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HER HEAD WAS THRUMMING—SOMETHING akin to a pound but not entirely reminiscent in it's ferocity. Her heart was beating dully against her chest, it's motions infiltrating her veins as they too were beating at against every point under her skin, her blood desperate to keep flowing through her body because of the stare she was in.

Dilruba Badawi knew not much of a body's anatomy, for her scientific education had been next to nothing since she had turned fourteen. For the age of fourteen had brought along the death of her mother, the insanity—or general drunkenness—of her father, and the blatant cut off from the family she was supposed to have in the Sultan of Agrabah—her mother's brother, and the Princess of Agrabah—her cousin.

She had become poorer than a peasant, and when she had been out begging for alms and coins in the streets, the thought of her break with education hadn't exactly been the sole cause of her despair.

Still, Dilruba had found out things—knowledge—of her own accord. She had learned from the poems she read, for at the age of sixteen it was a beautiful delight realizing that poetry could hold secrets of the world—secrets that not even scholars who learned only from scientific books were aware of.

Famed poets like Ajmal Abadi, Qabbani and even Madiani—ones that Dilruba often read from on her recitals and others that she read to herself in private, were mostly all privileged and wealthy people who had been given a full coarse of education throughout their developmental years. In their lyrical prose, they divulged the secrets of the universe and she—regardless of her little education—ate everything they gave to her on a platter.

It were the poets and poetesses who taught her the body's anatomy-amongst other things.

Slowly, Dilruba's eyes opened, her eyelids weighing like elephants as she fought against their force. Her head was still thrumming, but once her eyes fluttered open entirely, she could ignore the pain of it for she was faced with questions that overpowered her discomfort.

The first thing she noticed was that she was in a room painted entirely in soft turquoise and gilded with golden intricate patterns covering the turquoise walls and ceiling. The room was small, compact, and matching turquoise furniture was casually placed about the room. Her body was laid down on a similarly turquoise cushioned loveseat, and she felt the softness cushion some of her anxiety.

Afternoon light had lit up the entire room, the light coming from somewhere behind Dilruba-to her left if she shifted herself on the loveseat. She forced her head upwards and shifted herself to her left, looking at the source of the light and finding a lengthy yet slim balcony attached to a dome shaped open entrance leading to it. There was no one on the sunlit balcony outside, but a figure was inside the room, standing right beside the dome shaped balcony entrance, peering carefully outside whilst their body pressed itself to the wall.

It took Dilruba's eyes a while to adjust to the scorching sun and the sheltered figure anxiously spying for something—apparently nonexistent—on the silent balcony outside.

She lifted her body at her elbows, looking at the figure. The action made the peacock feathers—she had glued creatively upon a wing shape forged with an assortment of copper wires, the final product attached to her back—ruffle and rub against her arms. She was certain the beautiful wing was crooked now, and she shuddered to think of the beautiful real feathers in whatever pitiful state they were in now.

"Tahararat min alkhatiya," She spoke, forcing herself to forget her costume and think rationally.

The former genie startled at the sound of her voice, spinning to face her as though he had been caught red handed doing something ridiculous rather than unlawful. His dark eyes were wide, and his long black ponytail wig—shining with oils and straightened—flipped dramatically at his spin. His glittering attire framed his muscled body, and his sharp jaw seemed even more cutting than it had before. His dark skin too, was gleaming with oils and perspiration alike.

"Ah, Dilruba," The man exhaled, gathering himself up. "You scared me for a moment."

"I see that," She managed, not being able to hide a smile at the way the sturdy man had jostled.

"What has occurred?" She tried to sit up, suddenly feeling every bone in her body ache. "I was dancing one moment and the next—"

Her eyes caught onto her bare midriff—the skin at her stomach was a startling red. She gasped and touched it, only to hiss in pain. Her hands too—exposed from the wrist onwards—were entirely red. Her skin felt not her own, it felt raw and leathery and..

"Allah," She let out, "Have I burned entirely?"

"You gave yourself a heatstroke dancing out there," The former genie was quick to come to her side with a glass of water. "Do not worry, I used a healing concoction of herbs and oils on your skin—the redness will settle down somewhat. You need to drink water though, and remain seated for a while. You will still be weak from that ordeal."

Dilruba took the glass of water as he handed it to her and drank the contents of it, hissing as the movement of her face caused some pain. Her heart pounded in her chest, horror striking her as she returned the glass to him and carefully touched her face.

"Is my face—is it burned as well?" She sputtered, trying to rein in her control in her voice. Her face being damaged—in whatever altered state—was a different kind of horror to her. It was panic gripping her stomach, and bile rising to her throat.

"You are only a little red," The tahararat min alkhatiya offered after a calculative pause, trying to not offend as he struggled to think of words, his dark facial skin glistening in remnants of perspiration.

Dilruba's eyes widened as her heart stilled, and it was then that the former genie brought out a gilded hand mirror from somewhere—the overtly cluttered side table perhaps, which was full of copper and gold trinkets—and pressed it into the Hegran girl's palm as she quickly brought the glass close to examine her face.

Her face was now indeed red, and unlike the attractive sort of redness that bloomed on some Arabian women whose skins hadn't seen the sun, this redness was deep and covered the entirety of her face, instead of settling merely onto her cheeks. Dilruba's olive toned skin was never one for reddening at the cheeks when she blushed. Her skin only possessed a deep olive yellow that let no red surpass it, and any facial color the Hegran court dancer was seen displaying in public—aside from her performance makeup—was merely a dabbing of a beneficial red paste that Ahya made with oils and rose petals. It mimicked a youthful blush on the court dancer's skin.

But at present, even the paste was much lighter than the sudden burst of red on her skin.

"I look hideous," She managed, something catching in her throat.

The former genie scoffed, as though he had suspected a potential breakdown and had to quickly resort to the damage control he had decided upon beforehand.

"Says possibly the most alluring woman present in Agrabah right now."

Dilruba looked at the man, the mirror lowering in her lap. He offered her a cordial smile.

"Do not worry, this can be fixed," He shrugged his bulging muscular shoulders, his glittering gilded sleeves tightening around his movements.

"I will give your maid the recipe to the concoction I applied on you. A few reapplications before going to bed at night and you will be good as new."

Dilruba Badawi looked into the mirror again, raising it up to her face. There was indeed a slightly oily shine to her facial skin. Perhaps the former genie had already applied his concoctions to her face. But she hadn't felt it at all. A look to her side assured her that he had been altogether respectful, for a bowl full of sweet smelling yellow oil and thick wads of discarded cotton lay on the ground beside the loveseat.

"Meanwhile," The Tahararat min alkhatiya let out, walking over to the corner of the room and pulling out a sheer blue fabric from one of the wood shelving.

"Wear this, to protect your skin further and to—," He cut himself off, tossing to her what appeared to be a face veil with blue lace covering the front and the sheer material at the black forming a trail that covered her entire back down to her waist.

Dilruba secured the veil into her hair, taking out pre-positioned pins in her to make the new adjustment. The cool lacy blue veil in front of her face cut her vision in gorgeous intricate shapes, and created a cooling effect—a barring from the heat pulsing in the room courtesy of the sun blaring down on the balcony right in front.

Dilruba looked the former genie, watching him watch her with a calculation.

"You look like a sorceress," He mused, and she laughed, started by the comment.

"Astagfirullah," She uttered the religious protection quickly, the idea of a sorceress alone sending chills to her core.

Black magic was one of the banes of ancient Arabia, and though its practitioners were killed brutally by Sultans, governors and the law, the taint of the magic still drenched the sands.

She pushed the lace front over her head, resting it on her head and back so that she could see and talk for a moment.

"Well, it was your idea," She offered, smiling.

"Yes, and perhaps we could use it for more..," He trailed, before shaking his head and shutting his eyes briefly in frustration. "No, stupid idea. Forget I had that idea."

"What idea?" Dilruba spoke quizzically, looking at the man stroll about in the room, his big hands on his hips as he furiously considered things inside his head.

"That other one that I didn't say," He waved a ringed hand, not looking at her. "Forget I had that."

"Well, you didn't say it," The girl folded her arms across her chest, her eyes narrowing at the former genie. "How am I supposed to forget something that you did not say?"

Suddenly there was a loud crash outside the closed door of the room-not right outside, but a small distance away, as though somebody had dropped something of steel on their way up the corridor that also housed this room. The strange thing was that no footsteps could be heard in the corridor again as both Dilruba and the tahararat min alkhatiya went silent, his eyes wide and full of caution as he silently warned her.

The sudden fear was quick to replenish her memory of the attack that had happened in midst of her performing. Men dressed from head to toe in black, brandishing heavy swords and an all too familiar dagger that she had recognized before passing out. The former genie had dragged her out of that mess—he had saved her. She wanted to ask him questions, fear and curiosity bubbling inside of her. What in the world had happened? And that too amidst the Princess of Agrabah's wedding festivities?

Salman Chalhoub's predictions came haunting back to her. He had suspected—nay, anticipated-the attack. And thus the attack had happened. Allah, where was everyone? Was Jasmine alright? Had something happened to uncle? Dilruba had seen swords clashing against each other—sparring. God, was any of the guests hurt?

She could not ask the former genie anything, for there was a threat looming outside, and the Hegran girl had now deduced that what she and the tahararat min alkhatiya were doing, was hiding. They were hiding, because the attackers were still in the palace.

The man quickly grabbed a marble centerpiece—the sleek naked form of a woman—and brandished it as the weapon before quickly going to the door of the chamber, his back to the wall next to it as he waited for the door to be opened.

Dilruba's heart pounded in her chest, but before she could pray to Allah and ask for protection, the door opened and in slipped a.. carpet.

The former genie's facial features relaxed, as he heaved a sigh of relief, before quickly grabbing one of the four golden tassels sewn at each corner of the striking purple carpet and pulling the rug—standing on two tassels, much like a human—inside the room. The man then closed the door ever so slightly and noiselessly, while the rug trotted on over to the loveseat at Dilruba's side, watching her with a.. she couldn't tell the expressions, for the thing had no eyes.

"Oh my goodness," The Hegran court dancer was entranced, as she entirely forgot the state of her skin and the wedding attack for a brief moment.

"A magic carpet," She gushed, reaching a hand out hesitantly to touch the carpet, and to her surprise, the thing moved closer to her and obliged her, gesturing in a strange performance involving all four tassels—a conversation she couldn't make out.

"She has been looking forward to meet you," The former genie spoke, grinning. "She is saying how we have kept her away most cruelly."

"Well, why did you?" Dilruba laughed a small laugh as the carpet performed a courtesy-taking her hand, bending and folding in the middle of two tassels it used for hands, and.. kissing it?

"There wasn't really an intimate setting for us to introduce you," The former genie shrugged. "You and Jasmine were almost always with royal clothsellers, caterers, jewelers, perfumers."

"Perhaps it isn't done so in Hegra, but here, men can be corrupted by the sight of a magic carpet," The man continued, eyes centering on the carpet. "One look at her by someone corrupted and she would be stolen to be sold off for more than you or I are worth."

"Speaking of which," He blinked, his facial features tightening. "What news of the outside world, carpet?"

Dilruba swallowed thickly as she watched the carpet-her-perform a series of desperate and anxious expressions that looked graver than Dilruba could anticipate. She did not want to interrupt, as the former genie's responsive facial expression tightened in a consideration laced with a controlled dread.

"What is it?" She asked shakily when the carpet finished her performance, slumping over. The tahararat min alkhatiya too didn't speak, his muscled arms folded across his chest as he thought to himself.

"Are we in danger? Those attackers.. they are still in the palace right?" Dilruba's voice lowered in caution and fear as she glanced from the forger genie to carpet and then back again.

"Are Jasmine and Aladdin alright? Where is the Sultan? Who are—"

"They are the men of the man we conversed about that night on the palace terrace, Dilruba," The tahararat min alkhatiya spoke slowly, his eyes flashing something.

"The most deadly swordsman in all of Arabia," The man went on, his eyes fixed on the balcony as he dazed out. "A leader of bandits, a killer, a thief, a thug, a usurper. He leaves the story of Ali Baba and his eclectic forty thieves to shame."

Dilruba tried to control her breathing, her mind not being able to form a rational thought.

"He is merciless and cruel—," He broke himself off, shaking his head to push back a.. memory? With much effort. "He is a killer."

"He is Abelhamid."

Abelhamid. She shuddered at the name, trying to peer into the former genie's face for consolation. If the man was as cruel as all that she had heard from the tahararat min alkhatiya's mouth, and by the Sultan's wariness, and even by Salman Chalhoub's spiteful anticipation for a attack on the Sultan, surely they weren't safe at all in the palace at present? Regardless of what overlooked room they were sequestered in.

"Over fifty guests were killed," The former genie spoke, his lips twisting as though he had tasted bile. "Their bodies lie burning currently under this scorching sun, some in the courtyard-in the aftermath of your performance, and some at the palace terrace."

Dilruba shut her eyes tight. All those laughing, wealthy noble guests clad in expensive finery and glowing like mini suns with their powerful presence—all of them mostly gone.

"Did some escape? Where are Jasmine and Aladdin? And the Sultan?"

"They are safe and sound, don't worry," The former genie exhaled. "Sultans, princesses, princes in attendance were all more or less saved by means of escape when the possibility of danger became known and before the attack had even started. Jasmine, Aladdin and the Sultan of Agrabah were amongst the firsts to be escorted out on the way to a safehouse in a far corner of Agrabah, though carpet reports bodies of at least three Arabian royals from other cities dead amongst the other nobles and guests."

Dilruba's eyes stung suddenly. Jasmine and Aladdin had been right there. They were seated on a velvet sheltered and luxurious sofa just six yards away from her. They hadn't called out to her at all. They had been summoned to leave—made to be escorted out—at the first inclination of danger and yet they had just let her dance like a stupid person. They had let her amuse herself and their guests in their dying breaths and had left her to be eventually killed.

All those people who had just—what seemed like moments ago—watched her perform her dances with their youthful interested—or unimpressed at times perhaps—eyes. They were all dead, and Dilruba would too have been just as dead as them had the former genie not rescued her.

"Why didn't you leave?" She lifted her eyes to look at the tahararat min alkhatiya, her voice cracking slightly. "Please don't tell me you were about to leave and had to come back for me. Please, don't tell me that."

The former genie shook his head, a guilt encasing his facial features though he had just saved her life. Allah, the last thing Dilruba had seen was one of the men dressed in dark approaching her writhing form on the ground! All those men were killers and she had been saved before a blade had even the opportunity to struck her skin. 

"Alright, I won't," The man in the room spoke, shrugging in carefully curated nonchalance to add some sort of lightness into the room.

But Dilruba's heart was already suffering, even though she had been saved. What was this hurt that she was feeling? She didn't even consider herself family to the Agraban royals, so what if they had left her behind to be killed like most of their guests? So what if they reciprocated the barrier that Dilruba already had in front of her? Why had her barrier crumbled at the edges and there's stood strong?

"Thank you," She uttered, tears racing down her face before she even knew it, her head dipped in the heaviness she felt. Her reddened and sensitive facial skin stung as the salty tears washed down it.

"Hey, hey," The former genie let out, exchanging a worried glance with carpet before he walked around the loveseat and sat beside her, exhaling with effort as though his bones were wary with the weight of the years he had lived, as he carefully pulled her into a hug and wrapped both his sturdy muscled arms around her.

"It is alright," He uttered, a thick hand patting her back, "Of course I wouldn't have just left you there. You are safe now—well, at least you were going to be, after I had grabbed carpet and followed the same route that the royals had taken to escape, but by that time the whole palace was overrun by Abelhamid's men and the safest bet was to find a corner, shut up and hold out for a while."

"I sent carpet as a spy to monitor the palace situation," The tahararat min alkhatiya separated from the hug, patting her shoulder again gently as Dilruba wiped at her tears with the back of her wrist.

"It seems that they are looking everywhere for the Sultan," The man shrugged. "After all, no usurper is a usurper unless the old Sultan lies dead."

"But you said this Abelhamid was threatening the Sultan's reign on behalf of someone," Dilruba sniffed, trying to focus as she pushed back the pains of her heart. "Salman Chalhoub—he is the governor of Hegra's advisor—told me after the poetry recital that there was a ploy against the Sultan."

The former genie sat back, a thoughtful expression on his face. "So the Sultan was correct in worrying then, he not only suspected the threat, he also feared that the suspicion came to him last when it had come to others earlier as news."

"About Abelhamid, Dilruba," He straightened again, his dark eyes in hers. "The man's services are bought. He is a borrowed usurper. His price is very high, it has always been. I know him enough to believe that. Though I didn't inform the Sultan of that."

"Why?" Dilruba managed, before shaking her head and taking back her question. "Oh, you would have to tell him about the man being your previous—"

She cut herself off.

"My previous master," The tahararat min alkhatiya spoke, shrugging again. "You can say it, you know. You referring to my past will not get you cursed. If in the future you do ever find yourself cursed, I assure you now that you must probably have offended another tahararat min alkhatiya, not me."

Dilruba bit back a smile at that, not being fully able to laugh though she wanted to. But laughing seemed out of place at present, considering the threat outside the door.

"But, Abelhamid was more than my master, Dilruba," The former genie's voice toughened, his facial expression sombering. "He was.. different."

"Like Aladdin?" She asked softly, "Aladdin set you free."

Dilruba was not much familiar with her estranged cousin's husband to be—or husband. She had only merely exchanged a few cordial words with the former street rat, and had already deduced in his manner a certain.. boyish excitement—a certain immaturity. He carried no grace in his demeanor, no composure in his being. He blurted the first things that popped into his mind and laughed the words off nervously if they weren't taken how he had foolish assumed them to be received. Which was understandable, all of it was understandable considering him being brought up on the streets.

But there were some things that you learned. You watched the privileged carry themselves in front of you and ignore your presence like a horse manure piled on the side. You watched the privileged, and you strove to be the better part of them, promising yourself that you won't let their ugliness taint you in the process. That was what Dilruba had done, hadn't she? She had begged on the streets in tattered clothing, and now she carried herself such so that were she to only wear a nobleman's family colors, or ink a well known crest onto the olive skin of her shoulder, she would be bowed before.

Aladdin hadn't seemed to have any of that. Despite being engaged to the Princess of Agrabah, he wore the clothes of a street rat even in front of the Sultan. He talked like a street rat, with his dialect coming out when he was nervous. Allah, Aladdin was always nervous, his hand seemed to be permanently raised to scratch a spot at the back of his neck.

Dilruba didn't like that. She didn't quite like him. She couldn't decipher if it was envy she felt towards him. For how could the Sultan and Princess accept a mere penniless street rat from off the street while they had completely abandoned the only daughter of the former Princess of Agrabah to the streets? It felt like they had chosen Aladdin over her, and it was a ridiculous thought for there had been years in between Dilruba's abandonment and Jasmine and Aladdin's love story. Yet Dilruba could not scorn the thought away.

"He did," The tahararat min alkhatiya uttered, smiling fondly at his lap before turning his head to look at the Hegran girl.

"And I love Al, he is my pal for life," The man spoke, his eyes sparkling before the sparkle dimmed slightly. "But Abelhamid was.. different. Al's easygoing, he is passionate and reckless and completely careless to the point that all of it is rather endearing in him."

"But Abelhamid was different," He shook his head, jaw tightening in self scorn. "He was collected, he was.. wounded. He was suffering when he found me, yet he still did not want to use me to ease his heartaches. I laid out all the rules to him, and his ailments could have been fixed—and easy adjustments could be made in some scenes where the rules limited me—if he asked it of me, but he didn't."

"He didn't use his three wishes?" Dilruba managed, "But you told me he did."

"He did," The former genie swallowed thickly, pain flashing across his facial features as he looked away from her and dropped his gaze to his lap where he looked at his hands.

"He just didn't use a single wish for himself, Dilruba," The man let out then as though the words were tearing at him inside. "He lay there suffering with the burden that his life had become with all the anguish surrounding him—weighing him down. Yet not a single wish he used for himself."

Dilruba's heart stilled. Out of all the things she could've ever imagined an infamous and ruthless thug and killer doing with three wishes at his disposal, she couldn't have ever imagined he would use none for himself.

"So when I say that he was bought by someone, and is only following orders, believe me," The tahararat min alkhatiya exhaled. "Abelhamid was stubborn, Dilruba. I saw that in him. He would never give anyone else the power to fix him—to save him. He refused to owe anything to anyone. I asked him why he wouldn't use even a single wish for himself, and he promised me that the only person who would get him back up on his feet, would be him and no one else."

The Hegran court dancer tore her eyes away from the former genie and looked at the carpet. She was seated on the ground, rectangular fabric body poised in the form of a seated being with a tassel underneath what could be perceived as a chin, listening to the former genie's story.

Dilruba didn't know what to think. As admirable as the killer was starting to sound, he was still a ruthless thug who had attacked her cousin's wedding and was threatening her uncle's reign. He had infiltrated the palace with his men, and Allah, she was trapped and hiding in a room with a tahararat min alkhatiya and a magic carpet with no plan. The Arab famous and feared swordsman and killer might've used his three wishes for not himself, but he had still filled the palace courtyard with dead bodies of innocents, he had still taken over the palace, he was still searching for the Sultan and any moment the room they were in at present would also be approached for a check.

So no, however admirable a choice that man had made in front the genie he had found, he was no one's hero and no one's savior.

It was then—perhaps she had foolishly summoned the danger with her thoughts—that footsteps were heard clustering outside the door of the room, and somebody started aggressively trying to open it before finding out that it was locked.

The realization that a door to a room you were not in was locked, had always been a startling one. Such was the case with thugs outside, and soon multiple men were on alert and trying to get the door to open, thinking perhaps that they had finally found the Sultan of Agrabah hiding in his hiding spot.

Dilruba stood up off the loveseat, following the tahararat min alkhatiya as he leapt towards a corner and grabbed the marble woman centerpiece. Dilruba's heart was pounding in her throat as she looked around for a weapon of her own, but there were dusty books and small centerpieces in sight—the latter too small and light to be even considered potential weapons.

The carpet fluttered in her fear, rushing to Dilruba's side and hiding behind her legs. It was as though her movement had finally caused something to switch, for the wooden  door burst open, breaking off its hinges.