A/N: This chapter has been improved from reviews. Also, the dates have been changed to take Indian climate into consideration.

Halim is an Indian name which means kind, and Pitar means father.

Life

Gradually he vanished from my dreams, leaving quietly, but more quickly than I expected. I knew I could not hold on to phantoms and fantasies forever, nor could I chase wisps that come in the night, leaving naught but confused mists in their wake. I stopped wondering, stopped pondering a story too impossible to believe. After only two months, I realized I no longer thought of him. Real life settled easily back into place. I was the Maharajah's daughter; I had duties and responsibilities that left no room for fickleness of heart.

My father and mother expected me to marry soon, and would choose a suitor for me before my twentieth birthday. They allowed me a great luxury in this respect: if I expressed interest in a suitable man before that time, they would consider allowing me to marry him. I, as their only child, would carry on the royal bloodline. I had been preparing for it all my life, and now the time had come. Two months after the Persian ghost appeared on my balcony one misty September night, my nineteenth birthday arrived.

Suitors formed queues to try to win my hand—wealthy, influential men who had fought for the opportunity to enter the Maharajah's palace, whose parents had raised them and instructed them in the ways of charm and magnetism since they were small. On one occasion, they waited in an orderly row for my individual inspection, like melons being chosen at a market. Something about this vaguely unsettled me; the way they stood straight and stiff—fat or crumbling pillars—as I perused them at will, maintaining my crisp royal dignity and not revealing emotion. Cold... it was all so cold, impersonal. Marriage and love seemed to me strangers that had given each other a passing glance, and then continued walking.

I grew to dislike these husband-choosing assemblies. After each fruitless session, I would return to my parents and discreetly shake my head. None was suitable. None was for me.

One day, a man from the golden city of Jaisalmer arrived at the palace. I was summoned down to meet him; and so I came, looking beautiful, as always. They took tremendous care to ensure that I was attractive, ripe and succulent as a prepared dish, lest any man not desire me.

I raised my eyes demurely to the stranger's face, finding it warm with kindness. He was older than I, perhaps thirty or forty years of age, and he seemed to exude gentleness in low, constant waves; pacifying violence, soothing doubts, quelling turbulent thoughts, so that one could not help but feel at ease in his presence.

We made our formal introductions: Halim Pitar was a man of some influence in Jaisalmer, where he had lived contentedly, if somewhat blandly, all his life. He was not exceedingly wealthy, and he did not favour an extravagant lifestyle, but he held a quiet, stable position of respect in the amber-gold city since an elder cousin of his had gained the favour of my father. He had chosen not to wed, preferring peace and solitude to passion. My father inquired as to his change of heart, and Halim replied, as expected, that my beauty and grace and all number of other virtues had awoken a fire deep within him, or perhaps drawn him as irresistibly as a moth to a flame... I had stopped listening, for I knew what I must do. I would marry this gentle stranger—I would not be unhappy living beside him every day. He could grow to love me; he would bring me contentment.

My mother caught my wandering eye. I nodded, not smiling. Yes—he.

My parents approved of the arrangement. The wedding date was set for next November, the month of my twentieth birthday. In the meantime, Halim was invited to stay at the palace, to become better acquainted with us. With me. He was hesitant to leave his home, but was easily persuaded to remain in the palace, where we would be living after our marriage anyway. He promised to take me to Jaisalmer before the ceremony, to study its warm, dreamlike yellow hues, to watch the sky catch fire at sunset and the embers slowly die to black. I had been there once as a child, and did indeed wish to return to the city of flaming gold. I had skipped along the yellow sand and stone, straining to see the clouds ripped violently apart so far above me. Now, I could look upon the gilded rooftops with a woman's hot, keen eyes, and feel my heart swell and glow with the city.

I soon realized I liked Halim very much. At first, I felt only a blank, numb feeling of resignation, having fulfilled my duty to my country and chosen a husband. This slowly grew into a kind of mellow satisfaction as I realized I had made a wise choice. Halim was a most agreeable fellow; he was never cross with me, and doted on me as a father does his beloved daughter. Though never one for lavish displays, one of his greatest pleasures was giving me beautiful gifts, especially silk and imported treasures. One day he returned to the palace after an absence of several weeks with what seemed a small caravan of goods. "I have just come from a visit to Persia," he told me. "The cities are peaceful now, and I am well-respected there." His modest manner allowed any mild boasting to evade conscious detection. Moreover, it was hardly an exaggeration—Halim was respected for his kindness and generosity nearly everywhere he travelled. Including, it now seemed, the land of our enemies.

It could not be mere coincidence—ever since the mysterious Persian had visited me, speaking of a war which had never happened, my country began to view his as less and less of a threat. And now, barely five months after the event, the two great lands seemed almost on amicable terms. Was Persia's youngest prince responsible for this? I wondered if I would ever know.

Shortly after Halim's return, my father made a startling announcement to the members of his house. He believed it would be in our country's best interest to form a friendly alliance with mighty Persia, and was prepared to take bold steps in that direction. He had decided to invite the Persian nobles to visit our own palace as a gesture of good will, and they had graciously accepted. King Sharaman, his wife, and his sons and daughter would be staying here in the heart of India for a fortnight while the two leaders discussed diplomatic issues.

This news surprised all of us, but we were quick to agree that it was a courageously grand gesture, and a wise endeavour. Halim congratulated the Maharajah on his political cunning.

It was several hours before I realized precisely who would be visiting my home. In the six months since he had disappeared, I had thought of the Prince only a few times, fleetingly, never letting my mind dwell on him for more than a few moments. He had gone, and I had assumed I would not see him again. Now, it would be impossible for me to avoid him.

I had told no one the truth of the night he came to me. To explain the Vizier's death, I told people that he had suffered a terrible paroxysm close by my chambers and I had led him out onto my balcony, hoping the fresh air would revive him, but he had collapsed and fallen on a sharp edge. My story was believed without question. I had no reason to remember that night. Common sense urged me to forget it all. I was happy—I did not need him, he was not important. He had left me. Surely, he would never think of me again. I ought to dismiss the incident as peculiar, but insignificant.

Yet somehow, faced with the prospect of seeing him again, I found I could not.

I pushed past my misgivings, and tentatively allowed my mind to roam free. Just as I had secretly feared all this time, I found that it came to rest on him. Unprepared, I nearly lost my balance as a wave of mixed emotions rushed at me. Wonder—regret—sorrow—deep loss. I had known him for only a few hours! How could he have affected me so?

Though I revealed my feelings to no one, my anxiety grew greater with each day, so that I could not even tell whether I feared his arrival, or longed for him to come.