١١.

"IN THE SUMMER I,
STRETCH OUT on the shore,
and think of you,"

Dilruba Badawi—Hegra's most talented court dancer, abundant in the beauty of her form but mostly in the bewitching tone of her voice—recited the poem by the infamous poet Qabbani, for the wedding guests gathered before her.

She was dressed in glittering yellow—her two piece set drenched in studded yellow embellishments glinting against her beautiful olive skin. The skin of her stomach—entirely bare in between her short studded yellow blouse and her studded yellow skirts—shone with the perfumed oils Ahya had applied, the crystal piercing at her belly button catching the light of the sun just as much as the crystal jewelry at her neck, ears and her delicate wrists were catching.

Often, the guests in the front had to squint in frustration for their irises couldn't bear the glow the jewelry was creating—but they were just as desperate to not miss a second of their scrutiny of this enchanting poetess from Hegra draped on this love seat terrace of the Agrabah palace, her form surrounded by the first of the wedding guests.

The wedding had started. It was a hot day in Agrabah, and upon the Princess of Agrabah's arrangements of the day's itinerary, the noble guests were first to assemble at the terrace of the palace for early refreshments and delicacies whilst Dilruba provided them with the first of her talents to keep them occupied. For the bride and groom would make their entrance later, before exchanging their vows in front of the noble guests.

The next order was then of their public appearance from the balcony of the throne room whereupon the commons of Agrabah gathered outside could witness the union. Afterwards, the commons would be left to their own devices as the Princess and Prince of Agrabah joined their noble guests and the time came for the dinner feast and Dilruba's closing performance in front of nobles full to bursting with the drink and feast.

But for now, all eyes were on Hegra's Dilruba Badawi, draped on the extravagant loveseat in the middle of the spacious and lavishly decorated palace terrace, as though she was goddess sanctioned to keep an eye—and occasionally amuse—the humankind.

"In the summer I,
stretch out on the shore,
and think of you.
Had I told the sea,
what I felt for you,"

Dilruba spoke the poet Qabbani's words in her dooming sultry voice, meeting as many gazes in the crowd of noble men and noble women gathered around her in their finery, as she could. It was the most important part, meeting their gazes as she spoke the words, for it made the act more intimate. It made it feel as though Dilruba had lured them all individually, and it left the guests entranced afterwards. They supposed the words were written for them, spoken for them-all the poet's sentiment buried in the poem, had in fact, been for each one of them alone.

"Had I told the sea,
what I felt for you,
It would have left its shores,
its fish,
its shells,
and followed me."

The guests murmured praises as Qabbani's infamous verses ended, a noble man front and center getting up with his sharp eyes fixed in Dilruba's as a single tall cream feather dangled elegantly from his turban. His eyes were light, and jaw was sharp with a groomed mustache resting on his lips, greased hair of the tache pointed up at both corners.

He got up, and in an efficient move while the guests murmured Qabbani's praises, he took hold of Dilruba's free hand resting on her waist, bringing it up to his lips.

Dilruba held her scroll of poetry in her other hand, and the sudden interaction from the guest startled her slightly. Regardless of the feel of the hard greased mustache brushing against the top of her palm as lips pressed gently against her skin, Dilruba mustered her smile for him and the man's eyes sparkled mischief.

She retrieved her hand cordially, and he backed away to his spot, smirking as his light eyes remained fixed on her form as though she had enchanted him entirely.

Dilruba turned her gaze to her scroll, and as the birds cawed in the distance overhead in the sky, and the sound of the winds nestled itself in every guests' ear, and the mundane everyday noises on the streets outside began to pick up pace, she carefully selected another poem to recite, choosing a different poet's work.

Once again her voice floated over the guests' forms, their gazes fixed back upon her as they seemed to hang from every word that passed Dilruba's lips. Even the crows stopped cawing in the distance, as if they too were more curious than they could express. The Agrabah outside, on the streets below outside of the palace, went on as it was, but no bartering or angry exchanges being passed on the streets far below this extravagant royal terrace had any power to dull the words that were being spoken by Dilruba's tongue and in her bewitching voice.

As the Hegran court dancer and poetess recited the words of the poem, she maintained eye contact with her entrancing audience, letting her gaze linger on a handful of few individuals that she felt were on the same plane as her. It was beautiful relief, to make eye contact with women and men in her audiences—noble or peasant alike—who she could sense shared the same sort of passionate attachment with the written word from a poet's quill, like she did. She felt blissful making eye contact with such people, whilst the more tactful side of her had to often abandon this bliss and focus on lusty eyed noblemen that were hosting or were being hosted, but had no such inclination for the words, as they had for the woman speaking them.

From the corner of her eyes then, at the far back of her audience, wherein from a door opening onto the palace terrace, Dilruba could see more noble guests saunter in dressed in their finery. The women's veils draped on the ground, as much the trails of their dresses did. Some women were covered entirely from head to toe in sparkling garments hiding every inch of their bodies, only their eyes visible from a slit that had been cut out in the covering they wore over their heads. Some women, like Dilruba, preferred to have their midriffs exposed. They had deep necklines in short blouses, making their plentiful—and not so plentiful in others—bosoms enhanced and perked.

The only thing that separated these latter noblewomen from being even slightly mistaken as a lowly court dancer—or even a prostitute—was the distinct jewelry they wore, laden with their family crests, and the noblemen they clung to at their sides like the man was only a mere extension of the women's glittering presences.

It was then, amidst making these observations and reciting the poetry she knew by heart and was merely pretending to read off a scroll—for the act made the noble audiences relax and not assume that a woman was attempting to change the words of a famed poet—that she noticed a familiar figure walk onto the terrace, entering from the entrance amongst the other royal guests.

From the arm of the familiar man, dangled an equally familiar thin woman dressed in a two piece set with frizzy black hair that was only oiled slightly to tame it as it went much past her bony hips. The woman's dark eyes were kohl-lined heavily, and her reddened lips were fixed in a scrutiny sneer, her darkly tan skin glistening with oils.

Dilruba startled only slightly, for she hadn't expected this man to be in attendance at the Princess of Agrabah's wedding ceremony. Certainly, he hadn't told her of that fact.

She tore her attention away from him—though her eyes had only glimpsed him briefly before he had had the chance to spot her—and focused on her recital of Madiani's poem. Dilruba had been reciting one of her favorite passages from the female poet of Jeddah's works, and she was forgetting to savor it as she she spoke the words.

Having turned her attention back to her reciting and her seated audience, she didn't notice the man of her acquaintance join the audience and watch her keenly—though he stood at a side with a drink in his hand and the woman at his arm.

After the poetry recital, the conclusion of which came after Dilruba had recited five more poems after Madiani's, she was surrounded with an appreciative applause as noblemen and women surrounded her as she gathered herself off of the loveseat, showering her in praise of her tone and exultance.

Dilruba smiled, her heart fluttering as she received the praises. These were a scarce commodity, for court dancers were not praised after their performances by the audience. The men and women watching her dance in palace rooms, enjoyed her while she moved and ceased to become a human with feelings and was only there for their entertainment. Afterwards, when she became human and the performance ended, the more moral of the noblemen and women turned up their noses at her, whilst other noblemen slyly sent their stewards to pursue her. It was only the host's courtesy, to praise Dilruba's performance afterwards in a closed room when no one else would see him do it.

So no, court dancers were not truly praised. But poetesses were. When Dilruba did recitals, her audience showered her with compliments and praise. They considered her human whilst she recited those poems and after she finished them too. For what woman would not be human enough to read and convey poetry to another's ear with such feeling and ache in her voice as Dilruba presented?

Dilruba didn't like the difference in her treatment that both her passions incited in people, but there was nothing to be done about it.

"You are a fucking jewel, Dilruba," A familiar voice reached her ears then as her crowd of noblemen and women dispersed from her, all the wedding guests directing themselves back again to the drinks and refreshments table.

Dilruba turned to face the man she had seen coming in and was confident would approach her, except, he seemed to have discarded the thin woman at his side. Dilruba spotted her back at the refreshments table, chatting with a man and woman—the latter two faces she had seen in her audience.

"Is it boastful of me to say that I agree?" Dilruba offered a nervous shrug. "I would be lying if I said I wasn't at all nervous this morning. At least the recital went well, dancing for me has no nerves involved."

"And poetry does?" The man scoffed as though she had uttered something ridiculous, even though it were her own feelings she was talking about.

Dilruba managed a cordial smile, trying to hide her annoyance. She always did that. Somehow, seeing a familiar face from back home suddenly caused her to forget herself and overshare her feelings, even though familiar face or not, she rarely got any understanding from others.

"What are you doing here Salman?" She asked the governor of Hegra's advisor—Salman Chalhoub—then, as the man's warm brown eyes glinted slyly at her use of his first name.

His black beard was unruly, as though he had met with strong winds on the way to the palace, just like his concubine had as well, resulting in both of their hair looking entirely blown through. But instead of making him look unkempt, on account of his messy long beard, his handsome dark face was being held in all the confidence of his bearings, and Dilruba felt her annoyance return to her.

Allah, how had she ever liked him once? He was truly unlikable, what was it that she had seen in him?

"You did not tell me you too were invited?"

He scoffed again at her words, turning his eyes away as he took a sip of his drink before meeting her gaze again.

"What, you think the Sultan of Agrabah is going to marry his daughter if nobody from the governor of Hegra's court show up?" Chalhoub asked, before lowering his voice. "He is a fool with his mouth filling up at the very mention of attention. He'd like every governor and Sultan in Arabia to be in attendance right now, but as you know, our beloved governor refused and sent me in his stead."

"Why oblige the Sultan then?" Dilruba uttered softly. "If you think he is such a fool?"

"Because he's a fucking Sultan, Dilruba," Salman snapped, annoyed at being called out for obliging someone when the mere trait he'd only prefer to sport is his superiority and indifference, even though he was only an advisor to the Hegran governor.

"If you were my wife, you wouldn't have asked such a stupid question."

Dilruba blinked, fighting the urge to walk away from him. She knew there had to be another reason to oblige the Sultan, for if it was obliging only that was needed, why didn't the governor come himself? If only to just drape himself on a comfortable seat, flaunt his authority in a different city, and eat and drink lavishly? No, the governor needed something else done, and that was why Salman Chalhoub was here. The governor never bothered himself if there was something that needed to be done, he appointed others when a task was in sight. Salman though, had caught her on her less than perfect phrasing of her question, and she was annoyed for it.

"Why?" She asked then, "Would you have cut my tongue off?"

The man narrowed his eyes before laughing, shaking his head in his humor.

"Why such dark thoughts, Dilruba?" He spoke then, amusement flashing in his eyes. "I'd only love you so much at nights that you would be exhausted to even think of a question to ask me, is what I meant."

Dilruba felt disgust churn inside her then as his eyes confirmed the suggestion he had made in his statement.

"Well then," She mustered her courage, offering him a smile. "I'm glad I never said yes to your countless marriage proposals."

Salman Chalhoub's smile faltered slightly as annoyance flashed in his eyes. He ground his jaw, directing his eyes briefly elsewhere as he gathered his composure. Once, Dilruba remembered him to be still coy and amused whenever she deflected him. He had had tolerance then, but as time had gone by, he had discarded that trait.

"I shouldn't be telling you this, but there's something that needs to be done apart from attendance at this wedding."

Dilruba eyed him as he spoke the words, there was no doubt in her that he had decided to confide if only erase the dislike she was feeling towards him at present. He was always like that, choosing and picking ways to get closer to her when he caught himself being too arrogant.

"Oh?" She clasped her fingers together at the base of her stomach, tilting her head only slightly.

It was then, that a slight disturbance sounded and Dilruba's emerald eyes spotted the figures of Aladdin and Jasmine pour into the palace terrace from the entrance. The Prince to be was dressed in cream and gold, with a beaming smile brandishing his face as the gold turban he wore on his head sat perfectly fitted. The Princess was adorned in lavender—her wedding attire a one piece with a plunging neckline but full sheer puffed sleeves and layered skirts billowing over her puffed trousers. The lavender on her was sparkling against the girl's darker skin, and her eyes were heavily made up with a dash of violet glitter on her lids and the highpoints of her face.

Dilruba watched the couple laugh and greet the guests surrounding them, most people of Jasmine's acquaintance as she introduced them all to a slightly fazed Aladdin who greeted them back, his hand wandering to the back of his neck to scratch over the cuff of his suit.

"Quite a couple," Salman Chalhoub mused, unimpressed at the sight of the two of them, before he settled his gaze back on Dilruba.

"Regardless, what I meant was that I have a task from the governor," The man let out, as Dilruba tore her eyes away from her cousin and the husband to be.

"I'm only telling you so that you can be on your guard," Chalhoub pressed, before leaning in and lowering his voice. "The governor has reason to believe that there is a ploy in motion against the Sultan of Agrabah."

Dilruba's brows furrowed.

"The perpetrator is supposed to strike at this wedding—or make himself and his men known, however he may choose to."

The Hegran court dancer and poetess startled then, not knowing what to say as her eyes found the happy forms of Aladdin and Jasmine again. She saw the genie at their tale, the man dressed in heavy jewelry and finery as he laughed heartily and shook hands with noble guests with a strength that left the guests slightly faint and bewildered. Aladdin's depraved looking monkey had too been groomed for the wedding, and now that the little creature was dressed in a proper vest and hat and his fur was brushed and oiled, Dilruba could see what exactly the endearing part about him was.

"Apparently he has revenge to weave on the Agraban politics—the Sultan himself."

Dilruba gasped slightly at Salman's words, other familiar words spilling into her mind.

"There is talk that Arab's most deadly swordsman and notorious gangster has returned to Agrabah with his thugs, infiltrating the noble politics of our city on behalf of Agrabah's enemies."

The tahararat min alkhatiya—Aladdin's genie—had said those words to her on this terrace a night ago. He had told her how concerned her uncle was, even though he hadn't given her much details regarding all of the concern. Allah, he had even told her that he had once known the thug, and had granted three wishes for him. The melancholy in his voice then, and the flashing in his eyes too, had chilled Dilruba to her core. There was a grievance there that she had pondered upon, before the tahararat min alkhatiya had himself told her not to dwell on it all.

"Revenge?" Dilruba tasted the word, the genie hadn't told her anything pertaining to that word. He had merely suggested—believed—that the thug was acting on behalf of Agrabah's enemies.

Why would a tahararat min alkhatiya lie without reason? They could never lie, it was their curse—the price they had to pay for holding the immense power that they had once held.

"Mhm," Salman Chalhoub kissed his teeth, as though he was merely amused at the prospect.

"The governor's sources spoke of something the Sultan of Agrabah did in the past, to now deserve this revenge. Who knows what demons the fool birthed to doom himself?"

"There's going to be no doom," Dilruba asserted, annoyed. "You forget, Salman, this is the Sultan of Agrabah you are speaking of. You think he won't have support from most of Arabia against a vile thug and his bandits? If so, you are mistaken."

The Hegran advisor tightened his jaw at being undermined. But then, a thought crossed his mind and he grinned.

"Gotten attached to the uncle, have we?"

Dilruba swallowed thickly, her eyes tearing away from Salman's. Attached? It was a laughable notion. She hadn't even seen the Sultan more than two times since she had arrived in Agrabah. He had always sent his pleasantries by Jasmine's hand when Dilruba would come to the palace. He was always clustered inside the palace somewhere, keeping himself to himself—or possibly just away from his niece who looked so much like his own mother and reminded him of his guilt and the past.

"Bury this attachment Dilruba," Salman sneered then. "The era of Sultans is coming to an end, perhaps it is finally time for the Sultanate in Agrabah to end now too, and if the end be by the hands of a vile thug, who are we to question the machinations of Allah?"

"Why are you here then?" Dilruba snapped, furious at him bringing for Allah in the equation, as if the All-Mighty on his throne above the seven skies would favor a thug over a benevolent—if not towards Dilruba herself—Sultan ruling over his people.

"To sit and watch?" She prompted. "Is that your task?"

To her surprise then, the man in front of her grinned again.

"Exactly."

She blinked in shock, but before she could say something else, Chalhoub's concubine appeared at his side with a glide, clutching his elbow and startling him as he wiped his annoyance off his face at her interruption.

"How nice to see you, Dilruba," Tasmina uttered then, her red painted lips in a tight grimace as her dark eyes scrutinized the court dancer's body in disinterest.

"Likewise, Tasmina," Dilruba mustered a smile, her heart reveling in distaste for the woman.

There was bad history between the girls, and as much as Dilruba tried, she could not forget all the times the woman had tried to endanger her life after Salman Chalhoub had began on the first of his many proposals. The first time he had proposed to Dilruba, Tasmina had tried to poison her food. The third time he had lusted after her, Tasmina had invented lies to get her out of the governor's good graces. The sixth time, she had attacked Dilruba with a knife in the street outside the governor's abode. The hatred between then was palpable now, and Dilruba was always on her guard around the woman.

It didn't make sense though, for was not Tasmina only one of Chalhoub's numerous concubines? Was she not already hardened to his indulgences? Why this hate towards Dilruba only, when the girl did not even want him and had made it clear so many times?

"I hope you are enjoying Agrabah?" The concubine asked then, "Salman told me about the letter you wrote to the governor, and he has accepted your return to Hegra. But me and Salman however are to stay a while and enjoy ourselves in this city."

So he was going to stay, Dilruba thought in annoyance. The governor of Hegra suspected a ploy against the Sultan of Agrabah, and had sent his advisor to merely sit and watch everything unfold. She suppressed a scoff, they would all be disappointed then. For according to the tahararat min alkhatiya, her uncle was already concerned. Does not a concerned man plan, and try to build his own protection?

"Actually, Dilruba is to stay in Agrabah too," Chalhoub spoke then, grinning slyly. "Her request was refused by the governor."

"What?" Dilruba managed, taken back. "But I—I want to return. I have appointments, the governor would not be able to stall—"

"The Sultan of Agrabah wrote to him, Dilruba," Salman pressed. "And the governor obliged him. Besides, if you think about it now, it is a certain.. benefit to have a closer eye available, to get a better view is it not?"

Dilruba's irritation surged through her. She didn't feel the sympathy for her uncle if a bad fate was to fall upon him, she merely felt a guilt at being present to watch the fate clutch its claws around its prey. It was stupid, for why should she feel the guilt? Besides, the Sultan would perfectly be able to manage. Who's to say that he wouldn't emerge unharmed? Who's to say the governor of Hegra and his advisor would wind up without this entertainment that they were craving?

Allah, Dilruba had her own life in Hegra! What would she do here, wasting all her opportunities in Hegra as each day went by? How was Fatima aapa doing? Dilruba needed to go back to her semblance of normal life and continue to work and earn money. To keep her away, and here, was not fair. It was cruel, almost.

Before she could object however, their conversation was interrupted by a high voice as Dilruba's eyes found Jasmine's, with Aladdin at the girl's side.

"Ah, your exalted highness," Salman Chalhoub managed, bowing at the Princess as he grinned at her, ignoring Aladdin entirely. "Congratulations on this auspicious day."

"Thank you," Jasmine spoke, before eyeing Dilruba. "Who is this man, cousin?"

Dilruba startled, blinking as she hastened to make the introductions. How odd, to have people at your own wedding that you did not even know?

"This is Salman Chalhoub," She began, "Advisor to the governor of Hegra."

"Indeed, your highness," Chalhoub smiled. "Your father was gracious enough to extend the invitation to us."

"I see," Jasmine managed, before looking at Dilruba again. "May I steal you for a moment, cousin?"

"Yes, of course," Dilruba answered, and instantly Jasmine clasped her arm around Dilruba's and steered her away from Salman and his concubine, with Aladdin trailing behind the two girls.

"Your poetry session was absolutely brilliant, Dilruba," Jasmine gushed excitedly, as though the two girls were sharing a secret huddled together. "I've heard so many praises for it! The day is going exactly according to plan. The wedding ceremony is in half an hour in the throne room, and then the showing at the balcony for the citizens and then food and your performance. Don't forget to be ready in your attire on time."

"I won't," Dilruba mustered a smile, her heart still heavy at the thought of having to stay.

What would she do in Agrabah? Lay around on her uncle and cousin's mercy? Will the governor at least secure appointments for her in this city?

The day, was indeed going exactly according to plan—Princess Jasmine's plan that is, for it seemed to Dilruba that the day had no idea about the Hegran girl's own plans and expectations. Which is just as well, she supposed, for it wasn't her wedding. But she could still hope her own plans would be considered once this day ended? Her plans were all for herself, why should they not be considered for herself? 

The Princess of Agrabah, and now the Prince, tied the knot in the palace throne room in front of noble and royal spectators. Sultans, Princesses and Princes of other surviving sultanates across Arabia, noblemen and women with titles and wealth, and governors from the democratic Arabian cities, all watched the union take place with a collected formal appreciation, though it was a known fact that the Princess of Agrabah had insulted and demeaned most of them by refusing their proposals for a pauper's hand in marriage.

The Princess and the new Prince of Agrabah then cascaded over to their showing, displaying themselves on the palace eastward balcony overlooking the streets of the city as peasants and commoners gathered and cheered themselves hoarse at the union. They sang and danced in the streets as though they had formally been invited to the wedding.

Afterwards, when the guests at the palace indulged in food, Dilruba couldn't get herself to have a single bite for she had indulged herself in getting ready for her performance early, so as to not make the bride anxious.

She had dressed for her performance in her gorgeous peacock ensemble—a glittering blue blouse with sheer sleeves and dark trousers, peacock feathers arranged in an opening curve and stuck high at the back of her blouse like a single wing, her open and curled hair cascading past her shoulders, the skin at her exposed stomach and shoulders gleaming with perfumed oils, and her silver and blue gemmed jewelry challenging the sun rays themselves.

Her performance in the palace courtyard was supposed to ground her.

Her movements—slow and sultry, and fast too in equal measure—to the music, were calming her. She tried to console herself to the idea of staying in Agrabah a while more, as the wedding guests sat with their eyes glued on her moving body with music in their ears. Surely, she could write to the governor to atleast secure for her some appointments here, she would still be able to earn.

And besides, this was her master performance. If the Sultan had indeed invited all the nobility and royalty he could, she would at least gain some favor and recognition. Perhaps she would receive a direct offer for an appointment after she was done, wouldn't that be such a relief?

As Dilruba danced, her eyes briefly met that of Jasmine's—the newly married Princess sitting out in the open on a royal sofa with her husband at her side, and the noble guests all seated on the carpeted ground upon lavish cushions. They were all sheltered from the sun under a dark sheer and cooling covering held up by bamboo poles.

Dilruba's body wasn't sheltered from the sun. She danced in the heat, the light playing majestically on her skin and almost causing blindness as it reflected in the sparkle of her jewelry. The ferocity of the glittering fountain at her back matching hers. She looked like a sight—entrancing and bewitching, but the heat was starting to make her dizzy and slightly nauseous, her head pounding with a ferocity as she tried to control all her symptoms and push them away like she was expert at doing in such times.

Truth be told, Dilruba hadn't performed underneath the direct Arabian sun for years now. Back when she was starting out as a court dancer, her appointments had been smaller gatherings made by commoners who had a semblance of wealth enough to afford entertainment in their less than spacious courtyards. But when she had gained her reputation and her value had climbed, she had become a court dancer in the true sense of that phrase. She danced only in court spaces, inside the palaces and wealthy abodes, for nobles and royals didn't particularly have an admiration for the Arabian sun.

Here at present, Dilruba hadn't assumed that she would not be sheltered from the heat and the raging sun. She had known her performance would be in the courtyard, but she hadn't thought there would be no shelter for her. She hadn't given that a single thought, and when she had walked into the courtyard dressed in her peacock ensemble and had seen that the cooling shelter was only limited to the audience seating space, she still hadn't known what to think.

Jasmine seemed pleased—delighted even—at her cousin's splendor. Dilruba sensed the pleasure in her cousin's eyes and wondered if the girl would hate her if she tried to cut her performance slightly shorter. For Allah, if she didn't, Dilruba feared her eardrums would burst with the violence of her pounding forehead.

She spun to the music, starting slow and then gaining speed as though she was a wooden spinning toy carved with perfect precision. The drummers and flutists picked up their speed as well, before Dilruba stopped on the ground, dropping to her knees and holding herself up with her head hanging back, her chest in the air. Then she continued dancing against the ground as though the floor underneath her was her dancing partner, as it caressed and supported her body.

Dilruba wanted to stop, because suddenly, she couldn't breathe. Her skin seemed to be burning now, no longer holding its own against the raging sun. Her head was furiously hurting, and her eyes felt as heavy as lead in her skull. She had only been dancing for only one hour, how was this already happening? Usually she felt tired after a whole two hour routine, but this wasn't tiredness. It was only the sun accelerating everything.

The Arabian sun overhead wasn't letting her perform, as though it had seen enough.

Allah, hadn't just been cooler hours ago on the palace terrace? Why had the sun suddenly come out so angry? Could it not have given her some respite today of all days?

Dilruba's eyes suddenly stung as she forced herself to keep dancing, her heart painfully thrashing for lack of oxygen as she threw her head back, her arms gracefully turning and twisting like flames over her as her upside down eyes watched the the fountain behind her, her back curved flexibly.

She had to keep going. This was a good opportunity for her, to secure some more recognition. This was also for her cousin, it was Jasmine's wedding for Allah's sake. Regardless of the grudges Dilruba seemed to be weighed down with at times, it was her cousin's wedding. Dilruba had to do this for the little Agraban girl of twelve years old that Dilruba had once loved and cared for when she was fourteen. She had to keep going and do her best, for that little Princess.

Dilruba forced past her nausea and dizziness, pushing her body onwards through her routine, almost fearing that she would die by the end, her body scalded and ruined under the heat.

Suddenly then, a scream erupted like a gush of water bursting forth from barren ground, and the audience bristled.

Dilruba kept going, her vision blurry as she plowed through her routine, fearing that if she halted for even a second, she would faint.

But more screams and shouts erupted all around her, and she could hear swords sheathing and clashing against each other as men yelled curses and battle cries as though they were gearing for attack and being attacked in equal measure.

Dilruba tried to stop her body to see what was going on, her rational mind taking over her. But she was too weak to come to a clean halt, and she toppled to the ground, her legs giving out on her as head came in contact with the hard stone floor of the courtyard as she gasped for her breath and tried to force her lead weighted eyes to open.

The screams around her intensified and the clamor of about a dozen swords started compounding over all the shouts. The musicians too shouted and dispersed, and she heard them distinctly because they were all seated to her right and left, all of them too without shelter from the sun. One of the anxious deserter musician's drum rolled over to Dilruba's knee, and she finally put all her strength into lifting her head to see what was going on. Her vision was weak in the sun light, but she made out a cloud of dust where the audience was supposed to be peacefully seated. 

In that cloud of dust, she saw men in dressed in black and covered from head to toe as they brandished gleaming swords and fought noblemen and palace guards. Many noblewomen and men had scampered away, and those who remained screamed themselves hoarse as they pushed up against walls and tried to appear small, eyes desperately trying to find a way out of the courtyard, but the men dressed in black seemed to be pouring in from all corners. 

The sofa upon which Jasmine and Aladdin had sat, was now empty and the newly wed were nowhere in sight. 

Had they managed to escape? Was this the attack that Salman Chalhoub had been anticipating? If so, where was he now? Was he watching from a save space? In her agony, Dilruba couldn't help but think of her savior's—Burhan's—friend, the one who kept approaching him with important things to whisper in low tones in Burhan's ears, always managing in whisking him away from her whenever they were alone together. That man too dressed in distinctly all black like these men, did he not? 

But no, he was Burhan's man. All black had to be a common thing in Agrabah, for why would Burhan's men be here at the palace, attacking noblemen, women and royals? 

Then, just as her head had lost its capability to hold itself up and she dropped it to the ground, from the corner of her eyes she saw one of the attacking men approach her. The oppressor, in all black, made his way towards her lying form. His hair was tied off with a black cloth, leaving only unfamiliar eyes on display as the rest of his face too was covered in black cloth. She watched the man through her dizziness in the boiling heat, her body burning in the heat and her forehead threatening to explode. 

But then, just before she gave into the darkness clawing on her senses, she caught a glimpse of a very familiar silver hilted dagger at the man's waist, the kind of dagger that she had seen Burhan and his man carry. Her heart tightened in her chest, but before her mind could afford her an explanation, her senses went black.