١٣.

BEFORE DILRUBA BADAWI COULD EVEN take in the forms of the thugs and crooks—dressed from head to toe in black vests, black shirts, black wrapped turbans and black billowing trousers against their varying dark sun tanned skins—who had materialized once the wooden door of the room had shattered, they were upon her. They were upon all of the three refugees being housed by the previously overlooked room in the palace.

Everything happened in disjointed glimpses. Dilruba's arm was harshly gripped by a man's strong hand. From the corner of her eye she saw carpet getting snatched by another man who gripped her in a single hand, rolling her up in a way that must hurt the poor thing wretchedly. Dilruba's gripped arm was twisted behind her back painfully and a strong muscular arm was on her neck, her neck adjusted tightly into the crook of the man's strong elbow as her windpipe was pressed hard by the biceps and she struggled to breath. With her free hand, she tried to claw the man's elbow off, but her desperate singular hand was no match for the brick muscles he possessed in a single arm.

Dilruba's eardrums deafened her as the pressure on her windpipe made her unable to hear any sounds of struggle in the room, though there were sounds a plenty.

The tahararat min alkhatiya was forced to his knees by three men importing all their strength to cower him as the former fought viciously against the three. A sharp blade appeared at the former genie's neck and he stilled, his jaw tight as he stopped moving, eyes fixed angrily on the dagger threatening his throat. The genie's eyes met hers as they widened in alarm. He yelled something at the man at Dilruba's back, though she couldn't hear, she was certain the tahararat min alkhatiya was asking the thug upon her to release his hold so that she could breathe.

Dilruba's heart was hammering in her chest, and she desperately hoped the thug would comply, but he only yanked her close, his other hand snaking into the back of her head—fingers threading in her hair—as he yanked her head viciously back, away from his tightening elbow to give her the reprieve that the former genie was demanding.

Dilruba screamed, the vicious pain in her neck the most torturous thing she had ever felt. Her scream pierced the air, and tore through her own deafness. Had he broken her neck? The pain of it was too much, but the thug wouldn't let go of her hair, his fingers tightening in her locks as he brought his lips to her ear, muttering vicious threats in street dialect that she couldn't comprehend. 

Dilruba understood dialect. She understood about ten different types of Arabic dialects from her upbringing in the streets and all the way to her experiences in courts and courtyards of nobles. At present though, the blinding pain in her neck had made her dumb and unable to comprehend anything, let alone the thug's words.

The tahararat min alkhatiya's shouts engulfed her senses slowly, as he yelled at the crook and demanded him to stop hurting her. He said the Sultan's name, he said Dilruba was his niece, he threatened the man. Dilruba could make out only bits and pieces in her pain as tears rushed hot from the corners of her eyes.

She was wearing her veil, and she didn't remember at what point she had pushed her lace veil back down and covered her face before the thugs broke into the room. But her reddened face was now only one of her concerns.

The thug at her back yanked at her face veil, tearing it from off her head and tossing it away. Then, with his fingers still gripping her hair, he forced her face towards him so that he could look upon her, and Dilruba screamed as the movement caused the pain in her neck to intensify.

He still forced her face, ignoring her screams. Her glassy eyes looked at him, though she was grieved to be forced such so to face a man who was hurting her so wretchedly—a man who had possibly broken her neck in a way that she could not fathom, a man who was killing her, for there was no way that Dilruba would ever survive this agony.

Her blurry vision focused at the face of the man, and her lips parted sightly as she let out a breath. The man's face—familiar and closed off—shifted as he tried to recognize her, before recognition flooded his features completely and he let her go as though she was afflicted with the plague.

Dilruba dropped to the ground like a marionette who's strings had been cut. She cried out in pain as her neck burst into a torturous flare, sending shots of agony clouding her senses. Dilruba sobbed, her vision blurry and her breaths coming in hard and with cries. She couldn't move, she couldn't think, she couldn't breathe for this agonizing pain she was in.

The man who had hurt her, was a man she had often seen—twice in total, in the shadow of her savior. Hours ago, while dancing and falling in the courtyard, when Dilruba had recognized the certain kind of dagger that the attackers were all wearing on their person, she had been correct. These were Burhan's—her savior's men, or people he knew and worked with.

For the man who had hurt her just now and possibly crippled her for life, was the man who had interrupted her and Burhan twice, always stealing him away with whispered urgency uttered in his ear. He was the man because of whom Dilruba knew the first name of her savior, he had called Burhan by his name, and Dilruba had been secretly thankful for that information.

But how thankful was she now?

Why was Burhan involved with these men who had attacked the palace? He had saved her life on the streets, he had saved her from being trampled, he had carved out an emerald butterfly for her and he had come to her aid at the nobleman Hajjar Dagher's abode. Allah, he had met her at the marketplace and he had been so kind to her. Why was he involved with these thugs and crooks? What sort of involvement did he have with the borrowed usurper Abelhamid?

Dilruba's hair was in her face as she tried to breathe, focusing on her breaths as she dealt with the pain encapsulating her entire body as it originated and throbbed at the back of her neck. Her chest heaved, and she was certain she was dying. The tiled ground was hot against her body as she lay on it, watching the familiar man who had attacked her watch her in shock and bewilderment.

Then he shook his head and stepped back, as though he had made a mistake. He stepped back from her body as though she had burned his skin as he regretted ever touching her. Quickly, he signaled to the nearest man—who was the thug holding carpet like she was just a lifeless mat and not a being. Dilruba's attacker spoke something to carpet's attacker, and the latter let go of the carpet. She quickly fluttered open to her full height and sprinted over towards Dilruba's body, trying to fan her and fluttering her tassels at her neck as though to check the damage that had been done.

The two men—Dilruba and carpet's attackers—left the room together, running as though they had something urgent to do. Five thugs had barged into the room, and now two were leaving, most likely to inform their leader—Abelhamid—of the new presences found and the lack of the Sultan who's presence they were intending to find.

The remaining three thugs, all of them fighting against life itself with their effort to keep the tall and muscular tahararat min alkhatiya pressed to the ground, seemed bewildered that two of their men had left, leaving two potential hostages free. But they could do nothing about it in the mean time, for the former genie was ready to cower them with his singular strength at their slightest mistake.

Dilruba coughed as her breath caught in her throat, the effort of the small cough making her neck jolt, which made her cry out in pain again. Fear encapsulated her laced with panic. She was crippled, wasn't she? She was permanently crippled, and she would never be able to live as before again.

"Tahararat min alkhatiya," Dilruba cried, calling out to him, trying to raise her hands as they shook with the effort it took her.

Carpet instantly hovered over her, letting her hold onto her fabric as consolation.

"Please, I'm scared," She called out to the former genie, tears gushing out of eyes. "I can't move, I'm so scared."

"Nothing will happen to you Dilruba," The genie's gruntled shout came as he fought hard to be able to speak. "Have faith. Do not worry, I'm right here. We will fix this, do not be scared. You will survive this, we all will."

Carpet stilled then, her fabric body freezing as she harbored a sudden fierce realization inside her. She fluttered away from Dilruba, and whilst the three thugs were busy holding the former genie down, fabric grabbed hold of the marble centerpiece that the genie had once held from off the ground. Then she forcefully brought it down upon one of the three men's heads.

The man grabbed his head with both hands, freeing the tahararat min alkhatiya's left arm entirely in the process. The former genie took control, his singular arm enough to tear another man away from him and strike the remaining man with his peer's body such so that the two of them were thrown across the room like rag dolls, instantly passing out. Blood flowed from under one of the tossed man's head, pooling on the ground. The man recovering from carpet's blow to his head was next, as the former genie grabbed him by the neck and dragged him to the balcony, throwing him over as he screamed before plunging far down towards the streets below.

The tahararat min alkhatiya rushed over towards Dilruba then, his face scrunched up in misery.

"Allah," He said when he took in the state of her, broken and battered as tears flowed from her eyes.

"I'm so sorry Dilruba, you did not deserve this."

He looked towards the door then, as shouts erupted in the corridor outside, footsteps punctuating the shouts.

"We must leave—," The former genie choked the words out. "We must get you someplace safe."

"Burhan is here," Dilruba managed the first thought in her head, her words broken and spoken with much effort. "Burhan wouldn't hurt me. He—it was his man—I don't understand why—"

The former genie's eyes widened slightly, before his look sombered into a slow realization.

Dilruba wanted to explain to him who Burhan was, because how would the tahararat min alkhatiya know about her savior? But she couldn't speak. The pain engulfing her entire neck and back was too much to bear, and so she shut her eyes cried out.

The former genie quickly put an arm around her back and one under her knees, pulling her up and holding her to him as Dilruba's neck moved with the motion and she screamed. Carpet fluttered over to her and muffled her scream into her fabric body, before adjusting the girl's head against the former genie's chest carefully.

"Thank you, carpet," The tahararat min alkhatiya exhaled and then he nodded at the carpet, as an unspoken agreement passed between them.

Then, the former genie started running towards the balcony. Dilruba groaned in pain as her neck jostled against his chest, biting her lips to stifle herself and tasting blood on her tongue. The genie jumped from the balcony the same moment that carpet did, and in a trice, instead of plunging downwards and falling to death on the city street below, the tahararat min alkhatiya and the Hegran court dancer were both being lifted up, for carpet had appeared underneath the man's feet and was now safely taking them away from the palace.

Dilruba Badawi lost her consciousness then, and as she slipped into it, she feared she would never emerge out of it again.

But as is the will of the God above, and the magic weaved through the sand dunes and pounding still in the veins of freed genies burdened with mortality, Dilruba opened her eyes again.

She was in a dark room—not the flat she had rented out herself—but a rather rundown bricked room with an entire wall missing. From the corner of her eye, she saw moonlight pouring in through the missing wall and she was certain the moon hung right in view if she only turned her head to look. But realization had erupted inside of her as soon as she had awoken, and she knew better than to test the wear and tear that her neck had taken.

She tried to raise a hand and though the movement felt rusty, her hand complied. She moved her toes and the too moved. She tried to stir her legs and they obliged her as well. She want to sit up, but she was scared of any further testing.

"Try to sit up, Dilruba," A familiar voice caught her attention, and from the corner of her eye she made out the figure of the tahararat min alkhatiya, his arms folded and form darkened in this moonlit darkness.

"I—I can't," She managed, not wanting to even try.

"It is alright, Dilruba, you are perfectly alright. I promise you."

She swallowed thickly, her heart pounding in fear for her body. His warm voice invited her to oblige, and bracing herself, she tried to move slowly. Her head hurt slightly, but her neck didn't protest. She went further, raising herself off the mattress of the plain bed she was lying in to the point where she was able to sit up.

Ever so slowly, she turned her neck to look at the former genie against the backdrop of the night sky, her eyes meeting his sparkling ones in the silver moonlight. His teeth too were gleaming, he was grinning.

Behind him, because of the lack of a wall, she saw rooftops haphazardly stacked every which way. In whichever building they were at present, they were very high up.

She turned her attention back to herself, slowly turning her head in a different direction. Still, no pain.

"I—how?" She looked at the former genie again, her voice cracking. "How am I alright? He—broke my neck, I felt it—he—it hurt—"

"Yes, and you are alright now Dilruba," The man spoke, "I told you that you did not deserve it. So I employed aid to reverse your injury."

"Aid? What do you mean?" Dilruba insisted, pushing back the emotion welling up in her throat. "You can't do magic anymore, how were you able to—"

"The tahararat min alkhatiya can plead for a bit of magic if they need to," The former genie turned his head to glance at the moon briefly in thought. "There is a small price to pay, but they are obliged with the aid that they require."

Dilruba blinked, she hadn't known this. What was the price that he had paid to cure her with magic?

"What—"

"Do not ask Dilruba, for there are some questions I will not answer."

She nodded in understanding, raising her hands to touch the back of her neck as she held herself and breathed deeply, shutting her eyes. She could still feel the feeling of the man's fingers in her hair against her scalp. She shuddered in disgust and hatred, but at least she was alright. She wasn't crippled, the former genie had fixed her—he too had saved her.

"Where is carpet?" She opened her eyes, remembering the startling being and how scared she had been, fluttering over Dilruba's body.

"She's safe, I have sent her to Al and Jasmine," The man uttered, "To get some news on the current situation. The palace needs to be taken back, if the Sultan is thinking as he should be thinking, he will decide upon gathering an army."

Dilruba swallowed thickly, her heart suddenly feeling heavy as she thought of her attacker—Burhan's man. He had let her go just as he'd realized who she was. He had recognized her face, and he had instantly stepped away. Did he stop only because she was Burhan's friend? Allah, was she his friend? What were they? What was he doing at the palace amongst thugs and crooks?

Dilruba Badawi somehow knew the answers to all her questions, yet she did not want to admit it out loud. Burhan was a thug, a crook. He was exactly the likes of the men who had attacked Jasmine's wedding and mercilessly killed guests. Dilruba had seen Burhan kill, he had killed Hajjar Dagher's dwarf secretary and he had been so quick doing it. Burhan was amongst the notorious Abelhamid's men, and the realization was gutting.

How could a man like him—who's mother was a poet, who came up with a prose to praise Dilruba, who carved out an entire emerald into the shape of a beautiful butterfly for her—how could such a man be so deeply cruel? How could he kill innocents? Why would he move against his Sultan? Why was he following this Abelhamid—a usurper and killer and the most deadly swordsman in all of Arabia?

"Dilruba," The tahararat min alkhatiya spoke then, stepping closer to her until he reached the bed and he sat down at the edge of it, beside her.

"You spoke of someone called Burhan," The man ventured hesitantly. "When you were hurt. You said that Burhan would not hurt you, and the man who attacked you was his man."

Dilruba nodded, tucking a piece of her hair behind her ear. She could think of nothing at present but Burhan's voice in her ears, his flattery, his intense dark eyes. She could think of nothing but him jumping in the street right before a hoof stampede to save her, and how he had been so kind to her every time since.

"Burhan is—," She broke off, shaking her head. "I came across him when I first came to Agrabah. He saved me and a little boy from being trampled on the streets."

She raised her eyes to meet the former genie's warm and curious ones as he encouraged her to go on.

"Then I came across him at an appointment at a nobleman's house in the city, and then afterwards we met again at the marketplace yesterday."

"What do you know about him Dilruba?" The tahararat min alkhatiya probed, and suddenly there was a careful urgency in his manner that Dilruba could decipher precisely.

"I knew the face of his man because he had often come to take Burhan away on some matter or another," She hastened, "But I did not know that they were the thieves and bandits—I did not know that they worked for Abelhamid. I had no idea, I thought—he was—"

"You thought what?" The former genie asked gently.

"He killed Hajjar Dagher's secretary in front of me—the nobleman who's house I went to on an appointment," Dilruba shut her eyes briefly. "But I still did not believe that he was.. this. I did not think that he was this ruthless. He was kind to me and I thought—"

She exhaled then. "I thought that I had never met anyone like him in my life. I thought that he liked me."

"I'm so sorry," Her voice broke, "I made a mistake, I should never have trusted him."

"Did you tell him who you are to the Princess and Sultan of Agrabah?" The man beside her asked.

Dilruba shook her head.

"Did you tell him that you were performing at the palace for the Princess' wedding?"

She shook her head again.

"Do you know anything of his identity—not his personality—beside his first name?"

"No," She offered finally, to which the former genie relaxed, letting out an exhale of relief.

"Then you have nothing to apologize for," He uttered, "Your association with the man cannot qualify for treason in my eyes, if you are being honest with me."

"Treason?" She gasped, watching the former genie's grave eyes looking at her. "I am being honest, I would never—If I knew about him, I would never—"

"I know," The man touched her shoulder reassuringly. "I know. Rest now, Dilruba. You have gone through much in the past hours."

Dilruba Badawi rested then, though her heart was restless. She thought of Burhan and she felt betrayed. Her heart felt like it had been ripped out of her and trampled upon. She lay on the plain bed in the empty three walled room on top of a building, while the tahararat min alkhatiya sat at the edge of the room where the wall was missing, his feet dangling as he looked at the open night sky lost in his thoughts.

Dilruba wiped a tear streaking from the corner of her eye. She had thought Burhan was wonderful. He had snaked his way inside her heart and he had touched it in a way that no man ever had. He was so kind—after that initial harshness in his manner when they had first met. So then why would he kill innocents like this? Hajjar Dagher's secretary was a different case, the dwarf was forceful and cruel with his words towards Dilruba, but why would Burhan kill the guests at a wedding.. she almost wanted to go back to the palace and face him, grabbing the collar of his vest to demand why he had done what he had done.

Was everything he had said to her nothing but a pretense? All that passion in his eyes, did it only amount to this killing and usurping under the lead of a terrible and ruthless man?

Dilruba got up off the bed, putting her feet on the ground and walking towards where the tahararat min alkhatiya sat, dangling his feet multiple stories high while the moonlight painted his dark skin a blue silver. She sat down beside him, gently dangling her own legs. She was still in her peacock ensemble, though the makeshift wing at her back had long fallen off and disappeared—on her journey here, perhaps. The sparkling blue blouse she wore glittered with the magnificence that she didn't feel, her blue slightly sheer billowing trousers displayed her long smooth legs through slits, glowing in the same silver blue moonlight.

"Thank you," She spoke finally, as the former genie turned to look at her. "Thank you for helping me, for not leaving me behind and for fixing me. I don't know what price you had to pay for it, but I'm so thankful and sorry for it."

Dilruba shook her head, her eyes stinging again. "I wish I hadn't come here."

"To this flat?" The former genie raised a brow in slight amusement.

"To Agrabah," She uttered. "I wish I hadn't come. I wouldn't have met Burhan, none of this would ever have happened. I would be safe, no price would have been paid to fix my injuries."

The tahararat min alkhatiya shook his own head, a dazed smile on his face as his expression turned thoughtful.

"It was fate, Dilruba," The man mused. "Everything that happens to us is fate, we either take something from it and move forwards, or we either let it hit us and bring us down."

"Why are we here?" She asked after a pause. "Are we waiting for the Sultan to bring an army and get the palace back?"

"Maybe," The tahararat min alkhatiya sighed. "Truth is, I can't know the Sultan's mind. And though at times I desperately wish he would make the obvious logical move, he does not."

"But what I do know," The genie turned to look at her again. "Is that we have to keep you away. The fact that you know Burhan—are acquainted with him for however briefly—will count as treason if this knowledge becomes known. You are not supposed to know any enemy of the Sultan's throne. Your safety will be ensured once the enemy is dead or captured, until then you must—"

"But I don't know him!" Dilruba cried, "Don't you see? He lied about everything. He is vicious criminal in a pack of thugs, and I did not know that. I don't know him, he made a fool of me and I thought I—Well, I thought wrong."

"That does not matter, according to the Sultan's law you are complicit for not reporting him."

Dilruba blinked in shock.

"We both are complicit," The tahararat min alkhatiya uttered then, his voice sombering.

"What?" She managed, confusion truckling into her features.

"I speak of another, I speak of Abelhamid," The former genie glanced at the moon hung like a glowing disc above them, perched in the sky like a jewel.

"I told you I knew him, I granted him three wishes in another life," The man dipped his head, gaze falling down to his hands in his lap. "I too am complicit."

"No you aren't," Dilruba perked up, anger seeping into her tone. "You were bound by the lamp to grant wishes to whomsoever who found you. You are not complicit."

"Maybe not then," He offered her a sad smile. "But afterwards, in my freedom, I knew the threat that the Sultan found looming above him but I kept quiet. I became complicit then even if I wasn't before."

Dilruba brought her hands to her face, her facial skin felt soft again. It felt her own again. Had the former genie completely healed her?

"Why didn't you tell the Sultan? Would not my uncle have understood you? He is not cruel enough to not understand, is he?"

"No he isn't," He shook his head, "Your uncle is rather a strange man, but he is not cruel. I think it is my fault. After I became free, speaking of my past started to burden me. So I fell in with all those of my kind, who do not speak of their pasts because they do not want to curse the ears listening. Which is a misconception by the way, the tahararat min alkhatiya can curse whomsoever they want to. Anyone can curse whoever they want to, you just have to have centuries of anger and hate inside you and words grave enough to wish a person years and years worth of misfortune or even death."

"Then maybe we should together curse the thugs who have taken over the palace," Dilruba suggested with a smile, and the former genie grinned back at her.

"Maybe that is all we need to do," The man laughed.

"Where will you bring in the hate then, noble tahararat min alkhatiya?"

A third voice erupted into their senses then, and Dilruba gasped. She turned around to follow the voice just as the former genie sprinted to his feet and spun to face the room as well.

On the plain bed where Dilruba Badawi had just moments ago attempted to rest, sat a dark form of a man gouged in darkness. Slowly, he stood up to his full height and stepped into the light of the moon.

Dilruba gasped again, her palm flying up to cover her lips as took in the man's familiar presence.

His face was covered in his customary black cloth, only his dark eyes visible as the extension of the cloth was wrapped messily around his black hair. His tanned muscled form was shining with perspiration and glowing with the light of the moon as the dark vest he wore did little to hide the burliness of his form. From inside the vest, peaking out against his skin a little were peacock feathers that Dilruba had worn hours ago for her performance. The exotic feathers were tucked inside his vest, pressed against his skin and if it were not for bits of their color peeking out, she would not have spotted them at all. His black trousers billowed in the wind caressing the atmosphere of the room, and on his hip was attached a familiar silver dagger with hilt that Dilruba had seen on the thugs in the palace.

"The lady, perhaps, has all the cause in the world to hate the very sight of me," Burhan went on, his voice hard and his eyes ruthless as he bore them on the former genie, ignoring Dilruba's presence.

"But you? What grievance do you have with me? Do not tell me you are bothered about the palace and the Sultan, for you are mighty even in your freedom. What cause do the mighty have to interfere in the world of ants and men?"

The former genie did not respond, and on his face Dilruba studied a resolved expression. There was no hatred on the tahararat min alkhatiya's face, no grievance, only a certain.. sadness.

It was then that Burhan turned his eyes to look at Dilruba, as though he wanted none of the melancholy that had seeped into the former genie's eyes.

Burhan's hard dark eyes softened in her fearful gaze. Her emerald eyes tried to decipher him as he stood there. A killer, a thug, a sheep to a notorious gangster and Arab's deadly swordsman. What sort of a savior was this man if he had only shown sympathy for her a few times and killed others without a single regret?

"Munqidhi," Dilruba spoke the word. My savior.

Her voice was soft and full of hurt and betrayal. She didn't know why she had said the word, she did not know why she was even speaking to him. What was there to say to this vicious killer? To her uncle's enemy? Why was he still her savior? Why had she called him that again?

Burhan's eyes sharpened, before he tore them away from her to walk back towards the bed and grab something he had left at the foot of it in the darkness. He grabbed the dark thing up in a single hand, stepped back into the moonlight and tossed the thing over near the genie and Hegran court dancer's forms.

The circular object made a sickening thud as rolled over with speed and stopped right in front of the tahararat min alkhatiya and Dilruba. The latter blinked in trying to decipher the object, but the realization came too late to her for the former genie had already grunted and turned his head away.

Dilruba screamed, trembling hands covering her mouth.

The object in front of her was bloodied—a mixture of the crimson of blood, the black of strands of hair and the tan of wet skin. It was a man's severed head. It was the man—the one who had waited on her savior and whisked him away for matters she did not know, and the man who had attacked her just hours ago at the palace and had broken bones in her that she'd never realized existed. The object on the ground was that man's severed head, the one because of whom Dilruba knew Burhan's first name, the one who had instantly let her ago as soon as he had recognized her face.

She removed her glassy eyes from the severed head, and raised them to look upon the face of Burhan. Had he done it for her? Had he killed his man for her? Or had he come to kill her and the tahararat min alkhatiya as well on orders from his leader Abelhamid? After all, they had been at the palace and had escaped, no leader of thugs, bandits and killers would appreciate that.

It was then, that the tahararat min alkhatiya spoke, the being's voice taut and firm, though etched still with a sadness that he tried hard to disguise.

"Why have you come after us?" The man uttered, hands fisting at his sides. "We do not know where the Sultan of Agrabah is. Spare us, Burhan Abelhamid, we can cause you no harm."

Dilruba stilled, her heart mercilessly stopping in her chest.