubaiyah's knees shake with fear and helplessness.

He wore a fitted dark vest that clung to his torso, exposing arms like coiled steel. His trousers too were black, billowing in the whisks of wind. At his waist, secured by a worn leather belt, hung a curved scabbard—elegant, aged, and exposing a silver-hilted dagger that Ruba was all too familiar with.

"Dilruba," He had called her, and Rubaiyah had gasped, stepping back and almost stumbling before Akbar had taken her hand to steady her.

The man's intense eyes had dulled slightly in confusion, his gaze falling briefly to Akbar and the dwarf's hold on Ruba's hand.

Rubaiyah had stepped further away, leaning into Akbar's presence, her panicked and shocked eyes wavering away from the man and taking in the entire procession gathered. All of them had looked at with wide eyes, as though looking upon her face for the first time in a long while.

Only the tall muscular man dressed in stark shimmering blue, with an unnaturally thick and dark mane of hair tied into a braid cascading down his back, had looked at Rubaiyah with semblance of sympathy and consideration—the dark skinned man's brown eyes glittering as though the sight of her was bringing out tears of glass in his almond shaped eyes.

Akbar had taken her inside then, sparing her. Ruba knew it was the stepping back. It was the panic in her form, it was her leaning into Akbar—it was all those things that had sealed the questions floating in the air like a courtesan's thick amber perfume.

A procession from Rubaiyah's past had shown up at the door. They had tracked her down and appeared like ghosts haunting a palace wherein they once used to live. They had all found her, and as they had stood in front of her, none of the faces brought up anything in her cold and dormant memory.

She couldn't remember them, and Akbar had understood that without her having to say a word. And so had they all.

Now, she could do nothing but pace in her given chambers, horrified and dreadfully afraid. They would all be telling Khairunnisa Sayida and Ferhat everything, wouldn't they? Akbar too would be listening in. They would tell Khairunnisa Sayida her real name of Dilruba Badawi, then they would tell the benevolent women everything—all the terrifying details of Rubaiyah's past that Ahud had once told her. Her being a court dancer, being sent to Agrabah to perform for a royal wedding and being thrown into the dungeons, having the rayis—criminal, killer, usurper, conqueror of Al-Fāw—love her.

Allah, what would Khairunnisa Sayida think? What was Ferhat thinking? What was Akbar thinking? Would they throw her out now? Would they give her away to these people she couldn't even remember? Would they discover that Ahud had already told Ruba these things, but she hadn't thought to inform them herself? Would they think her deceitful?

But Khairunnisa Sayida, Ferhat and Akbar—they had all only asked her if she had remembered. She hadn't remembered anything, so she hadn't told them. Was being told of your past, and remembering it yourself, one in the same? No. It cannot be. It wasn't the same.

Tears filled her eyes and spilled out, cascading down her cheeks. What would she do now? If they sent her away with these people that she didn't know, all her hopes of having a new life for herself would shatter.

A shuffle of feet sounded outside in the marble corridor of the courtyard and the door to her chambers opened as Akbar appeared, ushering himself in.

"Akbar," Ruba cried out, distraught. "Please don't have Khairunnisa Sayida send me away! I don't want to go with those people—I don't know them, please—I—"

"Hush, Rubaiyah," Akbar uttered, his voice calm and collected as he touched her elbows. "Nobody is sending you away. Khairunnisa Sayida will certainly not."

Ruba shut her eyes in relief, anguish on her features.

"They are seated with the benevolent mistress and Ferhat Khayyi in the living room," He continued. "Ghaliyah bibi and Sermet too are present."

Ruba's eyes filled with her misery as she peered down at the dwarf.

"It is all horrible, isn't it? Everything they are telling Khairunnisa Sayida and her family? It's all so distressing, she must hate me now—they must all—"

"No," Akbar's tone hardened. "Nobody hates you, Rubaiyah. And what you are calling horrible and distressing is your past. A wise philosopher once said that life must be gently understood backwards, but must be lived vigorously forwards."

"You have no right to mercilessly demean your past—and all that you've learned and went through—just because you can't remember it."

Rubaiyah's eyes dropped to the ground, her heart chastised. He was right, of course. Akbar had never been wrong in anything he had said. Rubaiyah had no right to dismiss the people that had appeared so suddenly like ghosts of her past. She had accepted them once, hadn't she? She had loved them once, shared things with them once. She had no right to dismiss all that as though it was just splashed mud being washed off.

"I know," She nodded, tears still falling. "I know. I'm so sorry. I don't mean to."

"What are they—," She raised a wrist to wipe at her tears. "What are they saying to the family? About me?"

Akbar exhaled, his eyes fixed in hers with a consideration.

"All that you already know, no more no less."

Rubaiyah turned away, her heart tightening, her back to him.

"Akbar. I remember none of it. Ahud merely told me all that and it didn't help. How could I just tell you and Khairunnisa Sayida all that if I didn't even believe it myself?"

She turned and looked at him again, and found him nodding. "I know you would tell me if you remembered. I trust you enough to believe that."

"So," She swallowed thickly, her voice hoarse. "What becomes of me now?"

"You are Dilruba Badawi," Akbar spoke then, as though he was reading off of a scroll, his eyes set in hers with a thoughtful consideration.

"Former court dancer in the employ of the governor of Hegra. You were the niece of the late Sultan of Agrabah, and are cousin to the former Princess Jasmine of Agrabah. Your mother was the Sultan's sister, you have royal blood coursing in your veins."

"And of the two men currently in the living room of Khairunnisa Sayida's, one is your lover and the conqueror of Qaryat Al-Fāw—the new Sultan of Al-Fāw, and the other is a tahararat min alkhatiya—a former genie who claims to have been your devoted friend."

Rubaiyah tucked a piece of her hair behind her ear, her heart so tight in her chest that she feared it would burst. Hearing Akbar say everything out loud felt as though a fortified castle she had built with such effort had been knocked down into rubble and sand, but a new breeze was coming through—and she couldn't help but feel a relief as well. Perhaps it was just as well that there was nothing to hide from anyone now. She wouldn't have to feel guilty for deceiving Akbar and Khairunnisa Sayida, if her truth had come out by itself.

"After a lover's strife—a disagreement perhaps on your lover's plans—you left in a state of anger and were on your way to Hegra when you got involved in the accident on the trade route, and lost your memory. After which, our gracious Ferhat Khayyi brought you here."

"You say it all so easily," Rubaiyah managed, her voice soft. "Yet each word weighs on me like iron pressing down on my chest."

"Rubaiyah," Akbar came forwards, reaching his hands upwards and touching her chin—only managing to do so by the tips of his two forefingers.

"Don't you see? You're so much more than anyone could've reasonably expected you to be," He shook his head. "I for one had my speculations of course, but I saw how taken back Khairunnisa Sayida, Ferhat Khayyi and even Ghaliyah bibi are! Sermet has his jaw on the floor!"

"The Sultan of Al-Fāw—the mighty conqueror who all of Arabia is fearing at present—is in the Ghatafani living room and claiming to be your lover! You could've—before your accident—you could've been on your way to become a Sultan's wife had the strife been patched up! The Sultan is a man of few words, as I have just witnessed, but I shall be blind and a fool to not see in his manner how madly in love he is with you. He is confused and demands to see you, it is the tahararat min alkhatiya keeping him calm."

"So you see?" Akbar pursed his lips. "What becomes of you now is what you will decide. Khairunnisa Sayida will not force you to do anything you don't want to, and neither will Ferhat Khayyi. You are his responsibility, and he will value your word above everyone else's."

Rubaiyah nodded, shutting her eyes briefly and collecting herself. Akbar's latter words were of immense consolation, and she had to believe in them.

"Now," Akbar tugged at her elbow, bidding her to sit down on the cushion.

"Khairunnisa Sayida and Ferhat Khayyi call for you to be presented. You shall sit beside them and speak to your lover and the tahararat min alkhatiya, in their presence. So I must make you presentable again and erase all the signs of distress on you—Allah, you have entirely smudged your kohl under your eyes! And let's get you quickly changed into a new dress too, this one is tear stained!—How have you cried so much! Where has all this water come from? Do you house cement tanks of water inside you, girl?"

"You must look presentable, as well as calm and confident when you see the Sultan and the former genie, alright? You must show them that you will—and are fully capable of—making your own decisions, regardless of the tragedy of your memory. Now, we must hurry."

──── •🏺• ────

THE LIVING ROOM OF KHAIRUNNISA GHATAFANI, noblewoman—and mathematician scholar in her own right—of Thāj, pulsed with a warmth that was more than fire—it was ancestral. The walls, made of cool stucco and embedded with lines of glimmering mother-of-pearl, seemed to breathe in rhythm with the flickering of the brass lanterns suspended above. Each lantern, shaped like a minaret, spilled golden stars upon the floor, casting dancing mosaics that shimmered over carpets thick as clouds and dyed in hues that only desert twilight could teach: tamarind red, lapis blue, and the deep bronze of a sun that has touched too many dunes.

Khairunnisa Sayida sat at the head of her majlis like a moon enthroned—her silk robe, the color of midnight with cuffs embroidered in gold pomegranate vines, whispered as she moved. On her right sat her adopted son, Ferhat Ghatafani—the position a calculated symbolism for the power and the position the adopted son held over the noblewomen. To her left sat her biological son and daughter, another act of symbolism.

The dry, spellbinding sweetness of burning oud, rose in serpentine curls from a silver mabkhara carved with talismanic symbols. The scent curled into the ceiling beams, brushing against old wooden carvings of palm trees and falcons—guardians from another age.

Before her, seated across low velvet cushions, were Burhan Abelhamid and Bahjat themselves, the two for the first time seated shoulder to shoulder as though equals, but not quite.

Between them lay a round brass table, etched with stories in Kufic script, holding a tray of dates so dark they shimmered like obsidian, almonds soaked in rosewater, and delicate cups of gahwa—bitter, spiced with cardamom, poured from a long-spouted dallah that glinted with each movement. Each sip was an incantation, a welcome, a wordless promise of safety and story.

The walls bore hanging tapestries—each handwoven with a tale: a caravan winding its way across endless dunes under a sky full of djinn and stars, a gazelle drinking from a moonlit oasis, and verses from old poets stitched in threads of sapphire and gold. Here, the past did not merely linger—it sang.

The noblewoman's voice, when it came, was low and deliberate, like the first wind after a long summer. She spoke of lineage, of storms surviving, of the dreams of her grandmother who had once seen a falcon made of smoke fly from the cliffs of Tayma. Her fingers, ringed in ancient silver and carnelian, moved gently as she spoke, tracing the air like she was drawing maps only the heart could read.

She spoke of herself and her nobility, foolishly assuming that it was that Burhan would prefer to fill his ears with.

Behind her, a lattice window let in the scent of the night garden—jasmine, fig, and a touch of distant sea. Somewhere beyond the door curtains, a servant moved like a shadow, refilling incense and bringing bowls of sweetened milk and saffron. In the courtyard, a windchime of shells sang softly, as if echoing every word spoken within.

Burhan Abelhamid's heart was clouded in a relative peace. Seeing Dilruba again had yanked out the sword that had been thrust into his heart, and so he could breathe easier and in relief. After presuming her dead and buried—the sight of her was like the discovery of a precious pearl by one who is drowning. The mere sight of her at the gates of this abode had revived Burhan, and though he was anxious and persistent that she be sent for and brought to him—he knew that he could wait for whenever Dilruba chose to come through. He had waited so long, what the fuck was a few more minutes?

The noblewoman and her adopted son, the Arif—Ferhat Ghatafani, had told him that Dilruba had lost her memory. The terrible accident on the trade route—the trampling of Dilruba's precious form under a rampage of a startled camel. It was too much to consider, and Burhan's fists were still so tight he could bring all the luxury and prestige in this living room down into a hoard of rubble and marble.

But it made sense, for the way Dilruba had reacted outside upon setting eyes on him? The way she had stepped back and leaned into the dwarf servant when Burhan had called her name and inched towards her? Fuck, that had been gutting. But Burhan knew it was temporary. Khairunnisa Sayida and Ferhat Ghatafani were the damn strangers in Dilruba's life. She would know Burhan, she will know him, as soon as he said a few more words to her. She would remember him just fine. Burhan knew that, he believed it.

The noblewoman sent another servant with the summons to get the dwarf—Akbar—to bring Dilruba in, and Burhan's heart tightened with the anticipation of seeing her again. The anticipation was marred with a fury though, for the whole setup of this was grating on his nerves. Dilruba was his woman, what right had these people to provide supervision and chaperone Burhan's meeting with his lover like this?

But as Bahjat had warned him, he needed to be careful. This was a noblewoman of Thāj, and any awry move would get the governor of Thāj involved. Though she still had no right to come in between Burhan and Dilruba, the woman had been caring for Dilruba and giving her shelter. The least Burhan could do was tolerate her presence and that of her family's.

A few more minutes later, the door curtains were pushed aside as Burhan laid his eyes upon Dilruba coming in with the dwarf Akbar guiding her by the elbow.

She had entered.

There she was—like a vision drawn from the oldest verses of a desert poet. The dress she had changed into flowed like water spun from moonlight, embroidered with threads of gold and lapis, the patterns winding like vines from the gardens of paradise. The fabric shimmered with every step, catching the light in a way that seemed to bless the very air around her.

Her long, dark hair fell in waves down her back, like the night sky over the dunes—endless, soft, unknowable. But it was her eyes that caught him, truly caught him, as they always had: dark green, like emeralds held in shadow, ancient and deep, as if they had looked upon the beginning of time.

The Sultan of Al-Fāw's breath caught in his throat, as time stopped for him.

He had not seen her in what felt like a hundred seasons. In her absence, the world had dulled, the colors faded. In her absence he had stopped breathing almost—his hands had craved the touch of her so fervently that he would often find himself shaking with desperation. But now, now she was here—dressed as if the stars themselves had sewn her gown, carrying herself like the queen of his every silent longing.

And for a moment, he was not a ruler, not a man bound by court or crown. For a moment, he wasn't a killer, he hadn't shed any blood, he hadn't led any army to battle and hadn't conquered any sultanate. He was simply a soul, gazing upon the one who had once held his heart and now claimed it again, without a word spoken.

She stepped further into the room. He did not move.

Only his eyes spoke, and they spoke of such violent desire and relief that if anyone looked upon him they would find him with all his guards and walls down—a castle easy to attack.

The dwarf brought her to the cushion on the right of Khairunnisa Sayida, as Ferhat Ghatafani moved his own to a further right in order to make space for her close to his mother.

Burhan was agitated, he inched forwards but felt Bahjat's hand on his elbow, and stopped himself. He wanted Dilruba near himself, not beside these people who had all but taken her and kept her! For a sickly moment, they all looked like a family—sat together in close procession. Loss spread like a disease inside Burhan, and he felt increasingly desperate.

He tried to meet Dilruba's eyes, but her eyes were cast down onto her lap, and he bit the inside of his cheek so hard it drew blood into his mouth.

"Baladi aleaziz," Khairunnisa Sayida uttered then, tilting herself close to Dilruba and taking her head to plant a kiss on her forehead. Dilruba glanced up at the woman and smiled slowly.

"I'm sure Akbar has enlightened you and made this easier for me," The noble woman stroked Dilruba's hair fondly. "Now, I merely need you to speak with his majesty, The Sultan of Al-Fāw, and the tahararat min alkhatiya. They used to know you, and you used to know them. Perhaps you will remember."

Burhan's jaw tightened at the words. The woman made it sound as though his words had merely been claims and not the truth. Her words made it sound as though she would retain control over the situation. Fury tugged at the threads of Burhan's being, battling with his desperation.

Dilruba lifted her eyes towards Burhan and Bahjat, and in a mere second Burhan's anger dissipated, his composure flying to the winds—scattered like ashes in the desert.

"Dilruba," Bahjat broke the silence then, his voice calmer and stronger than Burhan himself was feeling.

"It is wonderful to see you again. Thanks to Allah for the Khairunnisa Sayida and her family, they have kept you safe for us."

Dilruba blinked once slowly, her eyes fixed into the tahararat min alkhatiya's.

"You see," The former genie hesitated. "We have had trying—troubling times. We have all gone through it together, and your accident on the trade route—on top of it all—was an abhorrent thing to learn. I wish I could take all the pain away from you."

"I don't feel any of it," The emerald-eyed girl uttered collectedly, her gaze like the rays of glittering jewels.

"I am happy and well. I have healed. I owe my life to Khairunnisa Sayida and Ferhat. They have saved me."

Burhan's brows furrowed, a vein throbbing in his jaw. His eyes ventured towards Ferhat Ghatafani—the man only a few years older than Burhan himself—looked proud yet.. content, as though the man was genuinely happy at Dilruba's presence. Burhan hated that, he hated it so much he had no way to explain how much.

"Oh, my dear," Khairunnisa Sayida smiled. "You owe us nothing. I cannot imagine not having you around now, you have become such a comfort to me. I am under the illusion that I have two daughters now, and I do not know how I shall fare if that illusion were to break."

Burhan tensed, watching an expression of dismay take root on Dilruba's divine features. She shook her head, and took the noblewoman's hands and kissed them once before touching them to her forehead. It was an affectionate—a genuine—display, and the noblewoman beamed.

"We named her too, as I've already told you, your majesty," Khairunnisa Sayida smiled at Burhan. "We did not know her name, so we named her Rubaiyah and call her Ruba. I couldn't have believed how Ruba is so close to her real name of Dilruba. Allah's benevolence is in everything."

"Rubaiyah is a beautiful name, as is Dilruba," Bahjat spoke again, managing a smile before he exchanged a glance with Burhan and the latter saw how altered the former actually was.

"But you mean a lot to us too, Dilruba. You are our family too. Though you were quite against me at first, we became friends afterwards, did we not? Do you—do you remember us?"

Burhan shut his eyes briefly. His heart was already churning in agony. Not only had Dilruba stepped away from him at the gate, she was not even meeting his eyes now. In her manner there was no disruption of desire, there was no.. want to look at him. She seemed content not to look, and it made bile rise to Burhan's throat.

"I don't," She offered calmly, speaking after a pause, her eyes still in Bahjat's. "I'm sorry. I don't remember anything or anyone from my past. I only know what I have been told."

Bahjat dropped his head, considering, before lifting his face and nodding.

"And those two things aren't the same, are they?" He uttered. "Remembering, and being told."

To Burhan's surprise, Dilruba smiled softly, as though she appreciated him momentarily.

"Indeed they aren't," She affirmed, a sad lilt to her voice.

Burhan Abelhamid couldn't take it then. Being ignored like this felt a fate worse than death. His desire for her was so consuming, his love for her so intense. To have yearned for her for so long only to get to her and find out she didn't remember him? The pain of it was agony. She could remember. How could she forget? All that they had shared, all that they had done? How could she forget?

She had left him! After making his heart her slave, she had left when his back was turned! She must account for it, she must explain herself to him. He needed to hear her, he needed desperately to tell her the agonies she had wrought upon him by leaving him like she had.

She must remember. She can't forget, not when he was dying with want of her. Not when he had come to take her back with him. She must remember.

Burhan got up, agonized, his eyes pinned on her. She looked at him startled.

"Dilruba," He let out, his voice tortured. "You can't forget me. You can't."

She blinked, confused. She glanced at the noblewoman, as though looking for some sort of shelter—an explanation.

"Dilruba!" Burhan's voice was loud as his baritone reverberated. "You can't forget me! I love you, I love you with everything in me! You can't forget me."

"I—," She broke off, getting to her feet, her emerald eyes glittering. There was a worry on her face—a panic that was alienating.

"Look at me," He ventured close to her. Her eyes were flitting, not maintaining his gaze for more than a few seconds.

"Dilruba, look at me!" He shouted.

"Stop!" She cried out, shocked and angry, her eyes meeting his.

Everybody in the room was panicked. They could not stop a Sultan—they were hesitating on whether to interfere or not, wondering how a civil conversation had taken such a shocking turn.

"Just stop!" Rubaiyah repeated, her heart banging in her chest and her skin feeling hot.

She was in so much pain, could this person—this Sultan, rayis—not see? She was trying so hard to remember him, but his face was not coming into her memory. How could he shout at her? Make her feel like a villain for not remembering? Didn't he see that she was sympathetic to how far he had travelled for her? Didn't they all see that she was trying her hardest?

"I can't remember you," She softened her voice. "Please—I truly cannot remember you!"

Burhan maintained her gaze, holding her eyes with his as long as he could, but he saw nothing in them. Nothing about himself reflected back in those deep emerald stones of hers. His heart tightened and his eyes stung. His fists were so tight at his sides that he was certain his bones would break.

"Burhan," Bahjat's grounding voice came then, and the former genie put a hand on Burhan's shoulder.

Dilruba—Burhan's Dilruba, who did not remember him anymore—spun on her feet and left the room, with the dwarf scurrying after her.

Burhan reached out a hand to stop her, but she had already gone, and his hand stood outstretched in the air—grasping nothing.

"Your majesty," Khairunnisa Sayida let out. "I really am so sorry. But I told you that she does not remember."

Burhan shut his eyes tightly, bringing his hand back to his side. Trying to rack his brain for what to do. Had he ever felt this helpless before? Not even with his mother laying butchered at the knife of another man, had Burhan ever felt that he could do nothing. At every instance of his life, he had had his answer ready. He had taken every step. Only now, he felt as though no step existed for him to take.

"Perhaps, if we arrange for meetings," Bahjat grappled at words. "Between Dilruba and his majesty. Private meetings on your property, Khairunnisa Sayida, as Dilruba feels comfortable here. Perhaps if they talk with each other calmly, it will help Dilruba remember."

"That is a good idea," Ferhat Ghatafani stood up. "But not today, tahararat min alkhatiya. Ruba needs time at the moment. Perhaps his majesty would consent to the first meeting tomorrow?"

Burhan's jaw tightened at the confidence in the man's words. Who was he to declare things about Dilruba? How dare he fucking pretend to know her better than Burhan did? Burhan who had lain with her and would know the taste of her even in death?

He could kill him—have his head rolling for such insolence.

But Burhan's heart was weakened at present, and he couldn't bear the sight of any of them. He turned on his feet and all but threw a servant aside to exit the room, finding himself in the courtyard outside. He spotted the gate through which he had been led into the house and he made for it, yanking it open and stepping outside to where his cream camel was tied up with the others.

Burhan Abelhamid's men—waiting outside and guarding Aladdin—watched him, sensing his mood and keeping their distance, as he stroked the side of his camel, his hand shaking.

"Burhan," Bahjat's voice was soft, and his hand on Burhan's shoulder was warm. The former genie must've followed Burhan out.

"She prefers them to me," Burhan spat, not turning around. "I looked into her eyes, Bahjat, she doesn't fucking remember me."

Burhan spun to look at the tahararat min alkhatiya. His face was anguished in his fury as he looked at the genie, and he realized that tears too were wetting his cheeks.

"They all sit there and fucking pretend to know her more than I do!" He seethed. "I could kill them all. I could gut them through. They have fucking stolen her from me!"

"No," Bahjat shook his head, grabbing the back of Burhan's head. "No one can steal Dilruba from you, do you understand that? She loves you—I have seen her love for you in her so many times in the past. That kind of love is never forgotten, let alone by a trade route accident. This is a test, Burhan, you have gone through many hurdles in life, you must make it through this one too."

"Bahjat," Burhan's jaw shook, eyes glassing up. "She doesn't even recognize me. I saw nothing in her eyes. It fucking hurts, it hurts so much I think a damn blade through my heart would hurt less."

"Then you must make her recognize you!" Bahjat insisted, slapping the back of Burhan's head to knock sense into him, and yanking him close to bear his eyes into Abelhamid's.

"I have said yes to Khairunnisa Sayida and Ferhat Ghatafani's proposal. You will sit with Dilruba, you will spend time with her. You will remind her of the love you have for her; you will remind her of the love she has for you. Do you understand that? You are the only hope she has to remind her of her past."

"She has suffered much, Burhan, take her suffering away gently. Be gentle with her, for she's no one else's but yours."

Burhan shut his eyes, nodding hard as Bahjat exhaled, using both his thumbs to wipe underneath Burhan's eyes.

Burhan pushed him away roughly at the gesture, and Bahjat grinned discreetly as he regained his footing.

"Now, let us get lodgings in the city," The tahararat min alkhatiya spoke. "We are not leaving Thāj without Dilruba."