Baba…baba…baba...

The wind is whistling today. Half-lidded eyes flicker back and forth, tracing the slithers of dust in its path. Straw hat in hand, legs folded in a meditative pose, a young man begins to hum.

Baba, baba

Precious one

Golden field, little sun

The sound is broken and ancient on his tongue, as familiar as the white-capped mountain peaks she scratches out in the sand outside their tent.

Alibaba flicks off an approaching millipede, aiming straight for the mound of sulfurous ants in the corner. He misses, and the bothersome insects are deprived of a midday feast. The creature lands on its too many feet, uncurls itself, and patters away like the stubborn little thing it is.

His stomach growls. Serves him right for skipping lunch. Again.

Time to head inside and make tea. For his wife.


She's the only girl within a hundred miles of desert who owns a hanfu. Twelve of them, to be exact.

She used to have more. Many, many more.

Kougyoku stands before a sun-bleached hut, slanted almond eyes expressing less disdain than she should have felt. This is home now. Their home.

It's not a palace.

A kettle whistles, stuffing the air with memories of bronze autumns and dragons and swordplay and vermillion orbs and crimson hair. It's time for tea with her – she swallows thickly – husband.

What a sweltering afternoon.


"Baba."

"What?"

"Someone called me that when I was younger."

"I see."

Way to go, Alibaba. You just had to degrade yourself even more in her eyes. As if you even had any reputation to begin with.

Hot-cheeked (whether from embarrassment or because he's not accustomed to the outrageous temperature of the cup in his hands – in his opinion, food should be steaming; leaf juice should not) and desperate to save face, he clams his mouth shut, only opening it to sip down what's left of his drink. It burns his tongue with every gulp, but Kougyoku wants a tea session, and after all he's put her through by this horrible arranged marriage deal, he can't find it in himself to deny her that simple request.

"Baba, eh." His companion – his bride of two weeks – the youngest Kou princess – Kougyoku absently clasps her hands together over her chest. It's one of those curious little habits he's begun to notice, and hopes to understand one day.

"Yeah. Silly nickname, isn't it?" He laughs, awkward and more than a bit self-conscious (he supposes it's natural, since the person before him is a stranger, but a nagging voice reminds him that he's rarely ever this nervous around strangers and he hasn't a clue what's different this time) because the tension in the air stifles him when it should not.

"It is," she says, surprising him with a warm, warm smile. "It certainly is."

He takes another gulp. By now the heat has cooled enough for Alibaba's poor, suffering tongue. His normally active mouth has nothing more to say at this point, and Kougyoku seems content with the silence. He watches his fingers curled around his cup. They're dirty. Unlike hers.

"Do you miss him?" It takes a while to realize she's actually asking him a question this time. More often than not, it's up to him to initiate conversation, and all he ever gets for his efforts are several clipped replies and one never-ending glare. But her eyes are kind now, and somewhat…nostalgic?

"Who?"

"That person who called you 'Baba' – do you miss him?" she repeats, and he notes the continued absence of that hard edge to her tone.

He thinks of knotted locks and burning cities and that voice he desperately longs to forget.

"Yes," he concedes, and it feels strange to say that aloud, and stranger still, the hurt fades out almost as soon as it pricks, replaced by some odd sense of relief. Maybe it's the tea.

"Me too," she says, setting down her porcelain mug with all the grace of a princess, if not for the muffled 'stupid, crazy magi' in a voice too feminine to be his own.

The image of a boy in a thunderstorm flashes in his mind and he shivers. She misses that guy? That maniac? That puppet of Al-Thamen? That-

It all comes rushing in, all those questions he wants to ask, all those pieces of information that may prove useful in the future. Her connection to that shady organization, her place in Kou's grand scheme of world conquest, the powers of her metal vessel - who she even is, for aside from a few diplomatic facts, the person before him is a stranger.

But that can wait for later.

"The tea is good," she tells him. He nods, finishes his last drop and places his cup next to hers.

They're both empty.