Deceiving others. This is what the world calls a romance.

— Oscar Wilde

HER HORSE GALLOPS ahead of him through the beautiful green meadows where he races horses with Rouzbeh and often loses to him. He races with her today and he feels he might lose to her too. It's not something he minds though. He's never been known to be the best horseman when he has spent more time sailing ships and clashing swords than riding horses and earning a name for it. Yet still, he doesn't wish to give Rahaf an easy win. And so he manages to outrace her a few times. But each time she catches up with him. Until the tree that serves as their finish line comes near and Rahaf leaves him behind.

“You lose to me, Ameer Furat!” she exclaims as she circles around the tree and her horse trots towards him.

Furat laughs, and he laughs with all his heart. He reaches for the bridle of her horse and guides it closer. Rahaf looks at him with pride and joy. He smirks at her.

“I lost to you, my Amira.”

He dismounts his horse and offers her his hand. She takes it and he helps her down. Furat takes the reins of their horses and ties them around the tree. They begin to walk through the meadow to nowhere.

“So this is where you race horses with Sayyid Rouzbeh?” she asks.

“Yes. And I often lose to him as I lost to you. But unlike you, Rouzbeh isn't very humble and likes to rub it in my face.”

This makes her chuckle. Their arms touch and before he can create any distance, Rahaf gently holds his hand.

“Surely there must be something you're the best at?”

He gives her a crooked smile. “I don't want to boast.”

“But I want to know,” she insists.

Furat hums and glances away at the meadows. The sky above them is clear, but the sky at the horizon tells other stories. He hopes if any rain laden clouds are on their way to them, they make it to the palace before the clouds.

“I like swordfighting. I believe I'm the best at it,” he tells her.

“You've never been defeated at it?”

“Not once ever since I mastered the skill. I learned it when I was still a young boy.”

“What makes it special about you?” 

There's a curiosity in her voice which forces him to meet her eyes. As if wanting to learn all his secrets. As if she can bear any of them. Furat carefully frees his hand from hers and puts it on her back. He holds her close to his side. As if keeping her from running away.

“I can handle my sword equally well with both of my hands. It usually gives me an advantage over my opponent in a fight.”

What he doesn't share with her is how and why. His weakness that compelled him to practice and perfect his left hand because of the amount of times his right hand has betrayed him. Just like how it did only last night. How the smallest fear can trigger him where his hand doesn't even feel his own. When it trembles as if it'll fall. But he has never let it be an excuse to be defeated in a fight. 

“That's impressive.” Rahaf smiles. “It must've been hard to learn.”

He shrugs a shoulder and tries to shift the focus of the conversation away from him. “Tell me, can you handle your sword well?”

“I like to think so.”

“Who has taught you?”

“Tahman. He used to practice with me. After his death I didn't have the will for it. It's been more than a year.”

His hand around her back twitches. He removes it. “Did he teach you to ride a horse too?”

Rahaf nods. “Although I never defeated him. Not in a race or a fight. He was very well trained.”

Clearly not well enough to save his life, Furat thinks. But he was a prince afterall. Of course he was raised to be one of the best fighters. Then the man who brought him his doom must be someone from the ranks of the best too.

“You can train with me. I can help you use your sword better than anyone else,” he offers, for whatever God forsaken reason, but tells himself it's to have an advantage over her. Why will he ever train his enemy’s daughter to strengthen her defenses? But to have every opportunity to keep his sword at her throat and learn of her weaknesses. 

Oblivious to his intentions, Rahaf grins widely and hooks her arm with his. He wishes she wouldn't do it as often. Her eyes alone are dangerous. Her touch to him is more so.

“I would love nothing more, Furat. In return, I can help you be a better horseman,” she jests and makes him laugh again. So frighteningly effortlessly. So genuinely. He finds himself liking it and suddenly it makes him wary of her. He subtly tries to free his arm from her and she lets him go.

Rahaf blushes and locks her fingers before her, as if caught putting in too much effort in trying to be close to him and now feeling embarrassed. Furat feels a little guilty as now she tries to avoid bumping their arms. Perhaps his subtle attempt was not as subtle. He licks his lips and looks away.

“I'll hold you to your promise, Amira. I used to like horse riding as much as I like sailing now. I race with my second in command, Tamir, on the beach sometimes.”

“Who wins?”

“Sometimes him, sometimes I.” He smiles at her. “When we leave Qurtuba, I'll take you to show you around the coast of Al Mariyya, the city where we first met. And Malaqah, Mursiyya, Balansiya. All the beautiful places I've been, and I want to be at again, with you.”

She returns his smile. There's a softness to it. A hesitancy too. A little shyness. A little fear. Furat stops and turns to her. Rahaf follows his actions. She looks up at him, searching his eyes, her smile gone, and he slowly lifts his fingers to her face.

“Do you want to come with me, Rahaf?”

“Yes.” Her answer is a whisper. It holds no hesitancy or fear. Furat touches her face. “But if you've to be away at the sea?”

His right thumb strokes her left cheekbone. It glides up to the edge of her stole and slips under it. He hooks his thumb into it and lightly tugs it down. It comes undone. Rahaf quickly raises her hands to it, to keep it in place against the wind.

“Furat?”

He takes both of her wrists in his hands and brings it down between them. The wind pushes the stole off her head and the loose strands of her hair come to graze her face. Rahaf blinks when they poke her eyes. He releases one of her wrists to tuck back her hair.

She's blushing again, though he knows this time not in embarrassment but something else. He leans closer and Rahaf instinctively leans away.

“F-Furat?”

“When I'm away at the sea missing you, where do you wish to be?”

Her lips part and she speechlessly stares at him. He can feel her breath on his chin. He likes the look she's giving him. He likes how he has her at his mercy. But not for the reason how he's in control, rather merely for the pleasure of it. To be adored by her. To be wanted by her. How odd, he thinks, when it shouldn't matter so much where he begins to find pleasure in it more than necessary. Where he starts seeking it.

Furat swallows and releases her other wrist too. But none of them move away. Rahaf continues to stare into his eyes, and his gaze only briefly flicks to the mole near her lower lips. He swallows again.

“Furat…”

Furat clenches his jaw and steps back. He glances at the sky and finds the gray clouds rushing towards them. If they don't leave now, the rain will reach them before they reach the palace. If Rahaf says his name one more time, he'll start liking it more and curse himself to hell. He'll want to touch her mole and then burn his fingers as a punishment. He'll start to think about what Bassam said to him and then dislike him for it. How traitorous is a heart. How disgusting are the feelings it brews. He wishes he could live without one.

“It'll rain soon. We should make our way back to the palace,” he suggests.

“Don't you like the rain?”

“I do. But I don't want you to soak in it.”

She nods and takes his hand in hers once more. “Do you have anywhere else to be?”

He doesn't free his hand of hers this time, not wanting to embarrass or upset her again, and shakes his head. “Why do you ask?”

“Do you think we can watch the rain together if it falls?”

Furat smiles, fleetingly and tenderly, holding her hand and leading her back to where their horses are.

“If you wish to, Rahaf.”

“MY LOVE?”

Aswad looks up from the papers on his table. Outside, the rain is pouring and inside, her heart and soul are burning. Adara wishes she could find a way to cool herself too. But her fury seems ready to destroy everything.

“When are you sending Marajil bint Hirash home?” she asks her husband.

Aswad gives her a half, disbelieving smile. “Do you expect me to ask a guest to leave my palace?”

“Well, when the guest has overstayed her welcome, you should.”

“I cannot ask her that, Adara.”

“Then allow me to do so.”

This time, he gives her a disapproving look and returns to reading his papers. Adara twists her fingers together and works her jaw. That woman would've been no problem if she wasn't seen as a potential match for her husband. She might kill someone in her rage.

“Aswad?”

Aswad hums without looking up from the papers this time. The fire is burning in the fireplace to offer them warmth against the cold night. She stands up from the bed and walks towards him.

“Have you taken a fancy to your guest, azizi?”

His eyes meet hers. The depth and darkness of them don't scare her. Instead, they pull her in. She doesn't stop until she's right before him. Aswad is forced to look up at her.

“I don't like her,” she tells him. “If you like her—”

He stands up and Adara bites back her tongue. She glares at him and he narrows his eyes. Stepping closer to her, he traps her between himself and the table when he puts his arms on both sides of her. She licks her lips and turns away her face from him.

“I saw you in the garden with her.”

He only offers her his silence and it makes her frustration grow more. Her gaze snaps back to him.

“Why were you with her?”

“She asked me if I needed another wife who isn't temperamental and wild.”

“You…” She lifts a finger at him, then curls it into a fist and hits him on the chest. “Aswad, can anyone other than me even say your name like I do?”

He chuckles, amused, deep in his throat, and steps back from her, falling back to his chair. Aswad stares at her with tempting ferocity, and she battles it with an even intensity.

“No, Adara, as only you're allowed to say it.”

She bites on the corner of her lips as they stretch into a grin. Adara sits down on his lap sideways and he pulls her closer to his chest.

“Answer my question,” she softly demands.

“She asked me if she could keep this particular book from the library with her. I said yes.”

Adara relaxes against him. “The conversation certainly seemed longer than that.”

“Don't overthink it. There's nothing to be jealous of.”

“Can you blame me when her father is set on marrying her to you?”

“I've spoken to Marrar about her again. He didn't seem as repulsive to the idea of marriage this time.”

The information instantly calms her rage like water poured on hot coals. “What did he say?”

“He has asked me for some time to think it over.”

She mindlessly traces a finger down Aswad's forearm, hoping Marrar won't reject her this time. Aswad flips his palm upwards for her when she reaches his wrist, and she continues down to trace the lines of it.

“Though something worries me,” he says.

“What?”

“The children.”

She draws a circle. “What about them?”

“I've been meaning to ask you…”

She twirls the ring on his finger, waiting for him to finish, but when he doesn't, she shifts her gaze to him. Aswad places his hand she was playing with around her legs.

“Adara.”

He says her name with both seriousness and affection. He's using the voice with her he uses when he expects her to understand him, and maybe support him. In a manner when he intends to share a secret. Something he considers important. She gives him all her attention.

“What is it, habibi?”

“Marrar cannot be at the palace all the time. As a general, he has to take care of a lot and move around a lot. And if he decides to get married, he'll have a wife and they'll have their own life,” he explains to her his point very calmly, carefully measuring his words before speaking them. Though behind his collected demeanor Adara can see his desperation and worry. “Rahaf is married now, and I cannot bring myself to ask her for any favors. But I can rely on you, can I not?”

Adara cups his jaw in both of her hands and nods. “Of course. What is it?”

“I was wondering if you'd be willing to raise Hamama and Humran with me?”

Silence. The rain screams and everything in their chamber goes quiet. She can only stare at him, unblinking, unsure if she has heard him right or not. Aswad appears as serious as he can. Seconds pass. None of them say another word. The calm pretense of her husband starts getting clouded by distress.

“You look shocked,” he says. 

“I'm surprised,” she breathes.

“Doesn't look like a good surprise.”

“I just didn't expect it.” She draws in another breath. “I don't know what to say.”

“I won't insist if you don't wish to.”

She gets up from his lap and walks away towards the fire. Suddenly she's cold. Suddenly she's reminded of the night she lost her child. Does Aswad feel the lack of one? She cannot blame him if he does. If he longs for what she cannot give him. If he's trying to find ways to fill those gaps another way.

Adara wraps her arms around her, keeping her back to him. “What about Marrar?”

“He won't mind.” She hears him leaving his chair. “I asked him to bring the children to the palace when they lost their mother and he did. I'm responsible for them. But neither Marrar nor I can give them what you can. There's no one else I'd ask for the favor besides you.”

Tears sting her eyes and she fights them. “Because I can't have children like other women?”

“Because if I'm to raise them, I'd rather raise them with you than with anyone else. If not, I'll let them stay with Marrar.”

Adara turns around. He's standing inches away from her. She gives up against him, against her tears as they begin to fall. Aswad doesn't stop her as she cries out her heart before him. He doesn't take her into his arms until she's done and has exhausted herself. The last of her sobs die in his arms. He holds her for a long moment and she finds her answer there.

“Aswad?”

“Yes?”

“If this is the family we can have, then let's have it.”

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