Alara

The bristles of my brush splay across the white sheet. What was a brown blob a little while ago is now forming and becoming what I had imagined in my head.

It makes my heart fizzle with excitement—to know what I am capable of outside of running and stealing and surviving.

Looking back at me is my mothers face. Even though it's been far too long since I have seen her beautiful, aging face, I still remember it as clear as the moment I hugged her goodbye.

There was such pain in her expression, in her eyes, and I tried to capture that in the lines that I trace across the sheet.

In my painting, the top of her head is cut open and images leak out of her like visions of the life she lived; the life we lived, and will likely have to go back to. That is, if we make it back successfully.

My eyes water as I take a very fine brush and paint in the details of our life; the cracks left on our walls, the bucket sitting beside piles of unwashed dishes. I also try to paint what I imagine would go through my mothers mind in the moments where she wasn't trying to sleep away her sadness.

I wish I knew more about her past; about what lead her to the life we had. A tear slips down my cheek. I don't want to go back to that.

ZIIIINGGG!!

A loud buzzer goes off multiple times, and then one of the judges—identifiable today by the badges they wear on their white uniforms—announces and gestures that we must step away.

Everyone drops what they are doing and steps back. I quickly fill in the blank space so that it does not look unfinished.

As I put my brush down, another judge comes to me, shaking his head, and placed a red dot on the top right corner of my painting.

I frown at him. "What does this mean?"

He tries to explain but I don't understand it. Only his gestures, when he makes a cross sign with his arms, makes me realise that I've been . . . I've been disqualified.

"What? No. I was just—it was just a tiny white spot. I can't—you can't—" Can he? "Please." I press my palms together, begging with my eyes.

He gives me a sad smile, pats my arm and walks away. I stare at the red dot. It seems to become bigger and bigger, until all I can see is red. Everywhere.

My breathing shakes. I try to turn, try to look around but all I can see is failure. I've failed. I've killed any chance I had of winning.

When reality finally comes back, I see a few other contestants looking at me sadly. This—It's not fair. I didn't know about the disqualification rule.

The paint hasn't even dried yet, and I have already lost everything. A cage closes around my heart, tightening and squeezing until it's too painful to exist.

My feet run before my brain can process any further. My shoes clap against the strange floor texture in this area, a stone-like substance.

I run until I am forced to slow down because the tears in my eyes are stopping me from seeing.

Tanaffasi! I need to breath.

As I am wiping my cheeks, strong hands grab me. My thoughts immediately go to that man on his motorbike, who tried to trap me in his store.

I pull back, but he keeps his hands locked on me. I look up. Zayen's talking to me but I don't want to hear him.

Seeing his face, the heartbreak that creases his expression, makes me want to run further. To run until I escape this land and find nothing but water and—"Alara." He is taking deep breaths. Something I wish I was capable of right now.

I glance up, wishing to stop crying. With each struggled breath, my chest heaves. The silver fish seem to sparkle as they shift, and drops of water land on my face.

I start laughing. The feeling eases the tightness in my chest for a millisecond. Rain? As the fish move and change their positions, more droplets fall from the sky, wetting our hair and out clothes.

"Why are you laughing?" he asks gently. Because it's the only thing stopping me from falling apart.

My laughter stops, my heart sinking so deep into my chest that I feel as if I can't stand anymore. My knees weaken and I hold onto Zayen, breathing hard.

What is happening to me? Tears fall freely down my face, and he quickly tucks me in his arms and hold me tight. "It's okay. I'm here. I've got you." His hands brush through my slightly damp hair.

Water continues to fall around us, but we stay still and silent. Until I say, "I failed. All of this. It's—it's nothing."

"It's not nothing."

I look up at him. "You? Did you . . . ?" Maybe he won.

He shakes his head. "I was trained as a guard. I'm the farthest thing from an artist. It's a mess. I'm . . . I'm sorry."

His shoulders slump, and he holds me tighter, sighing. He knows, as much as I do, that we have no chance now to save the people we love.

I reach out and brush a droplet of water from his cheek. He leans into my touch. The vulnerability that he shows; not hiding that my touch comforts him—it makes my heart lighten again.

Maybe we didn't lose everything. My hand slips behind his neck and I lean up, my gaze on his lips.

He brushes his nose against mine, his hands not letting go of me. "Are you sure?"

The rain is starting to make his shirt slightly translucent. My hands slide along the side of his bicep, then to his chest, then up to his shoulders. He watches me closely as I explore him.

"Alara," his voice is rough, much deeper. I quickly meet his eyes. Oh. The only way to describe his expression is raw and animalistic. "Stop touching me."

I bite down on my bottom lip. Challenge accepted. "No—" I almost fall backwards when he kisses me, but his arms wrap around me and keep me upright.

A small, surprised sound leaves my lips and it makes him groan. His one hand tangles in my hair and my fists tighten on the front of his damp shirt.

My heart seems to be beating only for him. Zay-en. Zay-en. Zay-en. "Hmm," I hum against his lips, wanting more. My whole body is losing feeling because it's all going to my heart.

He quickly pulls away, breathless, as if realising something. "This  . . . This is a distraction. We need to . . . focus."

I don't want to. I don't want to focus on reality.

He sees my reluctance and adds, "We can't keep running, Alara."

"What do we do? Go back and tell your father that we failed? He's going to kill our family."

His jaw clenches. "I know," his voice is more of a growl than a human sound.

"We—"

"We don't even know how long we've been here." Frustration is evident in his voice. "He gave us a time limit.  One month. It could have been longer. They could be . . ." He noticed my expression and shuts himself up. "Sorry."

The only image in my head now is the image of my mother lying with her throat cut, staring at the detailed carving of the Qadura palace ceilings; the chandeliers and the gossamer curtains, wondering why her daughter never came.

It becomes hard to breath again. I release my grip on Zayen only to realise I'm shaking. "Please." I don't know what I'm asking for. I don't know what I need.

His expression softens. He brushes his fingers against the back of her cheeks. He's shaking, too. He is just as scared as I am. "We can't escape this, Sariq. We have to face it. The least we can do is face it with our heads held high."

"Held high? Do you understand that those kids could be—?"

"Yes, I understand." His expression is tight. "Do you not think I understand? Every day, I woke up feeling like I didn't have a place in that palace, that I belonged nowhere. But with those kids . . . I felt like I had something to live for, and something to die for, and I couldn't even . . . I couldn't even save them." His eyes squeeze shut, lines forming between his eyebrows.

The pain on his face only makes this moment hurt more. I touch his cheek, wishing to ease the pain between us.

"We have to go back. There's nothing we can do," I say. We both know it, but saying it out loud feels too real.

"Maybe I can be of help."

Zayen and I put a good amount of distance between us. The Wazir walks towards us. He is in a white robe and has a badge, because he must be one of the judges too.

His sandals clap against the stone-like floor as he walks closer.

"I know that you two have good intentions coming here. That is what we try to influence in Aleamiq—kindness, generosity, virtue, humility, fighting for what is right. I see that in you, in your actions." He smiles, causing creasing at the corners of his eyes.

"So you'll, what, let us make a wish with the stone?" Zayen asks.

He laughs, the sound raspy and wheezy. "The stone is not real. Magic is haraam." Forbidden.

"So you lied?" I ask. "Doesn't that go against the values of Aleamiq. Honesty?"

"Morals are a tricky thing, are they not? The stone was only a façade for my safety, because the winner of the trails does get his wishes granted. Only it's not by magic or any of that nonsense—it's through me."

"Through . . . You?" This is ridiculous. No more ridiculous than breathing under the ocean, I suppose.

He nods curtly. "In this land there is no hierarchy; we're equals in land, in way of living, in what we have access to. But above water, things are different. I have boats, money, etcetera. If I can't grant their needs here, I can grant it above water. So, how can I help you?"

"Why would you help us?" He could grant this to anyone.

"Because, Alara, I'm . . ." One of his eyebrows lowers, and lines crease his face with concern. "I am your father."

~~*~~

*Insert Star Wars theme song here*

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