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Alizeh knows, as she has never known before, that alone time is something to cherish. When does one ever truly, truly get to relax? Well, she supposes, this is the life of the Queen she must become. It’s all quite dreary. And all of it in the aftermath of the blood oath; all of a sudden, Alizeh is painstakingly exhausted. Before, she could work a full day and still get some stitching done. A few hours of sleep could contentedly fulfill her.
Yet, in these past days, Alizeh has found herself fighting a yawn whilst helping with the wedding planning. Huda had insisted that, really, it was a servant’s job (to which Alizeh had pointed out that she was a servant, at least had been at some point) but Alizeh had craved a distraction. A distraction from–
–Cyrus. Oh, when has a man so shrouded in mystery perplexed her so? Never! For he is a singularity, a deviant of the most enthralling degree. His questionable deal with Iblees, his contradictory personality, his obscured past. Alizeh finds herself, regrettably, thinking back on that night in his room. Watching as, inch by inch, he drew his shirt off to sleep; revealing a body like a sculpture, brown skin carved with muscles, gleaming as if fate coaxed her eyes, sinfully, to stare. Then, fighting him, torn between rage and some inexplicable, distressing urge to cast her eyes downwards. Everything about him is so…oh, it is aggravating!
“...Your Majesty? Would you prefer the roses or the peonies?” Alizeh startles so violently that the snoda yelps, stepping swiftly backwards. “I’m so sorry, ma’am–your majesty–it’s only that–”
“It was my mistake. Please do not apologise. Ah…the roses, I should think.” Hand cradling her temple, which aches like a physical reprimand of her idiocy, Alizeh lightly excuses herself…
Only to walk straight into Kamran. His immediate grin seems to provoke the intensity of her migraine. “Alizeh! Exactly who I was hoping to see. Planning this miserable wedding must be so taxing.”
“I’m glad for it,” she replies, despite the fact agreeing in the first place is beginning to chafe on her like scratchy, heavy fabric. “And there is no use complaining about the inevitable.”
Kamran shrugs, leaning against the wall, eyes dragging invasively over her figure. Resisting the urge to squirm, she laces her fingers together. “Forgive me. It is only that I grow so impatient,” he sighs, “and so aggrieved, that he may marry you before I.”
Alizeh blinks. She thinks, sometimes, that he is far too honest. “I must remind you, Kamran, that I never actually–”
“...A pity, too, that you have resigned yourself to this temporary fate. Tulan must be outraged to have such a King. A monstrosity, isn’t he? It is only my good nature that restricts me from protecting you from him in the way you deserve.”
Taking a deep breath, Alizeh angles herself away from him. Her fingers flex, and she can almost feel the bouncy, plush texture of bread between her fingers, can almost see the bewildered look on Cyrus’ face as he assured himself, truly, that this was her first time trying bread. She recalls, with bizarre certainty, that Cyrus had only disguised himself because the Tulanians liked him. They appreciated his Kingship, remained loyal to him, despite the brutal rumours about how, exactly, he had claimed his throne.
A part of her doesn’t believe it. Her fluttering heart swears with unfounded intensity that Cyrus cannot be half as bad as he swears to be. That his cruelty is an act, a machination he cannot forswear. Naturally, she has no proof–no proof besides his gentility with her, his tremendous feelings when left unguarded; yet it is rocky proof indeed, when it could be some manipulation by the Devil’s command.
Her foolish heart.
“Tulan is, by all accounts, all the more prosperous under his rule,” Alizeh mumbles, fiddling with her necklace. “Despite the controversy circulating about his character, I am led to believe this is my best option. Cyrus offers me all the power that I need, and his only condition–”
Alizeh halts, eyes closing. All the adrenaline she possesses in her stands against Cyrus might have justified the deal then, but depleted she finds herself completely incapable. Kill him? Glancing down at her hands, she almost shakes her head at the absurdity. Hands used to stitch, to defend her heart, to aid those that need it. Hands smooth of the wear of conflict; hands not designed to willfully, deliberately take a life.
“Whilst I admire your compassion, he is completely undeserving,” Kamran counters, his hands sweeping into view to grasp hers. Surprised, she relinquishes the contact with too much force, expression lined with frustration.
“Perhaps you should learn to show some compassion! You arrive here, skeptical of my compassion, and immediately attack and antagonise a man you do not know! Rumours, messages, gossip from an Empire you have never even visited! The temerity is astounding,” she snaps, and at the end of it is slightly breathless. Icy eyes frigid with agitation, it takes her a moment to register her own impudence.
Kamran, before her, looks like a quick-tempered child who has just been denied something. His eyes are narrowed, aflame; his hands are curled into tight, trembling fists.
“I…I’m sorry, Kamran, you must know I–”
He turns without another word, striding down the corridor. Alizeh, absentmindedly, takes note of her body–her shoulders, tense and shuddering, and her eyes, aching in their sockets. She knows, distinctly, this feeling. So, hands scrunching in the fabric of her dress, she struggles blindly down the hallways, following the absence of noise.
It was a foolish choice to make, made even more witless by the unravelling grasp on her emotions. This corridor is somehow even more unfamiliar, and so opulent it might have, at a better time, provoked her curiosity. Knuckles dragging over the sheen of her eyes, Alizeh slows to a stop. Her body seems, against all reason, to be shutting down.
Dragging herself over to a window, she situates herself on its ledge, knees drawn up to her chest. Her mind is, even in the aftermath of its outburst, loud; it screeches at her, chides her audacity, promises to fulfill all her deepest insecurities.
She is not someone who breaks. At the least, she is not someone who expels her distress on someone else. Even if, perhaps, that someone was deserving of the admonishment. Kamran had spent all his days in Tulan expressing his dislike for Cyrus; had, in fact, managed to rope it into every conversation. And nobody ever stopped him, ever had the decency to wonder whether such negativity was even warranted. Alizeh had never, before, found the courage to urge him to stop, especially because she had no viable reason to defend Cyrus.
It is with this crushing conflictedness that she dips her head, inhaling sharply as tears chill the flushed curve of her cheeks. All this pressure is unfair, considerably more so when paired with everyone’s heavy expectations that she should be flawless. Oh, even to her closest companions she must be a paragon of goodness. It is only now, in the luxury of isolation, that she allows herself to, somewhat, shed this illusion.
Biting down on her knuckles to best suppress a sob, Alizeh attunes herself to the wary pattern of approaching footsteps. Blinking repeatedly to clear the emotion from her tear ducts, she straightens, glancing around to sight whomever has witnessed her humiliating loss of composure.
No. But yes–there is his artfully dishevelled copper hair, and his sombre clothing. Anyone else might have been better. She has barely seen him in days, and has theorised that he must be avoiding her. The anguish over his condition has also been driving her insane; she had tried to see him not long ago, to provide the salve of her presence, and he had all but commanded her to leave.
Alizeh assesses him now, and sees that she was a remarkable halfwit to have ever departed him. His face is of an unhealthy pallor, and there is a look in his eyes that seems both aged and freshly haunted. His shoulders are hunched, one foot almost extended towards her, as if his body is straining towards the relief of her company.
She sees, too, the way he studies her. He does not look at her often, and she is appalled now by the blanket of his attention, settling warmly over her like a second skin. “Are you… are you alright?” His voice seems hoarse and untested.
Immediately, her melancholy is shadowed by her concern. “Perfectly fine,” she mumbles, “but you… I should have stayed with you. And we will have to postpone the wedding again, you are–”
“No. Are you alright?”
“You just asked me that. Cyrus, this is… I’m so sorry. I should never have agreed–”
“Are you alright?”
Alizeh almost groans, sliding to her feet and approaching him. Delusion almost grants her permission to touch him, but she doesn’t trust herself with such freedom. “I am. I just needed a moment to myself,” she breathes, which is as much of the truth as she is willing to give him.
He still looks crushed by the admission.
“And what about you?”
“I’m fine. The Blood Oath should not trouble–”
“Do not pry a confession from me and then lie blatantly to my face!” She huffs, her patience still so fragile.
For a moment, he looks almost awestruck by her insolence. Then, he only offers: “You have been busy. I did not see any good reason to pull you from your duties.”
“Any good reason? None at all? I have a hard time believing that. Let me suggest one–I believe that you, in agony, is a more than excellent reason for me to avoid my mountain of responsibilities. How do you feel now?”
Blinking owlishly at her reprimand, he merely responds with, “better,” and immediately returns to anxiously studying her expression. “What can I do for you?”
Alizeh shakes her head dismissively. “I just told you I’m fine.” After a moment, and perhaps weakened by the expressive glint in his eyes, she admits, “It’s only… I overestimated myself, a little. And made a mistake as a result.”
His silence implores her to continue. Casting her gaze towards the window, and the warmth that pours through, she can do nothing but. “I thought that all the wedding plans would keep my mind occupied. It only seems to make all the stress louder–more invasive. Even at night, I feel that the silence is wrong, that its compressing me, so now I’m barely finding any time to relax–”
Chest heaving with a charged breath, she drags the pads of her fingers over her mouth, tugging at the plush outline. “It all built up, and then it’s as if I detonated. Kamran was–well, he was the same as always, so it hardly required much…” she trails off, awkward now under the force of Cyrus’ gaze. At the mention of Kamran, his posture has changed–tense and defensive, poised like a predator.
“Well, then, I don’t see how it could be your fault. He’s deserving enough to be humbled anyday.” Next, his voice softening: “It’s no cause to insult yourself. Anyone would crumble under such pressure. I should have been paying attention to you.”
Confusion flits across Alizeh’s features; his tenderness is a far cry from how he has presented himself recently. God, he has spent the last few days convincing her that her presence is some sort of plague! Dropping her head into her hands, she mumbles, “You don’t have to do anything. Look at you, Cyrus!” Hands stretching wide, her expression softens remarkably as she studies his haggard frame. “It seems we are both in need of some help.”
He’s dismissive of his own health, tilting his head down as if the weight of her gaze is too much to confidently bear. His lips part, as though to speak, but then he reconsiders.
Finally: “The servants know to leave me be. We could… walk. The Gardens will be mostly empty.”
He truly makes no sense. Alizeh glances around: maybe the corridor is so strange to her because it is a figment of her imagination? This moment certainly seems devised of her heart, especially when she notices, again, the sweet reverence that reflects from his eyes. Conceivably, Alizeh has been working herself so hard that she has become a victim of delirium.
Cyrus dares to take a step closer, which seems all the more bizarre. The proximity seems to invigorate him, seems to expose to her, with dreamlike clarity, the charming set of his features. The sun, creeping through the window, settles lazily on his face, weaving through lashes to dance off his eyes like stained glass. It glides down like a teardrop to pronounce the sheen of his mouth. She cannot help but watch, enveloped in the loveliest trance, as those lips form an exhalation of her name. Nobody, truly nobody, can say her name as longingly as he does, as if it is a treasure to behold.
“Are you alright?” she thinks he might have said, and there is a dizzying moment where she registers his hand, mid-flight, fingers stretching like unfurled wings to touch her.
Stepping back hastily, reverie ruptured by the awkward laugh that chimes from her, she says, “A walk… uh, yes, that’s a splendid idea.” It’s his turn to appear perplexed.
Perhaps enchanting was a better word. The gardens are as lush as any real cluster of nature; flowers of a thousand colours, and trees that strain upwards for the sunlight, like youth grasping for the arms of their mother. Alizeh is transfixed, spinning around slowly. Truthfully, she’s barely taken in any of Tulan since the day Cyrus took her on a tour of the city. Even the palace possesses an enormity she is too distracted to appreciate. This is exactly the kind of place she could escape to, the greenery a dense, flourishing shield against the woes of everyday life.
Cyrus is quiet beside her, likely not so wonderstruck by a place he must see so often. Fingers teasing the velvet-like petals of a grandiose flower, Alizeh inhales the cloying breeze, consoled by how otherworldly it seems.
“Thank you,” she murmurs, turning back to face him. He seems unprepared for her attention, swallowing as he arranges his expression. Alizeh smiles at the sight, and he looks, just for a second, flustered.
He shrugs. “It’s only a garden. But it’s yours–I mean, you can come here anytime, and nobody will bother you.”
“Only a garden,” she echoes him dryly, amused. “Now that you’ve helped me… what can I do for you?”
The question catches him off guard. He strolls ahead, hands in his pockets, face tipped towards the sun. His elegance is frustrating–why should any man be so effortlessly handsome? “Your company is all I want, Alizeh.”
She sputters, racing ahead to circle in front of him, brows furrowed. “No! That is–completely unfair. You cannot practically gift me a private garden and then–no. Ask for something better.”
Anguish tears at his features before he blurts, “there is nothing better than you.”
Silence settles between them like a string, tugging insistently, a suffocating cord around their hearts. She thinks that the blood rushing through her veins could be hers or his, equally unsettled, equally desperate.
“You–” she starts, and then stops, groaning. Hands sinking into her hair, she turns away, body thrumming with energy. “You cannot say that.”
“Why?” he asks, and she feels his approach, feels that cord between them, growing tighter and tighter. Exquisitely unbearable. “It is the truth, Alizeh. Even without this blood oath–your company is enthralling. I animate in your presence, I come alive.”
“Stop it,” she breathes. “You are infuriating. I have spent the past few days tortured by your torture, agonised by the truth that I am its cause. I saw how much you endure, how Iblees punishes you to ensure your loyalty, and I did the same thing! And I thought that, though it hurt us both, you were more than right to send me away, because I was vile to ever agree to this damned thing–”
“Alizeh, stop punishing yourself,” he begs, and it is then that she feels the featherlight warmth of his hand, shy on her arm, turning her to face him. Briefly, all he does is stare, his gaze bewitched by the incensed brightness of her face. His hand trails down then, slow as if he’s desperate to remember every inch of her–no, as if he already does, and she knows that he does–to grasp hers. He guides it to settle against his cheek, and at the contact he releases a contented sigh. “Do you see? Your touch does not burn me, it does not bring me to the brink of death. You are my salvation.”
She is breathless. Distinctly aware of the warmth of his skin, the way he seems to glow, like her touch is sunlight. Flexing her fingers, she molds her palm to the curve of his cheek, feels the silk of his hair. “I am terrified of your power,” he whispers, coming closer. “You are so human and yet so evidently divine. I cannot believe myself worthy of your attention.”
Gaze searching his expression, she lifts her other hand, arching her fingers to the cliff-edge of his jaw. “Cyrus,” she almost mouths his name, afraid that the slightest misstep could fracture this moment. His hand slips down to her wrist; thumb catching the tousled flutter of her heart, he seems astonished by the impact he has on her. “You have lain down your life for me. Sworn to me all your power. How could you not be worthy? How could I not be captivated by you?”
She pushes closer, one hand sinking to his shoulder, curling around it. “You deserve so much more than all I can offer you,” she assures him, forehead pressed to his, breath entwined.
He shakes his head. She feels his hand falter, his breath stutter, his shoulder tense. It is disbelief that tears him from her–so she grasps him tightly, coaxes him to experience the tangibility of her veneration. “At least let me try to repay this debt,” Alizeh mumbles, thumb brushing along the curve of his cheek as she tilts her head, sealing the promise against his lips.
And, as he said, he animates. He takes a deep, hungry breath, as though trying to seal away all her affection, save it for himself. His free hand reaches clumsily for her hip, draws her against him. The world itself takes a shuddering gasp, and the breeze of it whorls between them, defeated by the radiated, tangled heat gathered there.
Maybe this is what alone means, Alizeh muses as he bites down, ever so gently, on her bottom lip: being so connected with a person that even the space between you is potent with tension, an adversary that even the world will not interfere with; containing a hypnotising kind of devotion, the kind that does not allow for any panic, nor any stress. She has finally achieved peace, found in the gasping breaths between their kisses, saved between her body and his palm, caught between the spiralling threads that bind them.