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DILRUBA BADAWI HAD DREAMT OF HIM, but in her dream he had done more than just stare at her while he had lit a match in front of his chin, casting vicious shadows on his face as his eyes were fixed on her form, not more than ten yards away where he stood on the window sill of the abandoned floor of the building. 

In her dream, she had watched him as he had blown off the firelight dancing atop the lit match, and had jumped outside the window—or rather the entire wall-sized cutout in the wall—he had been standing against, grabbing onto an abandoned iron latch fixed at the bottom of the window outside the building, and hoisting himself up to make the giant leap towards the Dilruba's own apartment building.

Like a thief in the night—his muscles flexing as his sun darkened skin caught glints of the moonlight—he had found himself grabbing to a functioning iron latch outside the bottom of the window of the apartment floor underneath Dilruba's, as she had watched him with her open hair fluttering in the wind as she looked down, fingers tightening on her own window sill in shock. 

He had looked up to catch her eyes then, and she had seen the color of them clearly. His eyes were dark anthracite, glittering underneath the moonlight as they caught the stone in the sky's flare. He looked up at her, perspiration glinting on his forehead with his effort of the parkour. In his eyes, his intention was clear. Dilruba wasn't just a bystander he had seen, she wasn't just a woman at a window to him. He wanted something from her, or perhaps he wanted her. Dilruba remembered the panic she had felt in her dream, her mind going over making inventory of everything she owned—everything he could bargain with, just so that she could buy herself out of a possible ransom or persuade the man against selling her. 

As her emerald green orbs remained fixed on the man's climbing figure, Dilruba could taste her fear in that dream. She knew she couldn't fight the man, the gilded dagger in her possession—the one she kept on her person at all times in Hegra—was worthless against this man. There were certain types of men she knew she could overpower, the ones who were sly and considered themselves dominant but looked nothing like it. The ones who roamed the streets of Hegra like dogs searching for meek women to feed upon whilst they had their own middle aged wives and and a pelt of children hungry back home. Dilruba could physically fight the abovementioned leprous sort of men, and other men—like Salman Chalhoub—who were noble and wealthy, but still the sort that preyed on women while having even more back home, she could counter with her tongue and wit as well. 

But this had been the first time she had truly given up before even facing her opponent up front. She knew she could scream and thrash but he'd still overpower her. He'd still be able to thieve her own dagger away from her before she'd even had the opportunity to reach for it. She knew this was the kind of man Scheherazade told tales about, the kind of men who could lure in women by just their looks and charm alone—both of which were deadly to begin with. 

Dilruba had woken up then, when the man was only a final reach away from her window but she had been too fearful to peer down and watch, stumbling backwards into her room. 

In reality, the man had only lit up his match, offering her a view of his sculpted sun darkened face as though he was an ancient God resurrected. His dark eyes had bore into her emerald ones from the distance they were encased in. She hadn't kept track of how long he had looked, but she knew he had offered a mere minute with the matchlight for her to look at him in return, before the match was dowsed and the man's figure could be sensed in the darkness, retreating back further into the abandoned room of the abandoned and darkened building, before Dilruba could see no movement anymore.  

Now, as Dilruba Badawi walked the streets of Agrabah, holding her hood over her head to protect her facial skin and her perfumed and dressed hair from the pelting sun roaring high in the sky above, she thought of the rather audacious dream, chiding herself for feeling the fear that she had. 

She weaved her path past the raucous groups of people on the street, shouting and yelling at vendors and the poor people zigzagging to these vendors and their customers alike, with a cupped hand raised as they begged for coins and were harshly scolded or chased off. 

Ahya followed close behind her mistress, her own inconspicuous form wrapped in a dull brown cloak covering her plain, white two piece attire, as she kept a close watch on Dilruba and those who brushed past her, making sure the jewelry her mistress wore at her exposed ankles and wrists was intact and had not been thieved. She chided off the beggars that crossed their path with an adamant audacity, frowning as Dilruba spared a coin for a beggar child who approached crying. By the way he efficiently wiped his tears off after, Ahya was certain that her mistress had been fooled in a pretense, and she wanted nothing more to snatch that coin back from the boy as she watched him totter off. 

It was around ten in the morning, and Dilruba had gotten up at eight in their rented apartment. She had been bathed, and meticulously dressed in a stunning maroon two piece with golden embroidered hems and detailing, her narrow waist and belly on display as Ahya had fitted a glittering piece of jewelry into her mistress' belly button piercing, going on to add matching anklets and stacking bracelets at her wrists. Her neckline was square, displaying her olive coloured supple skin and a gorgeous maroon stoned studded necklace resting in between her clavicles. Her hair and makeup had been left to last, the former had been brushed and curled loosely with a hot iron tong, and the latter had been applied minimally and with care so as to not douse, but enhance the girl's already striking features. 

After all, today was the day Dilruba had decided upon to pay a visit to the Sultan's palace. She was cousin to the Princess of Agrabah, must she not look the part? 

The girl wasn't sure though, of the exact protocol she was to entertain in this case. For when she was usually hired to perform, she had to show up on the location a few hours beforehand on the day. Here, Dilruba had been invited as both a guest and had been sent to perform, and additionally, she was related to the people she would perform for. Surely, a little visit of gratitude is mandatory? The wedding celebrations weren't to start for a week yet.

Anyhow, if she showed up at the palace threshold and the palace guards refused to let her in even after she stated her purpose and relation to the Agraban royals, she would have her answer where the exact protocols were concerned. 

Just then, a rushing group of horsemen were heard and seen riding towards the section of the street that Dilruba and Ahya was walking in, brutally creating havoc as people threw themselves to the sides of the street and shouted as they did so, to avoid getting trampled as the horsemen viciously got nearer, not looking as though they'd slow down. Dilruba's arm was grabbed by a vigilant Ahya, who yanked her mistress back with all her stored strength in the frail maid's form that she upheld.

Dilruba let out a gasp and let herself be pulled back, the small of her back pressing against the wood of a vendor's stall. Her heart rushed in her chest as she saw the panic in the people as they cleared the street like blind mice, screaming and shouting. Her anxious eyes followed every person, urging them to hurry as the older of the bystanders took more seconds than necessary.

Finally when the horses were loud and raging in her ears—the horsemen's forms visible in a cloud of thundering dust and sand on her right, she the last woman to leave the middle of street and take a side. She was struggling with a near five or six year old child, who kept reaching for a wooden toy he had dropped. The woman was refusing to let him acquire it again, her eyes scrunched in horror and desperation as she fought against her child's strength. 

Dilruba could see the hollows under the woman's eyes, her collar bones peaking out dangerously from the neckline of her dirty linen dress, with threads flailing out at the hems. The woman's skin was stretched tight over her bones as though she held no muscle in her, and her child was equally weighty in comparison. It took Dilruba a while to understand the dynamic of a mother who had fed all that she had to her son, sparing nothing for herself. 

 On instinct, Dilruba leaned closer.

"Hurry!" She found herself shouting over the approaching horses' hooves and the disgruntled voices of the horsemen. 

The woman's desperate and sad eyes met Dilruba's, and just when the latter was sure that the mother would show a final strength of courage and grab her child and get out of the street, the woman let go of the child's hand and threw herself to the side of the street for safety. 

"No!" Dilruba cried in horror, and before she knew it, she had freed herself from Ahya's hold and had leapt into the street. 

The dust and sand cloud that was leading the way of the vicious horsemen, had enveloped her now as she coughed and reached for the child, her eyes straining to see his form. She grabbed the boy's arm, who had by now picked his toy back up and was in sudden dismay at the absence of his mother. His large brown eyes settled on her, and in his fear of his surroundings suddenly invisible to him because of the blowing sand, the absence of his mother, and the loud roaring sound of the collective horses' hooves, he wrapped his fleshy arms around Dilruba's waist, burying his face into her stomach. 

Dilruba put her hand on his head, and her other hand on his back, suddenly forgetting which way she ought to throw both herself  and him for safety. She could see nothing, and her eardrums were almost bursting with the shouts and screams around her, as well as the roar of the approaching horsemen. She could hear them getting closer and louder by the second, and now she couldn't make out the direction from which the sounds were coming. They were coming from all around her, and it seemed to her that a dozen horses were coming at her from all sides. 

Fear struck at her core, paralyzing her as her grip tightened on the boy's sobbing body hugging her. But the fear she felt wasn't for herself. She could only feel the child against her and fear for him. Her capability to feel fear selfishly was nowhere to be found. 

Where should she throw him? Which side would he be safe? What if she threw him right in the direction of the approaching horsemen? 

Try as she might, the sand in the air around her was thick, and it had blinded her to everything. 

Dilruba Badawi held onto the boy then, her heart thundering in her chest as her eyes watered and her hands shook, her ears threatening to cave in. 

Suddenly then, she was grabbed along with the boy. She felt arms around her, holding both herself and the boy as her feet left the ground. Her eyes were shut tight, she didn't try to free herself, giving into whoever who was saving them both. She felt herself wrapping her free arm around a man's neck, pressing herself against him. She felt rock hard muscles at his back, the wetness of perspiration, and smelled white musk coming from the man's form. 

She was expecting to be thrown and feel her body being tossed to safety as it came into contact with the harsh rocky ground and she probably broke a few bones. She was expecting that hard contact, and found herself waiting for it, deciding that she would counter the little boy's throw and put herself under him such so that he wouldn't get hurt too much. But the hard contact never came. 

Instead she felt her feet off the ground one minute was being lowered to the ground the next. 

She opened her eyes as the man moved away from her, his touch leaving her. The chaos that she had felt around herself had become muffled now, and the boy holding her midriff also cautiously separated from her. 

The first thing she noticed was that she was inside an empty room on the street, the thin curtains substituting the door, were drawn wide open to the chaos on the street that she had just been part of, and she now saw the last of the horsemen ride past in the vicious cloud of dust and sand that had enveloped her. 

Her heart was still raging in her chest, as she tried to get a hold of her breathing she locked eyes with the man who had rescued her. 

She swallowed thickly, a hand on her chest as she looked at him. The man was wearing the same dark vest he had worn last night, and his black trousers were fastened tightly around his lower waist, another leather strap tied around the same area that held secure a polished glinting sword beside his legs. He was the same man from last night, the one who had looked at her from the adjacent building, afterwards lighting a match in front of his face as if he had wanted her to look at him properly too. 

But here he was at present, standing tall in front of her, his height much taller than her five foot six, his physique burlier than she had witnessed in darkened glimpses last night from her window. His skin was the color of deep sand, a brown the likes of which she related to crushed cinnamon sticks. Hard muscles framed his body and stood erect on his shoulders, his face was half covered in a black cloth tied at the back of his head, leaving only his eyes on display. His hair too, was covered in a black cloth tied in the style of an Asian turban, but messier and with a quick stealth. 

His eyes were exactly like she had seen in her dream. The irises were a dark anthracite up close, except there was a subtler harshness in the expression of his eyes than the ferocity she had imagined in her dream. 

Dilruba tore her eyes away from him as he kept looking at her with a certain resolve, as though he was waiting for her to say something, to do something. Her own eyes searched for the figure of the little boy who had been pushed into the turmoil with her, but instead of finding him close by, her eyes caught him exiting the room and spilling out on the street where he instantly found the embrace of his hysterical mother. 

"Ungrateful little roach," The man's voice entered her senses then, and her eyes shot towards him. 

His voice was deep and hard, as though it was coming from far down his body. She wondered suddenly if she would feel his skin rumble were she to put her hand on his chest when he spoke. Dilruba quickly stifled that audacious—and rather uncalled for—thought.

"He's just a child," She spoke, as a wind from the street blew in from the entrance as she felt it caress her face. Realizing that the hood of her cloak had come down, she reached to cover her head again, conscious of the man's eyes tailing her every movement.

"He's old enough to know where his fucking gratitude lies," The man countered, eyes bearing hard into Dilruba's green ones. 

"Accept my gratitude then," She held his gaze, "On both our behalves. If you hadn't saved us, we would have been trampled." 

The man's jaw tightened, making the cloth hiding half his face go taut around his facial muscles. It was as though her gratitude made him sour. Dilruba couldn't understand it, he wanted gratitude, didn't he? 

"Saved," He uttered the word with disregard, turning his head to look away as his eyes turned vicious, resembling the expression she had seen on him in her dream. 

His eyes met hers again, hard and harsh. 

"I don't save people. I let them rot in the graves they dig for themselves. If you knew just the kind of savior than I am, you would wish that you were trampled." 

Dilruba looked at him, her eyes trying to decipher the man in front of her. 

"I wouldn't ever wish to be trampled," She uttered softly, turning her eyes away from his to glance at the street. "Give me any other death, but not that." 

Her mind calmed as she let the relief of being alive and unhurt settle into her core. Death wasn't a subject that she was unfamiliar with, and though she hadn't ever thought of what kind of death she would actually prefer to go down with, at present all she could think was that being trampled under a couple of horses' hooves was not it. 

Her eyes searched for her maid's form in the crowd of people outside. She knew Ahya would be worried sick, looking for what happened to her for there were no dead bodies on the street and the child had emerged unharmed.  

The man in front of her was troubled, she could understand that. He held grudges perhaps, wounds and anger that translated into the hatred his words seemed to be etched with. But he was a stranger, and his problems were not her own and neither would they ever be. 

"Why did you jump after him?" The dark man spoke then, his voice hard and cutting as he yanked her attention towards her. 

She took in the hardness of his eyes and brows, veins bulged all throughout his muscular arms and his hands were fixed at his sides in half fists. His black eyes bore into hers with ferocity, as though she had caused one of the wounds that he seemed personally to be struggling with in his heart. 

"Are you fucking dense?" His voice hardened some more as he stepped close. "Children get trampled on Agrabah's streets every day, people like you never stoop in to try and save them. Why the fuck did it matter now? The child clearly did not know you." 

Dilruba blinked, her brows furrowing in confusion as her throat tightened at the thought of trampled children. 

"What do you mean people like me?" She uttered, holding the hood over her head as anger made it's way into her tone. "He was just a child, was I supposed to just let him get killed? Are people here that inhumane?" 

The man's eyes cleared then, his ferocity dissolving a little as his orbs dropped from her eyes to her lips and further down her body before flickering up to meet her eyes again. Dilruba was suddenly conscious of the extravagant maroon two piece she was wearing under her cloak. The buttonless slit in her cloak was offering him a glimpse of her extravagance and her exposed skin, even though she had used a belt made of the cloak's material around her waist to fasten the cardigan to her form. But apparently, from the bustle and chaos she had just been a part of, the belt had slightly loosened.  

She hugged her cloak close again, redoing the knot at her waist. 

"I suspected correctly then, you are not from Agrabah." 

Dilruba looked up at him when he spoke, irritation tugging at her. 

"Is that all you suspected? All the while you looked at me last night at my apartment window?" She asked in a mockery, before her tone changed into that of concern, "Allah, are you following me? Is that why you are here?" 

"Relax, farashat rayiea," The man's voice dropped and she heard a sly smile in his voice accompanying the name he had given her, the sudden change startled her and she peered into his pitch black irises with surprise. 

Gorgeous butterfly. Dilruba's heart sped up at the term he had used for her, praising her beauty and naming her the kin of a butterfly in the same sentence. She doubted if she had heard such a compliment before, it sounded something akin to the words of a poet. Dilruba was a poetess, but of a different kind. She recited poetry that famed poets had already written, at recitals and performances, in front of audiences. She had never publicly recited her own poetry, and wasn't known for writing any, though secretly she kept a book filled with her own inventions of prose. 

This man's compliment reminded her of poetry, and she wondered if he had the heart of a poet, regardless of how hard and wounded it was. 

"I'm not following you," He spoke, his eyes unblinking in hers as he took a step nearer. "I only came across you just now. Saw you jump after the boy and had to abandon what I had been doing. Call it fate if you want to." 

Dilruba tried to relax herself. The man had just saved her life, had he not? Why was she so intent on villainizing him? So what if he had followed her? If he hadn't, she'd be dead or dying at present. Regardless, if he was following her, he wouldn't do it all the way to the Sultan's palace, and perhaps if he saw her going in he would be deterred from whatever his initial intensions were. 

"Thank you, again," She managed, her eyes softening in his. "For saving my life and that child's. I cannot express how grateful I am."

"Don't," The man let out then, the smile vanishing from his voice. Dilruba suddenly had the urge to remove the dark cloth that covered half his face, and look upon the sculpted face she had watched in an orange firelight afforded glimpse last night, up close. 

"Thank yourself," He uttered, "If it hadn't been for you jumping in after that boy, he would be dead. As I said before, children get trampled every fucking day on these streets, and I'm no one's damn savior." 

"You are mine then," Dilruba spoke, blinking at him as his scent of white musk infused the air completely around her. "You are my savior."

The man's dark eyes glinted with a fiercely with an intrigue and something else that she couldn't decipher, and Dilruba tried not to lose her footing in the depth of his orbs. Suddenly, she wanted to see the wounds on his heart, and hear him unravel and examine the cause of his anger to her in that deep voice of his while she touched his bare and muscled chest.

"How do you know I saved you for just the fucking sake of it?" He let out, his tone harsh as he stepped closer to her. "What if I want something in return? What if I intend to rob you within an inch of your life? In this starved city, and for these ravenous people, the jewels against your skin and the beauty of your form are both worth more than food on a plate." 

Dilruba swallowed slightly, not letting her composure fall as she kept her head high and her emerald eyes fixed in his, regardless of close he had gotten to her. Her heart pounded in her chest wildly. 

"Which of those two things do you want from me in return?" She asked, "I can give you one thing, not the other." 

The man's eyes dropped to her lips before flickering back to her eyes. He looked at her with an intensity that she couldn't figure, and it made chills cascade down her back. He took another step closer, and now their faces were only inches apart. 

"I think taking anything from you will curse me," He uttered then, his tone dropping low as his eyes scaled every inch of her face. "Those eyes—fuck, your beauty will curse me and I will wake up a leper, if I forcefully take anything from you." 

Then, he stepped away, increasing the distance between them as it had been before. 

"Go back where you came from," His eyes sharpened in hers. "The streets of Agrabah aren't for the likes of you." 

"The likes of me?" Dilruba ventured, frustration in her voice. What did he mean by that? Why did he keep alluding that, when Dilruba had grown up on the streets herself? If one of the governor's men hadn't noticed her talents in Hegra, she would still be on those streets. She would be no better than the woman who had been starving herself to feed her child, and had been so weak in mind and spirit that she'd had to leave her child to save herself. 

The man didn't respond, turning around as he started making his way towards the exit that opened into street. The room they were in was unoccupied, and looked to be a casual storage room that one or two of the vendors out on the streets used for their purposes. Dilruba only just noticed the gaps in the brick placements, and realized the place was unlivable and probably flooded when it rained. 

Her eyes fixed themselves on the man's leaving figure, and she watched him as he threw a last glance over his shoulder towards her, and then walked out into the chaos of the street, leaving the last sentence she had spoken to him echoing in the air around her. 

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A/N:
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