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Mid October, 1481,

THE TOMB OF LIHYAN, SON OF KUZA WAS a picture of stony eloquence underneath the early morning sun, the walls of the structure gleaming as much as the sand underneath her feet. The sky was inked blue, providing a submissive backdrop to the antics of the fire ball perched before it, gathering itself to rage the calamity of heat fully upon all those living, as well as the buried body of the notorious son of the prominent Nabatean family, concealed inside the structure erected just for him. 

Dilruba Badawi thought of her early morning visit to the tomb, where she was interrupted in her solace by a messenger riding out over the heating dunes to hand over to her an inked piece of parchment. An invitation she hadn't truthfully expected to come for her at all. The messenger had thrown a wary glance over to the tomb after handing her the letter meant for her, half of the man's face covered with a dark cloth for protection against the sand and raging hot wind, leaving only his kohl darkened eyes on display as he squinted to glance at the towering tomb. Then he had looked at her blankly, as though wondering what the governor's favorite court dancer and Hegra's famous poetess was doing visiting the tomb of Lihyan. 

The messenger had perhaps devised the answer for himself, for he asked her nothing, only jumped back onto his brown horse and rode away. 

Dilruba brought herself back to the present and inhaled the scented smoke of the hookah, tasting the sweetness on her tongue before she breathed out, the stark crimson rogue cream on her lips leaving a residue upon the copper of the instrument as she parted from it.

This was her first inhale, her first exhale. She hadn't ever indulged in a thing of this sort before, regardless of the praise she had heard of such indulgences floating around from in between mustached lips and painted ones around courts and gatherings she frequented.

Granted, there were types of indulgences of these sorts, and she was far removed from trying out anything that looked questionable and was burned and charred on top of strong fires, crushed and doused with a plethora of oils before being burnt again and smoked. Surely, it was doing too much.

"I do not like it," She declared, pushing the instrument away on the gleaming glass table. The letter she had received this morning at the tomb pressed against her breast from where she had tucked it in her top. 

With an elegant hand, she gathered her thick, long and loosely curled hair at her neck, and held it away from the contact with the moist skin at her back.

"My goodness, it seems October has brought no respite to Hegra this year."

"Complaining about the heat, Dilruba, you are no fun," Amina Dawud tsked, the frail girl's form eagerly snatching the hookah for herself as she took in a plentiful inhale and topped it off with a noisy exhale.

Dilruba, reached to a side on the table and grabbed hold of a copper made hair grip. It was simple, and far plainer than the embellished ones she usually resorted to when she made her appearances in public, but this was Amina's home, and her frail neighbor's poverty was etched into everything that was present underneath her roof.

Dilruba Badawi knew of Amina's misfortunes, yet somehow instead of shunning misfortune and distancing oneself from it so that it doesn't strike upon your own self like a leech, Badawi found herself always finding an odd sort of comfort at Amina's abode.

It was a reminder perhaps, that had Dilruba not made use of her talents, she would have confined herself to a life of poverty and suffocation that Amina Dawud breathed on the daily, wherein a hookah was treated as though it were a gift of God himself.

Dilruba rolled her locks into one and twisted the entire length effortlessly into a bun at the crown of her head, which she secured with Amina's claw hair grip.

"I shall send this back to you with Ahya," Dilruba got up, adjusting her loose linen abayah coat on her form and wrapping the extension of it loosely around her head to cover her hair before she stepped out.

Her blue, golden embroidered two piece attire, with the gem piercing sparkling at her exposed belly button with the same ferocity and ruthlessness that the jewelry at her ankles, neck and ears sparkled, was all tucked underneath as she held the abayah close to her form.

"Oh, wait," Amina's dazed voice let out, "Must you always leave in such a hurry? Let us smoke some more, you barely even tried it."

"I think I tried enough, darling," Dilruba managed, hiding the pity she felt for her neighbor under her convincing, sultry voice.

Besides, she had gotten the information she required from Amina, and the woman's place-with her raging husband about to arrive from the merchant's center in Hegra at his usual time-was certainly not a place to be seen.

Dilruba stepped into her open-toed pumps, the gems on the edges glittering as the sun light streaked upon them through a crack in the brick roof of this one storey house. Then, she parted the curtains-substitute for a front door-and stepped onto the bustle of the street.

The sun was reigning fierce outside, and he lit the girl's deep olive skin on fire as it glowed for the entirety of the city of Hegra to see. Regardless of the abayah covering her form, the glimpses of her neck and her forearms from holding the covering on her hair intact, attracted stares of admiration and stifled praises.

The wind joined in on the performance, and it blew hotly, separating the abayah at her chest and attacking her stomach and midriff, before the girl clutched back onto the abayah again and covered herself.

Street vendors stopped and stared, though still the chaos on the street remained boisterous. Little children, darkened underneath constant sun exposure, with their skins as dry as the sand underneath their feet, ran past Dilruba, laughing and chasing each other as frustrated parents rushed after them with curses upon their lips. She ruffled the hair of a familiar little scamp who often ran into her on the same street, a fond grin on his dark lips as he brought himself to a stop and curtseyed for her as though she were nobility, before flashing her another grin and spinning off to run after his friends. 

Dilruba continued making her way through the people on the street, deftly placing her feet on the ground and taking confident and careful steps in order to not bump into anyone. For she had come to realize a mere bump into a stranger on streets could result in her jewelry vanishing without a trace once she became available enough to look at herself in the mirror.

Hegra was a bustling, boisterous city—The governor of Hegra called it the jewel of Arabia-but on its streets, it were the jewels themselves who were the most threatened.

"Beautiful lady!" A stout vendor covered head to toe in a dark cloak, standing behind a wooden stall draped with exotic dyed scarves and fabrics, called out to Dilruba as she passed.

"Salam, would you like a scarf, perchance? It would elevate the treasure of a face that you have."

Dilruba managed a cordial smile, her voice firm as she rejected the call.

"No, thank you."

She ventured on, making her way past people and quickening her steps, thinking why she preferred to refer to Amina Dawud as neighbor when the woman lived clearly streets away from Dilruba herself. Perhaps that was safer, for Dilruba didn't like to think of Amina as a friend, or an acquaintance. Amina Dawud had nothing to offer Dilruba, and the latter had learned in her twenty five years of life, that only those who had something to offer one were one's friends of acquaintances.

"Nightingale!" A familiar elderly woman's cry stopped Dilruba in her steps, and she turned to face the woman.

For once, the old lady's stall was crowded with the attentions of two female customers, both entranced in sifting through the handmade jewelry that Fatima had to offer. The sight made Dilruba smile, for she had hoped one too many times for such a feat.

"What shall you like today, my nightingale?" Fatima mused, her round and aged wrinkled face dry underneath the sun, but her green eyes sparkled her youth of years and years ago, as they always did.

"Salam, Fatima aapa," Dilruba beamed, her heart weighing lighter at the sound of the nickname Fatima called her.

Her expert eyes caught onto a delicate opal stoned bracelet right in the middle of the colorful handmade and intricate chaos that the old woman had tried to arrange on her stall.

"This one is too pretty," She sighed, picking up the gleaming opal stoned bracelet and admiring it under the sun light. The opals were slightly warm under her touch, having stayed in the sun's wrath for a while.

"May I purchase this?"

"Of course, my nightingale!" Fatima exclaimed, her voice shaking with a genuine happiness as she picked up the coin that Dilruba extended towards her.

The two female customers wandering at the stall stopped what they were doing to watch Dilruba put the bracelet on, and their looks were tinted with surprise and contempt as they inwardly decided that the new customer had made the only pick worth making at the old woman's jewelry stall. Still, not wanting to give up the fight, they started digging deeper into the old woman's reserves, desperate to find something worthwhile.

"How are you, Fatima aapa?" Dilruba asked then, going around the stall to the back and falling into the old woman's outstretched arms. She smelled like she always did, her skin tinted with the scent of clover and thyme.

"Ah, my nightingale," The old woman sighed in the embrace, weariness returning to her aged form.

"The sight of your youth and beauty revives me like always, but I am sure, you hear that from everyone."

Dilruba laughed. "But I am sure they do not mean it as you do."

She raised her fingers to brush a thin strand of dry silver hair away from the old woman's eyes, and the old vendor in turn took hold of the girl's hand and brought it to her thin lips.

Dilruba's heart tightened at the familiar gesture, and she leaned forwards to kiss the old woman's forehead.

"You work too hard, Fatima aapa, I wish you didn't have to."

The old vendor in turn laughed heartily, wrinkled eyes glinting with tears as somewhere in the background a snake charmer poised at the corner of the street, began to play his flute and a melodic tune swept along the hot winds of Hegra.

"My nightingale," The old woman chuckled, shaking her head fondly and kissing Dilruba's jewelry clad hand again.

"You keep buying from me and I won't have to."

Dilruba forced a smile at the comment, knowing that it meant nothing. Her buying from the old woman daily ensured that the latter had atleast a coin to feed herself for the day, and as much as Dilruba would like to, she was not an heiress, nor married to a rich man, and neither did she make enough from her dances at court and poetry recitals to set Fatima up for life.

Dilruba had to work—use her beauty of face and body to dance for men at courts she was invited to, and to recite poetry in the voice she was gifted, for parties and gatherings that required such an entertainment. Dilruba had to work to afford her daily bread, and she was in no position to benefit someone else in a way that she would desire to.

"What of your father, my nightingale?" Fatima spoke then, holding onto Dilruba's hands as though she was the most precious part of the old woman's day.

The girl swallowed thickly at the mention of her father, a wave of displeasure and distaste overtaking her at the mere thought of the man.

"He's still alive, I believe," She spoke, a certain cold seeping into her tone. "He spent half the night drunk somewhere, and then he paid a visit to Amina Dawud, begging the woman for her company for the night."

"Foul man," Fatima uttered, before turning her face away to spit in the sand at her feet. "Disgusting, foul man. He doesn't deserve a daughter such as you."

The two women customers at Fatima's stall still lingered, and Dilruba was sure they had abandoned their quest of finding a piece of jewelry and had decided to stay for the gossip. For the city of Hegra was full of uninteresting people, but at the center of it all was the governor and his men, and all those who the governor called to his abode frequently.

Dilruba Badawi's summons to the governor had been the major reason of her success. The governor treated her as his gift, and she was sent to courts all over Arabia at his beckoning-labelled as his gift. Then she would perform to her heart's content, and she could get paid for it, and he would get praised for it. The arrangement worked for Dilruba, so she never dwelled on the mechanism of it.

As a result, the city of Hegra knew of a beautiful Badawi girl who frequented the governor's abode, and Nasir Badawi-the girl's father-drank himself each night to hell for it, mopping the dung covered streets of Hegra with his drunken body night after night.

The governor never touched Dilruba. She never let anyone touch her. No man would she tolerate laying even a finger on her. But of course, the people of Hegra were not to be reasoned with. They used gossips like sharpened swords cutting flesh, and on days where the sun bore down fully and the sand beneath naked toes scorched, it were this gossip clad swords that released the cool blood from tired bodies.

"It isn't about what he deserves," Dilruba managed, bringing her thoughts back onto her father.

When she had made enough, Dilruba had saved up to rent herself a different flat a distance away from her father's dilapidated house. Her own space had been cleaner, nicer, and situated such so that she could gaze upon the governor's lavishly domed house looming tall over the city from her front window. Above all, her own space was a relief to have, away from the constant disgust she felt for her father.

"He thinks everything is about him, and he couldn't be more wrong," Dilruba shook her head. "He hasn't even been invited to my cousin's wedding. I just received the invitation at the tomb of Lihyan. He was the brother of the late Queen of Agrabah, yet the Sultan deems him so insignificant that he has been left out entirely from the invitation."

The Princess of Agrabah's incoming wedding was alight in the air at the city of Hegra. Dilruba was certain that the entirety of Arabia was teeming with anticipation and celebration in equal measure. Even the poor—she had noticed—who did not even have bread to eat or milk to fill their cups with, would talk about the Princess and the incoming wedding as though they themselves were invited as esteemed guests.

The affair of Princess Jasmine's marriage was a matter that had been left open for a while. At one point last year it was estimated that every man of wealth, nobility and title in Arabia had asked for the Princess' hand, only to be turned down flat. The very governor of Hegra—a man of above fifty with three wives and six concubines of his own—had ventured out to Agrabah earlier this year to ask for the Princess' hand, only to set off on the return journey to Hegra the very day.

Dilruba had last seen her cousin when they were both mere little girls. She had been twelve while Dilruba had been fourteen, a feat that was eleven whole years ago at present. Back then both Dilruba and the Princess' mothers had been alive—pulsing with live, warmth and vigor, and Dilruba's father had been entirely sane—almost respectable.

But those times were a heat illusion in the sand dunes—fleeting, startling while they lasted.

If the Princess Jasmine had become as picky and particular as the entirety of Arabia seemed to mold her to be, than Dilruba wouldn't know. For the Princess was marrying a mere street urchin now, was she not? A man without wealth, title and nobility. So how picky and particular could she really be?

Stories told by travelers and trading merchants journeying from Agrabah claimed that it was love. Some claimed that the street urchin had possession of a powerful genie, and had thus entrapped the Princess in a web of love. The people of Arabia believed in magic, genies and love potions, but none believed more than the people of the city of Hegra.

Here, every tale of magic and love was bought and sold with coins. Tales were fought over, and people were killed and taken for the lilting words spoken over drinks in fire-lit taverns. Dilruba never bought into every single tale that swept past her hearing, but she hadn't had contact with her only cousin for eleven years now, so tales and speculations about the Princess of Agrabah was all that Dilruba Badawi had at her disposal at present. That is, of course, until she travels of Agrabah to see her cousin for herself.

"I would leave him out too," Fatima aapa snorted, as though the girl had given far too much merit to a natural occurrence.

"Wouldn't want a drunken mop like him around in one of Arabia's most influential courts—familial relation or not."

"I suppose," Dilruba bit back her smile at the old woman's vigor.

"Anyway, Fatima aapa," She raised her hand and touched the old woman's wrinkled and sun hardened cheek gently.

"I must be off. I need to freshen up and visit the governor today, I doubt he knows that I have received an invitation. I hope he can spare me for a few days."

"Oh, he must!" The old woman gripped Dilruba's hands tighter, "Surely he must! Think of all that could happen during your stay in Agrabah, and goodness, a wedding is the place to find a handsome hero for yourself. If you do, my nightingale, I shall perish if you don't come and visit me here. You are the light of Hegra."

Dilruba Badawi laughed. "I doubt that will happen, Fatima aapa. Regardless, I shall not abandon you to the teeth of Hegra."

The old woman beamed, crushing the girl into an embrace again before the heat pulsating around them forced them to separate. Then, with last cordially exchanged words, Dilruba continued on her way, feeling the sun make her olive skin moist as she silently craved the desert's cool winds that traipsed over Hegra this time of year. Except, those winds had seemed to have gone missing in action now, or perhaps they too were distracted with the prospect of the incoming wedding of the Princess of Agrabah, and had instead journeyed over there to celebrate.

Making her way through the bustling street, Dilruba found herself entering her own street where her new apartment was situated. Hastily, she quickened her steps and approached the main door of the building—a set of heavy crimson curtains that she set apart by her hands—and entered. She took the brick stairs to the upper floor, brushing past her authentic neighbors as they traipsed downstairs past her, an errand or two on their minds. 

"Salam, Dilruba," An elderly man—short and robust with henna darkened silver hair on his head—greeted her as he recognized her, in a mutter, as he passed by. He lived in the apartment below her own, and as far as she knew, he had two equally old wives whose bickering sessions echoed throughout the apartment building most nights. 

"Walaikum Salam," She answered the Islamic greeting, hurrying past him. 

Approaching her apartment, she knocked on the proper wooden door she had had installed, and a scurrying of footsteps was heard behind it before the door was opened to the thin and draped form of Ahya, Dilruba's hired maid.

"Mistress," Ahya let out, a sigh of relief coursing through her as her form shook with the expression. She opened the door wide for Dilruba, stepping aside to let her mistress enter. "You left so early today, I hadn't even made breakfast. I awoke to find you gone and I—"

"It is alright," Dilruba managed, slipping out of her linen abayah and unwrapping her hair as Ahya took hold of the discarded coverings. 

"I took an early morning walk to the tomb of Lihyan." 

"Cursed place, mistress," Ahya tsked, her voice lowering as she recited a protection prayer under her breath, closing the door and locking it. "I do not understand why you venture there. It is merely a prideful father's tribute to his frivolous, troublesome and bandit of a son. It should not be honored." 

"I acknowledge it," Dilruba glanced at Ahya over her shoulder briefly before seating herself down on the love seat in the main room. "I do not honor it." 

"Loathsome tribute," Ahya scoffed under her breath, evidently ignoring Dilruba's statement. "A selfish display of wealth, I pray for the fall of that tomb." 

Dilruba laughed, amused by her maid's distaste towards a mere tomb of people long gone. She herself knew something of the late Nabatean family the tomb belonged to, but regardless of their wrongdoings that were etched in every tale of Lihyan or Kuza that were exchanged in Hegra, Dilruba herself harbored no feelings towards them—distaste or otherwise. 

"Come Ahya," Dilruba Badawi spoke then, plucking a grape from out of the fresh fruit bowl that Ahya had prepared for her beforehand on the table in front of the loveseat. 

"I need you to draw me a bath, I need to pay a visit to the governor tonight," Dilruba sunk her teeth into the grape and found the fresh sweetness calm her. "Then tomorrow, I believe I am headed to Agrabah for a wedding." 

***


A/N:
this book is the second in my disney series i guess? i'm not sure what I want to call this series yet. Anyway, i hope this does not disappoint! please vote and tell me what you thought<3