Well, this chapter is different from the previous ones... it's got a different type of mood altogether. But I like it. Tell me if you like it, too!
Zainab sat stiffly, her hands gripping each other tightly. She was seated on a rich Persian rug, spread over the golden sand, and scattered with beautifully embroidered cushions. Female servants bustled around her, bringing trays of sweets, steaming silver pitchers of qahwa and shai, bowls of icy water, and goblets of cold fruit juices from the pavilion where food was prepared.
Today was the day that she and Mullah Khaled were to 'meet' each other - a formal tradition in which the bride- and groom-to-be came face-to-face with each other for the first time. The woman would be unveiled, for now that they were engaged, the man was allowed to look upon his future bride's face.
At the moment, the princess kept her veil, determined not to reveal herself until she absolutely had to. The mullah had not yet arrived; apparently he was busy elsewhere. Busy trying to escape this insane arrangement, Zainab thought dourly, and wished that she could just get up and walk away, leaving this madness behind her.
She wondered what Mullah Khaled thought of the proposed marriage. Since the Sultan had informed them both of the arrangement, there had been no council meetings, and they had not been in each others' presence. Which meant, the princess thought dryly, that today's meeting would very interesting indeed.
She lifted her gaze to scan the scene before her. Mullah Khaled did not appear. Unconciously, Zainab r elaxed a little. She still could not imagine what possessed her father to arrange the marriage between herself and the mullah. Oh, there were some political advantages, but on a personal level, did Salahhuddin think that such a marriage could really work? Zainab certainly didn't think so. She'd known the mullah long enough.
A thought occurred to Zainab that made her frown. Did she really know Khaled? The only time they were ever together was during council meetings, where they clashed on almost every subject. Despite the similarity of their personalities - both were passionate and stubborn - the opinions they held were drastically different. Particularly on the subject of women's involvements in politics. Nevertheless, that was the only situation they were together in. She couldn't remember a single time that they'd met or talked - or rather, argued - in a place other than her father's council room. She was a woman, and a princess; he was a man, and a mullah. They kept to their own sides of camp, went about their own duties - which did not require the other's presence.
Suddenly, an image flashed before her mind's eye. Not so much an image, as a sudden rush of emotion, a medley of scent and sight and feeling. A small girl-child. A dark, solemn boy, older by some years. A fig - soft, deliciously sweet, a bite taken out of it, revealing a luscious purple-red interior. A smile, so sudden it's just a flash. A... kiss?
She closed her eyes, concentrated, brow furrowed. The flashes stopped, images fading... and then reappeared, this time as a whole rather than broken fragments. She viewed the mental scene through the eyes of the girl-child... small, perhaps only four or five years old. Small, but mischievous, and recently having escaped from the repressive clutches of her nurse.
There was a boy, and a horse. A big boy, a considerably larger horse. Both dark in colour but while the horse's eyes were serene and tranquil, the boy was solemn, looking down at the girl-child unsmilingly.
She toddled up to him, gazed up at him with big brown eyes. His gaze flicked away from her, searching for something, or someone, behind her. Absently, he put a hand into his pocket, withdrew a fig, lifted it to his mouth. About to take a bite, something stopped him. He looked back at the girl-child. Her eyes had widened, chubby face full of childish longing. She took a step forward, eyes trained on the soft fruit he held in his hand. He looked at the fruit, then again at the girl, uncertainly. The little girl looked hopeful, lifted her eyes from the fruit to the boy's face, and silently begged him for it using every ounce of childish charm she could muster. She knew from experience that no one could resist the Look - not even the boy. Sure enough, he knelt down before her, awkwardly offering her the fig. Triumphantly, she snatched it out of his hand and bit into it, tiny teeth tearing through the skin and sinking into the juicy crimson flesh. Her mouth filled with the succulent fruit, she gave a little sigh of happiness - and then noticed that the boy was still crouching in front of her, now watching her eat his gift almost regretfully. She paused, then, still clutching the half-eaten fig, toddled forward and threw her small chubby arms around him, bestowing a sweet, sticky kiss onto his cheek. Startled, he jerked back and she almost fell over, but he recovered quickly and steadied her. For a moment he looked bewildered, and then broke into a smile that lit up his face and warmed his eyes.
"Khaled."
The name came suddenly, unbidden, and Zainab's eyes flew open in shock, only to find herself staring into those same dark eyes.
Khaled's.