A/N: Yes, I know. It's literally been years since I worked on this story. Four days (nights?) straight of insomnia, however, can do things to you. In my case, make me open up an old story and be struck with inspiration. Woohoo! Chapter six has been removed and re-posted with an additional scene at the end. Please read and review... if you even remember me!

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It was time.

When Salahhuddin gave an almost imperceptible nod to his daughter, the princess knew that now was the moment that would decide her future. Looking upon her face, Mullah Khaled would be given the choice of whether to accept her as his bride... or not.

She sat up straight, stiffening her spine and taking in a deep breath, turning slightly so that she faced the mullah straight on.

Her hands trembled as she slowly touched her veil, fingers fumbling as she undid the intricate gold clasp. Then, her heart thudding, she let her fingers, and her veil, fall away from her face.

Khaled's breath caught in his throat as he gazed upon the unveiled face of his bride-to-be. She was... there was no other word for it, except *beautiful*.

She looked like a true Arabian princess, daughter of the desert, some distant descendant of Cleopatra. Her skin, the deep honey golden-bronze of sand dunes at sunset. Dark eyes were lined with kohl, and long lashes swept against her skin as she lowered her eyes. Her cheekbones were high and prominent, her chin determined, her mouth soft.
With a jolt, he realized that for all the times the time they had spent together in Council, arguing matters of state, he had never looked farther than the flashing eyes and sharp tongue that frustrated and irritated him.
And now, he wondered if he could ever think of the princess the same way again. No longer a stubborn, foolish girl who dared to break tradition and involve herself in affairs that were not her concern, but a beautiful young woman who had effectively rendered him speechless - something which, as all those who knew him would testify, was truly an amazing feat.

In answer to the unspoken question in Salahhuddin's gaze, Mullah Khaled nodded.

...

The princess was in her tent, sitting cross-legged on her bed while Maarya, a Coptic girl who was both Zainab's slave and friend, tidied things up and smilingly listened to her recount the day's events.
The princess's eyes sparkled, and she hugged her knees to her chest as she described the look on Khaled's face when she had removed her veil. "He looked... so different in that moment, like I've never seen him before."

She lifted a hand, wonderingly, to her face. She'd never really thought of herself as beautiful, never really given much thought to her looks besides the usual feminine care. She picked up the polished silver mirror that lay next to her on the bed, and examined her reflection. Try as she might, however, she saw nothing new, nothing that could possibly cause the reaction that Khaled had. She wondered what he saw in her that she didn't see.

Later, lying in bed in the darkness, she pictured Khaled in her mind's eye, recalled once more the butterfly kiss of their fingers and the sweet, sweet taste of the fig. She shivered, an inexplicable feeling of delight and anticipation of the coming days stealing over her.

"So, how did it go?" Nasser greeted his friend as the Mullah entered the tent.
"She hates me," Khaled said glumly. Nasser raised an eyebrow. "Really?"
"Of course!" Khaled exclaimed, collapsing onto a pile of cushions and reaching for Nasser's plate of sweets. "You just had to see the expression on her face! After the first glance, she barely looked at me!"

Nasser smiled. "Ah," he said. "You got to look at her unveiled?" He grinned wickedly. "Did you like what you saw?"
Khaled flushed and averted his eyes. Nasser's grin grew wider. "I take that as a yes."
The Mullah suddenly seemed to find the arrangement of honey-dipped figs fascinating. "Come now, tell me!" Nasser needled his companion.
"She is... tall," Khaled mumbled. Nasser punched him in the arm.
"We know that already," he reminded Khaled. "We see her at the Council, remember?"
"Honey golden skin, like the sand dunes at sunset. Dark eyes that flash like lightning. Prominent cheekbones and determined chin. A sharp tongue, but a soft mouth." Khaled eyes had stopped concentrating on the plate of sweets and now had a look in them that was suspiciously dreamy.

Nasser stared at him, then burst into laughter. "Glory be to God!" he choked out, slapping his thigh. "The Sultan's daughter has turned our Mullah into a poet!"
"You know," he said, clapping the mortified Khaled on the back, "I think you'll do just fine with her. Just fine!"
He fell over laughing again at the look on his friend's face, then, calming down, said, "I might be able to help you."
Khaled glared at Nasser suspiciously. "How?" he demanded.
Nasser resisted the urge to giggle and said, "Oh, you know... soften her attitude a little. By the time you're married she might be able to look at you without feeling the need to whack you on the head with a pot." He winced and rubbed his own head - obviously, he'd had some experience in that field.
"And how would YOU know about that?" the Mullah asked, raising his eyebrows. "I'm married," Nasser reminded him. "With two wives."
Khaled sighed. "Fine. Tell me how I can make her stop looking at me as though I were a scorpion she'd love to grind under her heel." He reached for a cup of qahwa, the aroma of the strong Arabian coffee soothing his frazzled nerves somewhat.
Nasser grinned. "It is called... the Fine Art of Wooing Women."

Khaled choked and Nasser got a faceful of spit and scalding qahwa.