Why couldn't he forget her? Just forget her? He tossed restlessly on his cot, the blanket twisting around his athletic figure. Reflexively, he put out a hand onto the trunk next to the bed that served as a bedside table. Yet the dagger would not be there, he knew that too well. His hand instead fell to the hilt of the sword that rested against the trunk, ready and waiting to be used. With a sigh, the prince turned on his side, towards the tent wall.
There were times when he wondered if it had all been a dream; the sands, the hourglass, the dagger…the girl. Had they really existed, or had he been dreaming, or worse, hallucinating? Farah still haunted him, and yet the memories he had, those things had never happened. No one believed his story, much less the daughter of the maharajah. Much less the girl he loved.
So, he remained, haunted.
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Farah herself hadn't believed him…until he had said the "magic word": kakolukia. Now she wished she had believed him, had trusted him, had done something about it. Farah wondered, with all her heart, what had become of that Persian soldier. According to his story, they had been…close. Perhaps more than close? Now she would never know. He had left, along with his army, and her kingdom had remained at peace. Each day filled with serenity that, if his story had been true, would never have happened if the Vizier had lived.
It felt like an empty peace.
She dreamt about him. His face, his eyes, his voice: she saw him, heard him say "kakolukia" so many times that it was ingrained on her memory.
In short, she was haunted by the memory of him, and the possibility of what could have been.
She always awoke to an empty room.