Alara

Our neighbour, Abbas, usually comes by to use the water from our tap. When he came yesterday, I gave him half of the money I received from the market and promised him that he would get the other half if he takes care of my mother until I return. He wouldn't take anything less than everything I have, but if I fail with the prince I think I can reason with him to leave some for me.

It is risky asking a seventy-year-old man to take care of my sick mother, but he is someone that I trust to not take advantage of the situation and to stay true on his word.

A camel walks past me, it's hooves clicking against the ground, forcing me to move aside as I stare up at the palace. There are no gates—probably because there are enough guards to surround the area anyways.

I've been into Qadura before, but I have never been this close to the palace. I never risk stealing this close, not when there are eyes everywhere.

The palace itself is breathtaking. Tan coloured minarets, covered in Islamic engravings, rise up into the skies. The domes are framed by the soft hues of the sunset.

I used to have a stupid, recurring thought that I might come and find my father here—like in the stories. But I am no princess. That much I am sure of.

I force one foot in front of the other until I am crossing the bridge towards the palace. Guards line each side of the bridge, their eyes all on me. I am sure nobody dares to show up late for a royal ma'duba.

Still, I keep my chin tilted up and my shoulders back. I've been to the trading at the port in Wadi enough times to know that royalty treat their guards and servants like dirt.

I refuse to do that, but I can avoid eye contact. Mostly because if I look at them I might spill my guts. 

The entrance to the palace is an archway that has repeated smaller arches going in, each smaller arch contains new engravings and designs. It is mind blowing.

Inside, there are gigantic passageways which surround a indoor garden. The ceilings are all engraved with designs telling an unknown story.

I trail my fingers along the smooth wall, my eyes wide with wonder. Na'am, I can do this. Several glassless window arches look out into the garden that is filled with lush greenery and flowers. In the setting sun, the colours become something only found in a gentle dream.

"It's beautiful, isn't it?" A deep voice says from behind me. The stranger's voice is rough, yet soothing. It suits this place.

"I can't imagine how long it must have taken to build this." The walls are made of bricked stone. But the engravings, it had to have taken centuries.

I know I should be looking at the stranger I am talking to. It's rule number one of manners that people of royalty should possess, but I can't look away from the design of this place. "Living here must be incredible."

"Most days the halls are silent and void," he chimes in.

"Exactly. You could sit in the garden and read, or do absolutely nothing. What a luxury."

"It's only a luxury for a week, maybe two, until you get bored and itch for more. Or until you realise that people out there are starving and dying while you sit in a pompous little garden."

"Pompous?" A strange half-laugh sound leaves my lips as I turn to assess the strange man with his unusual point of view. My beating heart stills. "You."

Without being covered by his garb, the sharpness of his cheekbones and the precision on his beard stands out. It's intimidating.

He looks down at his clothing, the attire of the guards here. A pair of plain black harem pants and a tight linen shirt. "I knew I looked good, but I didn't think I'd take your breath away like this." His voice is rough.

It shows a lot of confidence that the palace guards do not wear armour.

Those soft eyes, like sands shifting in the desert, trail over me. "Wow, thievery sure does pay well." My eyes widen and I glance around the empty hallways. "Relax, everyone is inside the hall kissing the Hakeem's feet."

I step closer, trying to keep it together. "You talk a lot more than I imagined you would." Before, he was just the silent hero, now he is the flirty guard with my life in his hands.

"If I wasn't talking when you imagined me, what was I doing?" A smirk tilts one side of his lips upwards.

"Walking away." His smirk falls, making me straighten my shoulders and turn, hoping I am heading towards the right direction. Music and lights flood out of a pointed archway, along with the voices of too many people.

Two lowered tables sit in the centre of the hall, surrounded by plush pillows. Each pillow has a mandala design intricately weaved into it. Lanterns line the walls and candles are laid wherever there is a gap not filled with mouth watering food.

It smells of expensive spices and warm bread. My stomach immediately twists at the amount of food. If anyone knows how to live in excess, it's the rich and powerful.

The kids in Wadi, the camps in Ardifa. There is so much food and wasted money here that could be given to—Stop. I don't want my thoughts to be written on my face. Not when I need to be thinking like royalty.

If only I had any idea how royalty think.

"If you want to fit in here, dish out more than you can eat and praise the Hakeem with compliments." His voice brushes against my ear. I suck in a breath at the sensation. He's so close.

I turn to thank him—the guard with the unknown name—but he's gone, faceless among the countless people in here.

My eyes shift over the crowd. Everyone is dressed in fine gowns and gold lined outfits. Instead of finding the guard, I find the Hakeem. He is standing near the head of the table, embellished in a white robe. A matching white kiffyeh sits on top of his head, held in place with a black ring. His smile is dazzling as he grips onto the man he speaks to.

He seems to charm the people that he speaks to. Something has shifted in him. His shoulders are still straightened with pride but his manner is more open and welcoming.

I gravitate towards him, each step making me feel like I need to run into that beautiful garden and throw up.

The Hakeem's eyes fall on me, as well as the eyes of the man he was talking to before. Power emanates from both of them. It makes me wish the floor would turn into a puddle of quick sand. I have never been this close to people of royalty—only at a distance in the Jummah market. "Remind me of your name, girl." Girl.

I can't give away my real name. It might lead this man back to my mother. I will never put her in danger. Not for my lies. What is a name I've always found beautiful? "Malaika."

"Your full name, Malaika?"

"I don't share my full name, for safety reasons." When it comes to lies, sharing less makes things easier.

He turns and assesses the people in the room. I shift backwards, wondering if that is how he declares the conversation over. Until his voice booms over the music, making me jump. "Nawaz!"

The prince. I know this was the plan, but I don't feel ready. If one thing goes wrong, I will lose all of the money I was promised. The money I gave to our neighbour, Abbas, to take care of my mother is no longer mine, so if I fail here I will be back to square one with absolutely nothing.

Having nothing to lose has it's benefits, but it gets exhausting sometimes. All I need is to make a good impression. I'm willing to do anything to get this money, it will allow me to finally buy a home for my mother. A bed. She would love a bed.

I will give my soul to see her smile again.

"Meet Malaika, from the royal family of Diyar." The Hakeem's voice pulls me out of my state of panic.

The prince. Right in front of me. His light green eyes are on me, trailing up from my sandals to my dress to my eyes. I don't miss how he takes his time assessing fit of my dress to my waist and chest.

I bought a new dress for tonight, with some of the money I kept aside, before giving the rest to Abbas. The Hakeem might find it questionable if I wore the same dress he saw me in on Friday.

This dress is the deepest shade of blood. It contrasts against my skin. Worthy of winning over a prince.

"Marhaba, Malaika," he greets. The way he says the name makes me wish it was mine. His smile is a replica of his fathers. Charming, friendly and hiding many things.

"Hi," I whisper, suddenly breathless. Black ink runs up from his hands to beneath the rolled up sleeves of his button down shirt. I've never seen markings like this on someone before.

"I can show you the rest of you'd like, but I'd have to start taking of my clothes for that." A player. He has most likely said those words a thousand times.

Yet my cheeks still heat up. "Oh, uh, no." I search for the Hakeem, but he is gone. I'd much rather go hide in a dark corner than speak to anyone here, but my job is to 'woo' the prince. "I mean . . . When?" It feels like something is trapped in my throat.

He nods his head towards a door that is at the back of the room. "Follow me." He walks ahead of me, not bothering to look back and check if I am coming.

Suddenly I'm up against the wall in a darkened room. My heartbeat thrums in my ears, in my veins. "What are you doing?" I whisper as the door clicks closed, cutting us off from wondering eyes.

His lips find my neck, answering my question. My hands tighten against his shirt, a soft gasp leaving my lips at the pleasurable sensation. I've never had anyone touch me like this. The way his tongue moves—definitely a player.

"Why are we in here?" I breath out, tilting my head for more. It smells of smoke in here.

"You look innocent, like you don't know what it's like to be touched and kissed and loved. I want to show you."

He's right. I've never had a man this close to me, unless I was stealing something from his pockets.

"Love doesn't come from neck kisses in a dark room." I push my hands against his chest. "We can talk first. I want to know you."

His hands pause on my body. "Who said anything about love?" He says the word with so much loathing. Love. As if it is something that should be wiped from existence.

His lips continue with their job, as he trails kisses up towards my jaw and then to my lips. I've never been kissed. I turn my head. A kiss is a determining factor. If I'm a bad kisser, he will be repulsed. All of this will be ruined. I won't see my mother smile.

"Please, let's slow down."

But he doesn't, his hands continue to roam into more uncomfortable territories. I'm afraid that if I am forward and say no, he will jump to the next girl and forget about me.

"Daeha tadhhab." دعها تذهب. Let her go.

~~*~~

Have you ever read an Arabian themed book before?

T w i t t e r : xPineappleGirlx
I n s t a g r a m : laylaawrites
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