Archive of Our Own ^beta

Chapter Text

He is missing half of his soul. 

According to his mother, his birth was an uneventful one which was nothing short of a blessing considering the circumstances around it.

He came out just like any other baby with pudgy hands curled into fists—(“grieving, reaching, praying,” they will say of him)—weeping gold eyes and soft cheeks. No god or goddess descended from the heavens to greet his birth and the closest thing to a first birthday celebration he received was when his mother introduced him to candied oranges.

His name is a relatively common one, one that rolls off the tongue easily. He doesn’t use it often. Living in the slums and lower districts, where kind people are rare and swindlers are many, few people are trusted with his full name but still—it is always accompanied by a strange feeling. As if there should be more struggle involved, more thought put into the syllables and incantation. He thinks there should be more.

Sometimes it takes a while to recognize when his mama calls for him. 

Sometimes he forgoes responding at all, feigning innocence when she sweeps into the room with a kiss and doting smile. 

He becomes used to this though and the wrongness to his name gradually ebbs into something softer. What doesn’t fade is the ache in his chest that never heals, that hurts like someone is pressing down on a bruise he can’t find.

He is an only child; the only one who graces the small, cramped tent his mama owns. He is the apple of her eye; the only one who belongs to her in this great, wide world. 

So there should be no reason why he feels the lack of someone so deep that it throbs like a missing limb. There should be no reason why he continues to wait for someone who isn’t there. 

There should be no reason why he continues to wait at all.

Anise is twenty-nine years old when she falls in love for the last time.

Laying on top of the bed Harun provided her, sweaty and tired from childbirth, she is largely aware that she will have to leave soon. The Queen Consort will surely kill her if she doesn’t. She might be on her way to kill Anise now if she doesn’t, because why would she let a bastard live? 

Two birds, one stone.

Anise knows she’s already pushed the Queen Consort’s patience staying as long as she did—especially while pregnant with Harun’s child. The only thing that could have made things worse is parading herself around court for everyone to see proof of the King’s infidelity, but with the speed gossip travel within the palace, Anise can’t say with certainty that that hadn’t already happened.

Anise had only stayed out of obligation, unable to refuse Harun’s request. He had wanted her to stay with him and Anise—despite how foolish a desire it was—had wanted her child to see their father. Anise had wanted to let her child have a slice of what their half-brothers had. 

Anise had wanted...

“My lady, may I offer my congratulations on birthing a healthy boy.” The midwife steps into her room with her child wrapped in clean blankets. 

Anise blinks and comes back to herself. She licks her cracked lips, keenly aware of where she is, and what she’s done—how quickly time is running by for her. Blood permeates the room, thick and metallic in her throat, and her hair sticks to the back of her neck as she holds out her arms. 

The midwife’s dress is still stained with unmentionable liquids, having been the only one in the room aside from Anise. There should have been others here to help, but Anise hadn’t been able to trust anyone else to take care of cleaning her infant.

“Careful my lady,” the midwife cautions. 

“Yes, thank you for your help,” Anise says. The midwife nods furiously as if flustered by her thanks.

“It is of no trouble at all, my lady. The King will surely be pleased once he is informed of the young prince’s birth.”

Anise’s smile threatens to fall, but she clings to its curves and carefully tucks that thought away. “Yes, of course. I’d like to be alone please. With my child.”

“Of course, would you like to relocate to another room?”

“No, no. This is fine. I just want to take a rest for a while.”

“Yes, my lady,” the midwife bows. Anise looks away, still more than uncomfortable with the amount of respect some of the staff show her. She doesn’t want it. Anise has done nothing to warrant it, but experience has taught her not to argue.

Her gaze falls to the breathing bundle in her arms swathed with the highest quality silks and blankets. He is an adorable thing with little chubby cheeks that puff out with every breath and precocious pouty lips that part and press together without thought. 

Her baby looks up with startlingly deep gold eyes. They remind her of sunsets and sunflowers underneath starlight. His soft baby hair promises to be same shade as his father’s, but the way his pudgy hands are still clenched into tiny fists reminds Anise of herself. 

He makes a tiny shuffle noise, somewhere between a whine and a sigh and Anise is entirely and utterly besotted. She presses a thumb in the small of his hand and watches his fingers curl around it. She remembers a name from a half-forgotten story, a remnant of a childhood long lost...

“Alibaba,” she whispers, pressing a gentle kiss to his forehead.

He dreams often. As a child with little entertainment, he learned to make do with what he had and dreams were a cost-free option. 

He dreams of adventure, of the adrenaline that courses in the chaos of battle, of a trembling forest and a walled city of gold. He dreams of thousands of weapons and sweaty palms grasping against callused hands, of dust in his eyes, and the stench of blood and a raging bull’s cries as someone cackles in the background. 

Someone holds him close in those dreams. Or maybe it’s him holding someone else; holding on to them tight enough until he can’t breath.

Alibaba is a curious infant, seemingly aware of his surroundings in a way that Anise marvels at.

He’s always willing to stick his grubby fingers wherever they can as if daring the world to try and hurt him. His courage is terrifying to a worried mother like her.

It’s not hard to care for Alibaba. Hard is not a word she would ever use. Alibaba wants for nothing. He is fed and cared for routinely, and he never complains with how much she moves during the day. Anise often carries him in a sling across her chest, because she loves being able to place him against her heart and feel his heartbeat next to hers. He is always so quiet then.

So, no. It is not hard to care for Alibaba, especially because Anise loves him, but she can’t help but worry—if love were enough to raise a child, then she imagines most people wouldn’t have any trouble at all. 

His curiosity doesn’t fade as Alibaba grows older. He’s more spirited and active, rukh only knows how many heart attacks he’s given Anise since he figured out how to crawl. He gets into trouble with ease and it’s not uncommon for Anise to find him in the oddest of places like a woman’s basket or a man’s cart. Once she even found him struggling to fit through the crack between their tent and the dirty alleyway. 

“Alibaba! That’s dirty,” Anise scolds. Alibaba pouts at her, unrepentant undoubtedly.

Alibaba likes asking questions about anything and everything that exists under the sky. It is endearing at first—and still is when it’s just them inside their tent, and all he can ask about are harmless little things that she can teach him about—but then Anise catches him asking local merchants about their wares and travels.

She catches the bright wonder in his eyes then, and realizes that Alibaba inherited more than just his father’s coloring.

He dreams of scary things sometimes. 

He dreams of things that haunt him at night, leave him hollow and afraid. (Leave him feeling powerful.)

He dreams of a man dying at his feet. There is a spear lodged into his chest, right above his heart as blood oozes into the grass. The man’s gaze—so dark, so empty—is fixed on his with a silent satisfaction as if he felt no pain at all. The cross at his throat glitters, glacial and forbidding in the dark. A stark contrast to his dark clothing.

A holy man, he realizes. Like one of those travelers from distant lands who come to shore with prayers and hymns on their tongues. The ones who wear too-clean shoes that catch light from afar, like tiny jewels in the sun.

The man’s mouth is a bruise in the dark, a smile he can’t read. 

He knows the man is close to death now. Just as he knows that the smell of ashes and copper blood will follow him for the rest of his life. His heart beats a staccato rhythm, little pulses stuttering in his chest.

“My King,” the man rasps, making no move towards him. He just lays there. Motionless. “I understand now.”

His dark eyes are filled with a shining wonder, an innocence that does not match his terrible fate. “I understand.”

The man grins, teeth stained red. “My King,” he croons. “You were right.”

The man does not look away even when his last breath leaves him. 

He stares until that empty light that disappears from within, and no sound is left except for his own ragged breathing. 

Alibaba loves stories of adventure the most, she notices. 

Anise doesn’t know who he gets it from. She’s never been the type to travel—though she admits to being a small romantic—and Harun has always been the more level-headed between them. Despite his inclinations to sneak out of Balbadd from time to time, Anise knows he’s never been one to leave his country for too long.

Alibaba on the other hand listens to stories of distant lands and mysterious sights with such fervor, such brilliant light in his eyes, that Anise has no trouble seeing him leave Balbadd without a second thought. 

She thinks she could cry at the thought, but no tears come to her eyes no matter how much she wants them to. How awful is that?

You don’t mourn when the sun sets at dawn. You don’t weep when the moon disappears behind the clouds.

“You’re meant for more than this,” Anise says, and she isn’t just talking about the slums or their house or even Balbadd. “You belong someplace better.” It’s written in her bones and carved into his.

It is simply fate.

Alibaba tilts his head. His unforgettable sunset eyes glow under the light and he says back, “Mama too. You deserve better too.”

Anise smiles wanly. She holds him close, arms wound tight around him as if she could keep him safe in her embrace, and does not cry.

Sometimes, he dreams.

He dreams of impossibly brilliant things.

He dreams of someone dying; of someone leaping from an impossible height and chasing after an even more impossible ideal. 

He dreams of being stabbed by thousands of weapons, each blade piercing its way through skin and bone, holding him still on a barren desert. 

He dreams of an agonizing heat eating him from the inside out, stealing away his sight until he bleeds black tar. It does not stop. The pain goes on and on and on and still it does not stop.

He survives until he does not. He survives until he meets a young woman masquerading as a man. A small girl holding the weight of the world’s wishes on her shoulders. 

He survives until he does not. 

And when the girl finishes him, pierces his body with a sword made of light and glares at him with eyes filled with a righteous anger so beautiful—he swears he can almost taste the hope she stands for. 

When Alibaba is three, Anise takes him to the bridge closest to the bazaar to watch the second prince’s birthday parade. Before they go, Anise coats his hair with a special brown dye and tells him not to take off his cloak.

Alibaba blinks, curious but accepting. He makes a tiny, agreeable noise, tilting his head to allow Anise to smear more dye near the hair around his ear. Her hands shake.

He whispers, “We don’t have to go mama.”

Alibaba locks eyes with Anise. Anise thinks about the previous two years around this time, too paranoid and scared to leave their tent. Anise thinks of trapping Alibaba here again while the world runs on—her stomach twists unpleasantly.

“No, it’s fine. You should see how beautiful Balbadd gets when celebrating one of the royal family’s birthdays,” Anise smiles.

Alibaba’s brow crinkles and he squints, clearly in an effort not to fidget. Anise laughs as she runs careful fingers through his hair. 

“Just a little longer Ali.” 

“Mn.” Alibaba closes his eyes obediently.

She washes her hands and sits back to survey her work. Alibaba looks more like her now without his blonde hair. Less like him. It’s not—it’s not a perfect match, but it makes Anise ache.

“I look good mama?” Alibaba asks patiently. 

“You do.”

Alibaba smiles.

When the parade line comes their way, Alibaba is absolutely captivated. Dancers leap overhead sword-swallowers and the air is set alight by fire-breathers; music plays on every street corner and when the royal carriage rolls underneath the bridge they sit on, baskets of flower blossoms are emptied from rooftops and scatter across the stone floors.

The King steps out of the carriage float, beside him is his Queen Consort and their two children. Red sunsets rush through Anise’s ears and hunger gnaws at her stomach. An all-consuming emotion that burns in her throat. She imagines it escaping her, flames bright and smoke building in her lungs.

It is not love.

Their perfect family is haloed by flower petals, like something out of a storybook fairy tale. Blonde hair stands out amongst the sea of black and brown. 

It is not love that eats at her heart. (Theirs was never a love story.)

The King does not look their way but Anise cannot look away, her breathing turns faster. She waits for it to swallow her whole, that familiar shame as she watches them move, but Alibaba tugs her hand.

He is nearly on his tiptoes as he peers at them. There is a softness in his gaze, a bright spark she wants to protect from this world that's so eager to smother him. What does he see in them? Does he see a happy family? Does it ache in him? What she cannot give him, when she is but a failure of a mother too full of secrets?

She can see the wheels turning behind Alibaba’s eyes, her smart little boy, and a sense of resignation sinks in her.

That night Alibaba curls next to her, head pillowed on her lap. He asks, “What is the king’s name?”

“King Rashid Saluja.” One, two, three.

“What is my name?” he asks, golden eyes curious.

“Alibaba.”

He is clever, observant. He will find out sooner or later, she reasons. Of course he will. He is the King’s son and Anise knows people will start to wonder about his appearance as he gets older.

“What else?” he asks again.

That does not make this any easier.

“Alibaba,” she repeats. Waits a beat. The world holds its breath. “Saluja.”

“Saluja?” Alibaba asks. He’s smart enough to know what it means, has heard enough stories about Harun and merchants to know what it implies. 

“Saluja,” she echoes.

Something flickers in his eyes.

Something sad.

“Mama do you love me?”

Something mad.

“Of course I do.” It isn’t even a question. She presses down the urge to pull him into her embrace.

Anise knows what he’s asking and it hurts to realize that not even this innocence is spared for her son. “But I loved him also. I was not forced to do anything I didn’t want, Alibaba. I had a choice and I made mine that night. I do not regret it.” 

I do not regret you, she thinks even if she could never say it aloud.

“Oh.” Alibaba sits up and climbs onto her lap like he used to when he was little. He’s almost too heavy now, but she holds him anyway, and tears roll down her cheeks. 

Perhaps one day Harun will return and sweep him away because a prince, no matter if he is illegitimate, does not belong with a harlot. Perhaps one day something will happen to her and Alibaba will be left all alone. Perhaps, perhaps, perhaps all Anise can do is pray.

All Anise can do is ask for more time.

Anise hugs him. Her hands shake. She wants to hide him away forever, clutch him to her chest as if it could keep him close.

“I took you away,” she whispers, against Alibaba’s hair, “because I am selfish. I hope you can one day forgive me for that.” 

He dreams of—

(green hair catching in the morning light—

soft skin over bare arms belying immense strength, long fingers gentle on his face—

a laughing mouth pressed to his—

sprawled out breathless side by side on the ground, in the dirt, with sweat down his eyes and the back of his neck and—

hands clasped in his; calloused palms, and—)

—a smile like redemption, like a friend.

They are good dreams, he thinks, compared to others. They are good dreams but he always wakes from them in tears.

“Mama.”

Alibaba clings to the edges of her dress, pouty lips pressed together and silent tears streaming down his ruddy cheeks. He cries so quietly, always so quiet and Anise’s heart tears open each time.

She wonders if it was her fault that her little boy never wails like other children do. It is another failure that she marks and tucks into the back of her mind. 

“Alibaba, what’s wrong?” she asks, bending over to pick him up. He immediately buries his head into the crook of her neck and doesn’t answer.

Anise presses a kiss to his hair and whispers indecipherable platitudes and reassurances until he stops crying.

Alibaba sighs softly, his fingers curl around the fabric of her dress. He tilts his head back and kisses her cheek clumsily. 

My sweet child.

“Mama?” he calls.

“Yes Alibaba?”

“I love you lots.”

Anise kisses the side of his head. “I love you lots too.”

He has his mother and that is enough. It has to be.

She has Alibaba and she is enough. She must be.

Chapter Text

Anise wakes up early in the mornings, limbs heavy with sleep. Alibaba is a warm weight pressed against her arm. Slips of sunlight slant through the thin fabric of their tent. The pale blue of the sky reminds her of the busy day waiting ahead. 

Alibaba frowns as she moves about, fingers tightening on their sheets. His sweet face is puffy with sleep, cheeks flush and curled around the space she left.

It makes her smile. 

She leans on the edge of their bed and brushes his hair back from his face. He looks like angel in his sleep.

Anise presses a gentle kiss to his forehead and he mumbles something incoherent, a half-whine builds up in his throat.

She stifles a laugh.

“Have you heard about the building that appeared at the border of Parthevia and Reim Empire? More than ten thousand people were sent in to investigate, but none of them returned alive.” 

“Really? How cruel can they get?”

“Shh, you shouldn’t say that out loud. You never know who’s listening.”

“Balbadd is a beautiful country.”

Someone says to someone else, their voice floating in the air, carried with endless chatter and laughter, merging together with the other voices in the market-square. But the saying means enough to him to look back instinctively. 

No one looks back and he sighs before darting back into the busy streets.

A unique essence permeates here that attracts travelers from all over. People of all backgrounds, merchants and buyers alike, swarm and move around him without a thought, like a swarm of fish in a stream. 

In spite of their loud voices, he can still hear the sonorous chimes of a distant bell echo high above, climbing its way towards the sky. Balbadd is alive and bustling yet again, ready to welcome the new day.

It’s hot enough to make his blonde hair curl around the back of his neck, but not enough to make them stick. He skips past a group of children his age and smile as they wave to him, before slipping into a maze of alleyways the moment they look away. 

Tomorrow he will play with them, but not today. Today is a day for himself and he does not want to spend it with people who call him by names that do not fit. Today he is nameless.

Today he is no one.

He dashes beneath endless sun-shades of vibrant colors. A splash of red as bright as cherries and sunny oranges paint the rooftops set the building aflame. The alleyway leads him through twists and turns, and with breathless laughter, he follows them as the noisy clamor of the market-square grows fainter. 

No one gives him a second glance as he pushes past and the streets become dirtier, emptier. Laundry hangs from strings and old housewives gossip to each other across windows.

When he runs underneath their clothes, snippets of rumors and gossip flitting through his ears like falling leaves. 

“—he bought two dozen eggs!”

“A new batch of fish coming in next—”

“—thevia and the Reim Empire—”

“—ious towers popping up?”

Where am I going, he wonders.

But was there a need for a destination at all? 

There is a voice that sings in his head, a silent hymn that beats to the sound of his heart. 

Is that not enough?

His bare feet thump against the hard, sun-warmed stone, and blood rushes through his veins as his lungs scream for him to breathe.

He’s gone to a place where people are in scarcity, traveled too far perhaps, but that’s fine.

He climbs what seems to be an endless stairway, cracked and weathered are the stone, as the sight of human structures start to deteriorate. Bridges are wobbly and towers are moss-covered, different from how the slums are weathered down, here it is clear that nature has taken back what was theirs. 

He climbs until he’s reached the top of a lush, green clearing that spreads far and wide. Balbadd spreads out before him like a map for the taking, but he’s not interested in that.

He lifts his head to sky and all he can see is a wide expanse of blue, blue, blue—

A vision falls over him, climbing over the wooden fence. Perching on the edge. Letting himself slip off. The lurch. The drop. The wind roaring. The sea rushing up. The harsh glare of the sun and the taste of salt on his tongue.

His mother’s scream—

He sucks in a breath through his teeth. 

“Balbadd is a beautiful country!” someone says to her. A traveler, she thinks. She wonders how many times she’s heard this saying.

Anise offers him a bright smile, balancing the basket of fruit on her head with a turn of her hand. “Won’t you buy some fruit? We have a variety of assortments at Rob’s shop, just down the street. The one with the red-and-white stripes, you can’t miss it!” She tilts her head slightly, lets her hair fall from her shoulder.

He turns red. “Oh, I’m not really hungry—” He stumbles over words, excuses. 

Anise moves closer and giggles when the man chokes. “Try a free sample, I insist! Rob’s grapes are the juiciest in the market and we have a new batch of watermelons coming in soon! You simply cannot leave without taking home a fruit assortment. Oh dear traveler, won’t you try one for me?”

“W-well, if they’re as good as you say… it couldn’t harm to go see what he has.” 

Bingo.

Balbadd’s bazaars are no small affair. Newcomers are always caught off guard by how much effort is put into trade here and they never leave without buying something in the end. 

Every bazaar is draped in color; silks of red and orange and sea blue wrapped on every roof and ceiling rafter. Spanning sun-shades that cover the sky and light music playing in every corner.

The air curling with the smell of sweet fruit, of grilled fish, of braised squid, of clams, of every possible food that one could think of.

If one could make profit from it, then you could find it in Balbadd.

Anise loves Balbadd. It is the only home she has ever known and Anise can’t imagine ever leaving. She hopes Alibaba will grow to love this country as much as she does. It is in his blood after all.  

But if her hands tremble each night he comes home later and she becomes afraid to let him go in the morning—well it is a secret she will keep. She has asked for far too much and rukh knows Alibaba deserves more than what she can give him.

Alibaba squints in the wake of the sun.

Rob doesn’t look at him, more focused on inspecting the new batch of assorted fruits. The red beads of Rob’s bracelet clink together, not unlike the sound as he knocks on a watermelon. 

Rob’s face breaks into a wide, toothy smile. “Heavy and hollow. This is a good batch.” He looks at him. “Always check your products before paying Alibaba. Don’t rely on others to do it for you if you can do it yourself.” 

Rob hands the other trader money with little care for the man’s exasperated, almost insulted expression.

Alibaba doesn’t worry though. This is a song and dance that has lasted for far longer than he has been alive and somehow their relationship has survived through it all.

Like always it takes some time to set the cargo into a cart, but the camels are fast so the journey isn’t so bad. They’d been held back for a bit since Rob almost picked a fight with a foreign neighboring cart who’d been on their way to the bazaar to sell banana products. It had taken a bit of quick thinking and deliberate distraction to cool Rob’s temper, but he did it. 

The merchants gave him some snacks out of gratitude.

Alibaba swings his legs over the edge of the back, watching the stone road pass by, and listening to Rob with half an ear. 

“The most important part about being a merchant is making sure you never lose control,” Rob lectures. “Before you do anything, you must assume complete control over yourself and your surroundings.”

“But they were new.” 

“That does not give them an excuse to be ignorant. They must learn that the world will offer them no mercy. To assume otherwise is foolhardy,” Rob says simply, and Alibaba remembers how this old man had destroyed a company’s livelihood without a second thought, just because they hadn’t been smart enough, another young trader that didn’t make it. 

“That sounds sad ojii-san,” he says softly. “People can be kind.”

Rob looks away from him and fiddles with his beaded bracelet. “Only the strong can afford to be kind.” 

“Hm.” 

A bird cries in the distance. He kicks his feet idly, the wind sweeps in. It smells of fruit.

“You know, you remind me of someone I used to know. You could probably become a merchant one day,” Rob says suddenly, an obvious opening to an obvious story.

Alibaba doesn’t take it. 

“Can I be your apprentice then?” He flashes a smile and surprises himself by how much he doesn’t mind the thought.

Rob peers at him, and those pale blue eyes, wet and large behind his glasses, narrow. Squints, like he’s sizing him up.

“No,” Rob says eventually. “There’s nothing I could teach you, that you wouldn’t already know or could learn on your own.”

Albaba looks down again. There’s dirt stuck beneath his nails and his feet are dirty and he feels… nothing. “Oh.” 

There is a warm hand on his head, thin fingers and slightly shaky from old age. “You’re meant for something different, child.”

The words

You’re meant for more than this. You belong some place better

echo in his head. 

Alibaba looks at the sea and then to the banana pastry in the small of his palms. The grease of the banana leaf sticks to his skin. It’s too hot to eat.

He’ll save it for later to share, he decides. For his mama.

Anise is exhausted. She’s so tired that she can barely see straight, and she still smells like incense no matter how many baths she steals away. 

The days grind on, rolling over and over without stop: she leaves in the morning with heavy perfume, and pretty makeup, and her best clothing and returns before the sun sets in the sky. 

She’s ready to sleep for a week or a year, but she never falters, puts on a smile and kisses anyone who pays like she’s made of love because--

“Mama~!!” 

--she has someone waiting for her at home. A lovely little boy who runs to her with open arms and open heart.

“Alibaba!” Anise laughs and swoops down to lift him up. Alibaba smells like ocean salt and sunshine and it settles something in her chest, washes away the discomfort that digs a little deeper into her skin everyday.

“Did you get into any trouble today?” she asks, smiling when Alibaba scrunches his small nose up, comically offended. Anise laughs.

“Any new adventures to tell I mean?” she amends.

“So many stories!” he exclaims in delight, small arms flinging themselves around her neck and she cards her fingers down his hair, relaxing as Alibaba’s voice envelops her. “There were some new merchants who came all the way from Parthevia.”

“Parthevia? That’s awfully far from here.” Although not too uncommon, tensions between Parthevia and Reim are still tight despite the fact of war being over. 

“A-ppar-rent-ly they wanted to expand their horizons and decided Balbadd’s market would be easiest to break into,” he pronounces his words with a slightly haughty, if not hilariously arrogant tone that mirrors the merchants down the street.

“Oh? And what were they selling my little one?”

“Bananas, mama!” Alibaba’s eyes twinkle. “They were selling bananas out of all fruits! With no influence, no reputation, and no advertisement!” he reports. “Rob-ojii-san was this close to throttling them.”

He raises a small hand, indicating the tiny space between his finger and thumb seriously.

Anise snorts. Rob has always been possessive of his sales and if someone showed any sign of poaching his customers—no matter if it was a fruit of an entirely different family from strawberries and mangoes—you’d best have backup plans ready. 

“But you helped them didn’t you?” she says knowingly. 

Alibaba puffs his chest out. “Of course mama! They even gave me a snack afterwards as a thank you!” He shows her a banana leaf-wrapped cake, brandishes it like a prize. “See?”

“And why haven’t you eaten it yet?” Anise asks as she nuzzles his cheek. He nuzzles her back sweetly, tiny fingers curling around the nape of her neck.

“I wanted to wait for you,” he replies, eyes are so bright, so earnest, “so we can eat it together mama.” Anise’s heart constricts into a tight ball, and she hides her face in the soft of his shoulder. 

She breathes out, the air leaves her chest the way sand slips between her fingers. “Mmn. Thank you Alibaba.” She kisses his head.

Life is tough, but she wouldn’t trade him for the world.

“We’ll get a knife and split it in half.”

From afar, Balbadd must look impossibly small. It is a peninsula near the sea, a city on an ocean.

From far away, Balbadd must look so tiny. 

He is a child, small and soft and vulnerable, when he looks at Balbadd and decides that he could do better. This, he knows, is not where he belongs.

Balbadd is not his home.

The word ‘home’ fills him with a heavy feeling, like dark stones pressing behind his eyes and a headpiece wrapped tightly in the semblance of a crown. It makes him want to weep and laugh and burn until all that is left are ashes. 

He has the potential for love; love so strong that even the inexplicable feeling of grief cannot cause him to stop, but Balbadd does not inspire love in him no matter how much he tries. 

(And how he tries.)

How he spends entire mornings and evenings and afternoons just drinking in the sight of thousands of buildings with rooftops—from speckled white and searing red and lush green and shining gold like he could drown himself with it. 

How he traces the tall stone towers and terraces that rise from the depths of the ocean and reach up into the sky with fingers in the air and charcoal on paper like he could imprint it on his skin.

How he follows the quietly drifting boats that move through the sparkling blue canals that run throughout the city endlessly on bare feet and aching limbs like he could stumble his way into it.

Like love was something he could trip his way into.

But this is the thing about love: it doesn’t work that way.

You can try all you want but love doesn’t go away just because it hurts. Just because your body cries for something you can’t understand, it doesn’t go away just because you don’t know why.

“It doesn’t go away, just because you want it to.”

From up high, he can see the line of blue drawn tight against the horizon. The promise of something new at the tip of his fingers.

All he has to do is reach out and grab it.

From up high, he thinks, it is so easy to think of Balbadd as small.

Anise holds Alibaba’s hand in hers as they enter the busy streets. Merchants and visitors from every corner of the world rush past them and Anise fights her way through.

She can barely see what’s in front of her and whispered apologies fly from her mouth each time she elbows someone away.

Anise feels Alibaba’s tiny fingers squeeze hers. She glances down with a haphazard grin, “Too loud Ali?” 

Alibaba beams, eyes bright with energy. “Nope!” 

Starlight child, sunshine baby, golden boy. There is no hesitancy or self-consciousness in his steps. 

He makes connections like he’s breathing, quick, effortless, and without thinking. He radiates such pride and confidence—Anise doesn’t know where he holds it all but rukh, she’s so proud of him.

He walks like he’s made to fly. And when he talks, people listen.

He’s so, so clever and smart and he hides it all behind a beaming smile and twinkle in his eyes. Alibaba is dazzling and she’s not the only one who notices.

“Oh my, what a beautiful child you have,” a woman says to her. A noblewoman perhaps, with smooth skin that smells like flowers and painted lips, the color of roses. She is beautiful but as she leans closer, shawl pushing down her shoulders, Anise wishes she weren’t so close. 

“His hair shines like gold in the sun and his eyes! I’ve only seen that shade of color once, and it was when…” Her voice trails off, a thoughtful glint touches her eyes. 

Something ice cold clicks into place. 

Anise tightens her grip on Alibaba’s hand and smiles, sweetly. “Thank you for your compliment. He got all his coloring from my grandfather!” She looks at the sky. “Oh would you look at the time! Come on ‘li, we must hurry before it gets dark.”

Anise bows to the woman and leaves. Alibaba, for once, is quiet by her side. 

He sits on top of a bridge, tiny legs hanging over the ledge. He’s three years old and young but he feels plenty strong, enough to leave if he wants to. 

He is strong but the way mama asks him always makes him feel weak. 

“Stay close to me,” she had told him. “I don’t know what I’d do if anything happened to you, Alibaba.” The way his mama’s eyes had curved, a gentle love and full of protective fire, and how her fingers trembled in his hand. 

Why are you so afraid, he’d wanted to ask. Why do you think I will leave without you mama? Why do you believe I won’t come back?  

The questions weighed in his throat, heavy with all the hurt his three-year-old-self could muster, but died between his teeth before he could set them free.

(Because they both deserve better than lies.)

There is nothing his mama asks of him but to stay, so he tries his best to forget the itch underneath his skin and the wind calling out his name.

He tries his best to love Balbadd, but his heart longs for something more than this.

Anise does her best to make sure Alibaba at least knows his letters and numbers, and tries her best to tell him the history of Balbadd and the weight of his abandoned heritage. 

Alibaba is a smart child and he picks up things quickly, takes to everything like a duck to water. She’s running out of things to teach him everyday; soon she won’t be able to answer his questions. 

She sees Harun in him so much. The glint of his eyes when he’s thinking and the way his ahoge points up in excitement. 

Sometimes the guilt stings her chest enough that she thinks about leaving Alibaba at the palace gates. Sometimes it hurts enough to think she’s holding him back, but then Alibaba will climb into her lap, and snuggle against her chest, and peer up at her. 

“Mama,” he would say, earnestly. “Mama I love you.” And Anise forgets all everything, and focuses on how happy it makes her to be able to hold Alibaba like this.

“Mama, look at me!”

Anise blinks at the small hand pressing against her lips. Anise hums softly and kisses his little palm and Alibaba giggles. The bright sound makes her fingers itch. 

“I’m looking,” she assures him. 

Anise runs her fingers through his hair, the color of it melding with Harun’s and for a heart stopping moment, she sees him there, watching her. 

“I’m always looking at you.”

“Boya, what are you looking for?” her voice drawls. Old Mistress Rana is blunt in an unassuming and straightforward way. She cares very little for the niceties people hide behind. It comes with age, he assumes. The way most things do.

He looks up. “What do you mean obaa-san?”

She scoffs at him and then takes a long drag of her pipe, flicking the end with surprising grace. “You run around the city every single day like your feet are on fire.” Her brown eyes, lined with wrinkles, narrow. “People tend to notice.”

He tilts his head, curious. “And?”

Her mouth slants downwards. “And I’m telling you to tell me what you’re looking for so you can stop running,” Old Mistress Rana scowls furiously. She taps her nails on the table. “Children should be sittin’ at home crying and whining and doing whatever the hell they do; not wandering the streets at your age.”

She sounds so irritated at that admission, like it pains her to say it aloud, that it makes him laugh. 

Old Mistress Rana is kind, the way you try to learn to be as you grow old. The way you hope you grow into as you live, he thinks.

He wouldn’t mind growing up to be like her one day.

They both look at the young girl across the street who dances to music she can’t hear, but still works anyway because no one else will take care of her little brother at home. 

“But there are anyway,” he says back, his laugh fading as the slant of her mouth dips further. 

“There are anyway,” she agrees, tired. 

Anise watches the other ladies curiously and her cheeks flush when they catch her looking. 

They giggle behind their veils, thick lashes fluttering like butterflies and crinkles at the edges, “Anise-nee, you’re so cute.”

“Eh?” Anise flusters around. Her neck feels hot, oh dear. “I’m not that much older am I? Plus you’re all seniors compared to me, so really I should be the one to call you nee!”

“Maybe so, but it makes us feel better,” one woman admits. She lunges forward and snatches up Anise’s hands. “Your skin is just so smooth!”

“Supple and fresh,” another woman swoons. “With no imperfections to be seen!”

“It makes me so jealous!” 

Anise waves her hands frantically, backing up from their sweet fragrance dizzily. “Ah—I think you’re all absolutely beautiful too with your nice hair and soft hands and oh—” She smiles her loveliest smile, “I think you’re all just so wonderful.”

They exchange amused glances and burst into peals of laughter. “Cute,” they repeat again. “Almost infuriatingly so. Never change Anise-nee.”

Anise’s face is on fire.

“Girls, enough teasing,” the madame of the house cuts in. Her voice is tinged with gruff amusement, and Anise flushes even more when her gaze falls on her. 

The madame is the most intimidating person she’s ever met, second only to the Queen, and even then, it is close. She carries herself with a dignity one wouldn’t expect from an owner of a brostel.

The silver of her hair and wrinkles etched on her face does little to take away her ferocious aura, and the fact that Anise saw her drag two men on each arm out the window on her first day here only hones it. 

“Awww,” the other ladies whine playfully, but they obediently stop teasing her. 

“Besides,” the old madame adds, voice teasing and wrinkles softening into something kinder, “anymore and she’ll probably faint.”

Everyone laughs and Anise finds herself grinning as well. But then a bell rings and the sound of heavy footsteps become audible.

The faint smile on the madame’s face fades and the levity in the room subdues. “Get ready for the customers,” she orders. “We have a batch of nobles coming in.”

The days pass and Balbadd stands tall. Days pass; he starts seeing double. 

It starts like this:

He stumbles and braces against a building, grips his fingers into the rough surface as he squints at the green flags draped along the streetlights.

His ears tell him that there are caravans drawn by camels trotting along the streets, but the way the people walk through them say there aren’t. 

aren’t they amazing? they burn so brightly.

He hears murmurs of demons and talks on the streets about heroes coming; about the barricade they’re building; about the weapons and the songs and how the King will guide them to the end.

the end, the ending, the fall of our kingdom; and still they stay

He turns around in circles and circles and circles trying to grasp at those voices, but they talk about a different war and a different city and a different king and he cannot hear correctly. 

all these brave souls, struggling, crying, fighting... can you hear them? 

He sees steam fogging up broken mirrors and the feels, more than hears, the sound of trees falling in the distance. The rumble, and then the thud as they hit the ground.

can you see them?

He can’t seem to erase from his sight the image of people waving green flags, their bright eyes in the streets as they bow to him and murmur long live the King.

And there is a person, on the other side of the street, who smiles at him.

■■■■■■■■■, do you remember me? 

Anise carries Alibaba on her hip. He presses his small nose to her collarbone and she kisses his temple. His small chest rises and falls in time with her breathing. A quiet desolation traps him.

“Ali,” she says. “Will you tell me what’s wrong baby?” 

Alibaba, who are you dreaming of?

Alibaba opens his eyes, sunset stars on a delicate face. “I am fine mama,” he says, and smiles at her. He curls into her, settling his head on her chest. “Because you are here, and I am fine.”

Anise looks at her child, her brave boy who deserves so much more, and feels her heart expand and strain against her ribcage. She carries him to their bed, if you could call a nest of sheets and blankets on top a mat a bed. 

Her limbs ache as she lowers him down gently. Tomorrow she will ask him again what made him sad.

For now, Anise falls asleep to his soft breathing.

Anise drops Alibaba off at Rob’s stall every morning and picks him up in the afternoon. 

“Thank you for looking after him Rob,” Anise says. “I hope he wasn’t too much trouble today.”

Rob scoffs, watery eyes scrutinizing her for something—Anise would feel nervous if she weren’t aware that he did this to everyone he knew—before they flick away with disinterest. “Bah, no trouble I can’t handle.”  

At that, she gives out a small smile, amused. “Still,” Anise says, and she grabs a couple of mangoes to pay for. “I’m grateful that I have you looking out for him.”

Rob tilts his head, letting sunlight hit his glasses, and it makes his eyes unreadable as he repeats, “It was no trouble at all.”

They both know her son doesn’t stay here all day unless he wants to—and Alibaba is far too curious to give up a chance to explore—but it makes Anise feel better when she sees Alibaba waiting for her here. 

So Anise laughs when she pays for the mangoes, and Rob says nothing when he counts the extra money she slipped into his hand.

Balbadd’s streets are always full of people, the clatter of caravans, and the shouts of merchants hollering out goods. A line trickles in a thin stream out from the docks where visitors have just arrived, and a damp breeze has picked up the ocean salt. 

Mama clings to his arm and doesn’t let go. It’s not really hand-holding, but the intention of it—to hold him close, to keep him with her, to stay connected—is the same.

He itches to leave.

She leaves him near Rob’s stand, tucks his lunch inside his satchel and kisses his cheek.

“Be good okay Ali?” his mama shouts, trying to make herself heard above the noise of the market. Her bright smile draws everyone’s attention with ease. “I’ll pick you up later!” 

“Yes, mama!”

He thinks about staying with Rob, or running off to the docks to explore again, but the sun is hot and the stone roads are hotter, so he settles down in the shade far away from everyone else. 

He’ll rest for now and wake up later, he tells himself.

He stares up into the canopy of palm trees. The morning sunlight shifts and steals through the leaves like thieves, gold glittering where it hits the sand. An orange cat lays next him, lazily lounging on the cool sand with half-squinting eyes. 

Summer, cool breeze, bird song, cicada song...

There were several young boys running down the streets holding fishing nets. Fishermen chased after them with laughter deep in their throats. 

Everything is so beautiful.

He watches the blue sky and drifting clouds and he leans against the tree and slowly let go of his thoughts. He breathes the faint salt in the air and the intertwined smell of the sand, and gradually sinks into a distant sleep.

He dreams of a golden city....

Anise stutters apologies and stumbles over outstretched legs. She ignores the leers and laughter, anxious to find her boy and go home. She bumps into someone. “Oh, I apologize—”

Her voice cuts off.

“No, no, don’t worry about it—” a pause. Such a suspicious thing. Such an ominous thing. “... Anise?”

He has icy hands and it sends chills down her spine. Anise looks down. She quickly denies him. “I- You must have the wrong person.”  

Backwards step. A step back. A step, a step, a step away. Step away from here.

“Anise wait, his Majesty has been—”

(He waits. She runs. This is how their story goes.)

“Please—” too emotional, let’s calm down shall we? One breath. One step. Come on Anise, you know this dance. “—let go. I have to leave. You have the wrong person.” 

“Anise!”

If you pretend long enough, then it must be true. You dirty little thing, did you think no one knew?

“I’m not Anise.” 

... the sky is blue there, too.

Anise reaches the stall and Rob looks at her through thick glass, his voice a million miles away. “Alibaba isn’t here.” 

Rob’s eyes always look like they’re on the verge of tears. It’s the first thing people notice when they see him, and she has always compared it as to the morning dew, but in that moment, Anise has an uncharitable thought that his eyes more resembled a newbabe’s first cries: ugly and selfish. 

Anise smothers the flash of resentment. Pushes down the irrational anger in her throat. Pushes down the scream building in her throat.

“..Oh,” she licks her dry lips, swallows. “Thank you for telling me.”

When he opens his eyes again, the skies have bled into a deep orange, leaving only wisps of pink and purple where the sun touches the distant sea. The fisherman with his loud laugh has returned with an extra fish. The market stands have packed up their wares for another day.

He rubs the sand grains from his cheeks. Clutches the wrapped fish in one hand and goes home. 

Mama sits on their bed, on their nest of blankets on the floor. Her back curled inwards as if bracing from a hit and she looks haunted. It reminds him of his birthday. 

He climbs into her lap, and silently offers her the wrapped fish, and waits.

She stares, unsteady in her gaze. There is a moment of incomprehension before she registers his weight and his fish.

She laughs wetly and holds him tight, tight enough to hurt. 

Anise curls under the sheets, and holds Alibaba to her chest like he’s a teddy bear. He sleeps unhindered by her movements, lightly snoring and fingers curled into her shirt loosely.

Her eyelids grow heavy. Anise turns and burrows her nose into his hair, breathes in milk and sunshine and something that reminds her of the ocean wind.

The smell of it leaves her with an empty chest. 

“Did you hear? They’re going to recruit another batch of soldiers to explore the tower again, and this time the Commander Officer is coming with them! What was his name? I think it was Dragul...”