Work Text:
The Lewd Scroll
It is a calm day, no different than other days. You are minding your own business when something catches your eye. Picking it up with one hand, you think, “The Sultan has to see this,” and immediately head off to the Lapis Lazuli Palace.
The Sultan has made it clear that he is tired of going to court, so he is lounging in his private quarters when you make your way in through the heavy doors, led by a servant and a few guards. The air inside smells like rosewater. Beams of sunlight enter through the lattice windows, scattering golden patterns on the marble floor.
There he is – His Majesty. You see him lounging on a pile of silk cushions, idly thumbing through dispatches from the provinces.
“Ah, my favourite courtier is here. Come to grace me with poetry or scandal?” The Sultan smiles faintly – though you’re not sure if it is merely a trick of your eyes, since he is not looking up.
“Scandal, I’m afraid. Not of my own making, either.” You utter, memories of you having to debase yourself in order to deal with the Sultan’s suspicions flooding your mind. You suppress them; now is not the time to think about the injustice of the past.
He raises his head and looks at you, raising an eyebrow as you kneel down by his side and offer the parchment in both hands respectfully.
“Oh?” He says, as he accepts your “offer”. He unrolls the parchment, and for a moment, you are afraid that your head will roll.
“Your Majesty, I’m not the one behind this!” You prepare to defend yourself.
To your surprise, the Sultan barks out a laugh. “By the Prophet’s beard! Is that you in the garden, bending like a willow?”
You heave a sigh of relief. At least his majesty seems more amused than angered by it and does not appear to desire to shoot the messenger. “And you, your highness, are the gust of wind blowing that willow quite thoroughly.”
As the Sultan lifts his head, a glimmer from his eyes can be seen as his overly long bangs fall back. “Who drew this? The style does not look familiar, and the imagination is… generous. You look ravishing.”
“From the looks of it, not by any famed artist. It did emerge from the back alleys, after all.”
The Sultan strokes his chin with amusement. “So that’s where it’s from. Of course I would not recognize the style.”
“Yes, your majesty. I imagine that the name, Trafalgar Bear, is merely a pseudonym. It would be difficult to trace down and prosecute the artist without sufficient connection in the dark alleys.”
“I did not say anything about prosecution, my dear Arzu.”
“I beg your pardon, your Majesty?”
“Whoever this is, he is clearly skilled in the ways of portraying anatomy. I am quite satisfied with how he has depicted me and my endowment, as well as my choice of partner,” the Sultan grins. “We should find this artist and commission more. A mural for the harem ceiling, perhaps?”
You groan inwardly, berating yourself for not having read through the scroll thoroughly before presenting it to the Sultan. After all, if it was as crude as you had imagined it to be, your head would be rolling for subjecting his Majesty to the horrors of seeing himself portrayed in such a terrible way. “Might I suggest commissioning one of your favoured noble artists instead? A dark alley artist is not the most… prestigious.”
The Sultan waves it off nonchalantly. “I’m just teasing you, my courtier. You’ve amused me and brought me art I didn’t know I needed. That’s worth a reward.”
With a flick of his fingers, a servant appears by your side and presents a small pouch. You take the pouch, weighing it – the unmistakable feel of coin. You estimate it to be half a province’s worth of taxes for the year.
You’ve… pleased the Sultan? You dare not look at him in the eyes. If it is truly as good as he says, perhaps you might purchase another scroll and take a look for yourself, assuming the stall is still there the next day. Last you saw, this scandalous scroll was selling like hot cakes, especially amongst the women.
“For your bravery, and for… entertaining me,” The Sultan licks his lips as he says that.
“I should bring you filth more often,” You reply flatly, trying to hide the fact that you are getting goosebumps from the way he is looking at you.
“Only if you promise to blush every time.”
“Anything for you, your Majesty.” You wish – oh, how you wish – that slapping his smug, cheshire cat-like grin would not result in your head being separated from your body in the most unceremonious manner.
“Anything else?”
“Nothing, your Majesty.”
“Well, then. Dismissed.”
You rise and bow habitually and turn to leave. As you walk out, you can feel his Majesty’s eyes lingering on places where they normally would not.
You are inwardly debating whether to curse or praise the artist, when the Sultan calls out, “Next time, I want the sequel. Preferably in colour.”
You peer at him over your shoulder, letting your guard down for a moment. “I’ll try to find out who it is and see if they take commissions.”