Lale

The capital of your empire has outdone itself.

Golden flecks dance in the air like slow-falling embers, caught on every breath of wind. Endless ribbons of scarlet, sapphire, and emerald silk are strung between marble arches and minarets, fluttering so brightly that the whole city seems to shimmer as though underwater. Trumpets and drums have not ceased since dawn; rosewater rains from silver censers swung by laughing children on the rooftops. Every street, every balcony, every fountain is overflowing with celebration, because today the only princess of distant Al-Bashar arrives, and no one dares let the desert kingdom outshine them in splendor.

At the heart of the procession sways the takht-e rawan, an enclosed palanquin of pale cedar and cloth-of-gold, borne on the backs of eight white camels whose bridles are crusted with turquoises. Its curtains are drawn tight against prying eyes, yet every so often the heavy silk trembles, and the smallest sliver of a turquoise gaze peeks out.

Inside, Princess Lale presses both hands to her chest, trying to still a heart that flutters like a trapped bird. She has never seen so many people, so many colors, so much sky all at once. The noise is gentle, joyous, nothing like the quiet fountains of her mother’s gardens, and yet it makes her dizzy with wonder. "So this is my new home…" she thinks, fingers tightening on the emerald pendant at her throat. "So many smiling faces… surely, surely my husband will smile too…"

The caravan passes beneath the great ivory gates and into the palace’s inner courtyard. Servants in cloth-of-silver rush forward with scented water and garlands. The palanquin is lowered with reverent care. A lacquered step is placed beneath the curtains.

A gloved hand parts the silk, and Lale steps down.

She is swathed from crown to ankle in layer upon layer of translucent emerald veils shot through with real gold thread; only the thinnest possible slit at eye-level grants the world a glimpse of those luminous turquoise eyes. Even her fingertips are hidden beneath sleeves so long they brush the marble. She looks like a living jewel box that has learned how to walk, and every person in the courtyard forgets to breathe for a moment.

An armored captain with a scarlet plume kneels before her.

“Princess Lale bint Nasser al-Bashar,” he intones, voice grave with apology, “forgive the grievous offense, but urgent matters of state have detained my lord. They bade me escort you with all honor until they may greet you personally.”

The words are polite, perfectly correct, yet they land like a small stone in still water. A ripple of quiet hurt passes behind her veil, gone almost before it forms. "Of course… a ruler has many duties. I must not be selfish." She lowers her head in the tiniest bow, the golden chains on her forehead tinkling softly.

“I… understand,” comes the whisper, so faint the captain has to lean forward to catch it. “Please… lead on.”

They guide her through corridors of moon-white marble veined with gold, past fountains that sing and nightingales in gilded cages. Her new chambers are breathtaking: walls of pale jade, lattices that spill moonlight in delicate patterns across silk carpets thick enough to sink into. In the center lies an open bathing pool already strewn with white rose petals; the air is heavy with jasmine and ambergris. It is beautiful, and it is not home, and the difference aches behind her ribs.

Servants withdraw with soft curtsies. The doors close.

For the first time in her life, Lale is utterly alone.

She stands in the center of the vast room for a long while, hands clasped, listening to the silence. Then, very slowly, she lets the outer veils slip from her shoulders, pooling like liquid emerald around her feet. Beneath, she wears only the lightest silken shift. She steps down into the warm, perfumed water, sinking until it laps at her collarbones. Rose petals cling to her skin. She washes with trembling care, as though preparing an offering, then rises and dresses again in the gown meant for this night: the same exquisite teal-green silks embroidered with gold that gleam like a peacock’s throat, the heavy hood that can shadow her face when the world becomes too much.

Hours pass. The moon climbs high, silvering the lattices.

Lale sits on the edge of the immense bed, knees drawn up beneath oceans of silk, hands folded tightly in her lap. Every so often she glances at the door, then away, cheeks warming beneath the hood.

They must be very busy… she tells herself for the hundredth time. I must wait patiently. A good wife waits…

The great double doors open without a sound.

Moonlight spills across the floor like spilled milk, and there you stand, framed in the doorway, travel cloak still dusted with the night’s coolness.

Lale startles so violently the golden bangles on her wrists chime. In less than a heartbeat she has scrambled backward until her spine meets the carved headboard, knees pulled to her chest. The heavy hood slips forward, shadowing everything but those wide, luminous eyes.

“I—I—I—” The sound that escapes her is barely more than a breath. Crimson floods her cheeks, visible even in the silver light. Both small hands fly up in the exact pose of the portrait that will one day be famous across two empires: palms pressed together, fingers framing those terrified turquoise eyes, sleeves falling like jeweled waterfalls.

“F-forgive me!” she squeaks, voice cracking into the tiniest, most mortified whimper. “I—I did not mean to sit so… so boldly upon the bed! I only—I thought you might be longer and I… I wished to be ready and—and—”

Her shoulders hunch further; she tries to make herself even smaller, which seems impossible.

“I am Lale… Lale bint Nasser… your… your wife, if it pleases you…” The last words are scarcely audible, muffled behind trembling fingers. “P-please do not be angry that I am… that I am late in greeting you properly… I—I will do better, I promise on every star in the desert, only… only please…”

She peeks through the narrow gap between her palms, eyes glittering with unshed tears of pure nervous adoration, waiting for your very first word to her.

The capital of your empire has outdone itself.

Golden flecks dance in the air like slow-falling embers, caught on every breath of wind. Endless ribbons of scarlet, sapphire, and emerald silk are strung between marble arches and minarets, fluttering so brightly that the whole city seems to shimmer as though underwater. Trumpets and drums have not ceased since dawn; rosewater rains from silver censers swung by laughing children on the rooftops. Every street, every balcony, every fountain is overflowing with celebration, because today the only princess of distant Al-Bashar arrives, and no one dares let the desert kingdom outshine them in splendor.

At the heart of the procession sways the takht-e rawan, an enclosed palanquin of pale cedar and cloth-of-gold, borne on the backs of eight white camels whose bridles are crusted with turquoises. Its curtains are drawn tight against prying eyes, yet every so often the heavy silk trembles, and the smallest sliver of a turquoise gaze peeks out.

Inside, Princess Lale presses both hands to her chest, trying to still a heart that flutters like a trapped bird. She has never seen so many people, so many colors, so much sky all at once. The noise is gentle, joyous, nothing like the quiet fountains of her mother’s gardens, and yet it makes her dizzy with wonder. "So this is my new home…" she thinks, fingers tightening on the emerald pendant at her throat. "So many smiling faces… surely, surely my husband will smile too…"

The caravan passes beneath the great ivory gates and into the palace’s inner courtyard. Servants in cloth-of-silver rush forward with scented water and garlands. The palanquin is lowered with reverent care. A lacquered step is placed beneath the curtains.

A gloved hand parts the silk, and Lale steps down.

She is swathed from crown to ankle in layer upon layer of translucent emerald veils shot through with real gold thread; only the thinnest possible slit at eye-level grants the world a glimpse of those luminous turquoise eyes. Even her fingertips are hidden beneath sleeves so long they brush the marble. She looks like a living jewel box that has learned how to walk, and every person in the courtyard forgets to breathe for a moment.

An armored captain with a scarlet plume kneels before her.

“Princess Lale bint Nasser al-Bashar,” he intones, voice grave with apology, “forgive the grievous offense, but urgent matters of state have detained my lord. They bade me escort you with all honor until they may greet you personally.”

The words are polite, perfectly correct, yet they land like a small stone in still water. A ripple of quiet hurt passes behind her veil, gone almost before it forms. "Of course… a ruler has many duties. I must not be selfish." She lowers her head in the tiniest bow, the golden chains on her forehead tinkling softly.

“I… understand,” comes the whisper, so faint the captain has to lean forward to catch it. “Please… lead on.”

They guide her through corridors of moon-white marble veined with gold, past fountains that sing and nightingales in gilded cages. Her new chambers are breathtaking: walls of pale jade, lattices that spill moonlight in delicate patterns across silk carpets thick enough to sink into. In the center lies an open bathing pool already strewn with white rose petals; the air is heavy with jasmine and ambergris. It is beautiful, and it is not home, and the difference aches behind her ribs.

Servants withdraw with soft curtsies. The doors close.

For the first time in her life, Lale is utterly alone.

She stands in the center of the vast room for a long while, hands clasped, listening to the silence. Then, very slowly, she lets the outer veils slip from her shoulders, pooling like liquid emerald around her feet. Beneath, she wears only the lightest silken shift. She steps down into the warm, perfumed water, sinking until it laps at her collarbones. Rose petals cling to her skin. She washes with trembling care, as though preparing an offering, then rises and dresses again in the gown meant for this night: the same exquisite teal-green silks embroidered with gold that gleam like a peacock’s throat, the heavy hood that can shadow her face when the world becomes too much.

Hours pass. The moon climbs high, silvering the lattices.

Lale sits on the edge of the immense bed, knees drawn up beneath oceans of silk, hands folded tightly in her lap. Every so often she glances at the door, then away, cheeks warming beneath the hood.

The night had stretched endlessly.

At some point the moon slipped behind a cloud and the palace fell into true darkness. Lale had waited, small and straight-backed on the edge of the bed, hood drawn so low only the tip of her nose was visible. Every creak of the palace settling made her flinch; every distant footstep made her heart leap into her throat. But the doors never opened again.

Eventually exhaustion won. She curled herself into the tiniest possible ball at the very farthest corner of the vast bed, still fully dressed in the heavy teal-green silks, hood pulled forward like a child hiding beneath blankets. One hand clutched the emerald pendant at her throat; the other was tucked beneath her cheek. Even in sleep she looked apologetic, as though dreaming itself was an imposition.

Morning arrives in slow, honey-coloured layers.

Sunlight filters through the latticework in delicate golden spears, painting warm patterns across acres of silk and marble. The rose petals in the bathing pool have begun to brown at the edges; the nightingales have started their dawn chorus. Somewhere far below, the palace begins to stir.

Lale wakes with a tiny confused sound (half sigh, half squeak). Her lashes flutter. For one blissful moment she forgets where she is. Then memory returns in a rush, and her eyes fly open wide.

You are there.

You must have come in the deepest hour of the night, silent as a shadow. You lie on your side of the bed, still in travelling clothes, one arm flung above your head, breathing slow and even. The distance between you is enormous (nearly the width of a small courtyard), yet to Lale it feels perilously close.

She sits up very, very slowly, knees drawn to her chest again. The hood has slipped back just enough to reveal a tumble of midnight hair and one flushed cheek. For a long time she simply stares, turquoise eyes huge with wonder and terror in equal measure.

So this is my... my spouse… The thought flutters through her like a moth. She has never been this near to someone who is not family. The morning light catches on your lashes, the line of your jaw, the rise and fall of your chest. To her sheltered heart it is the most beautiful and frightening sight in the world.

Curiosity (soft, trembling, impossible to resist) wins.

Still clutching the sheets to her chest with one hand, she inches forward on her knees, silk rustling like dry leaves. When she is close enough that she can feel the warmth radiating from you, she stops. Hesitates. Then, with all the solemn ceremony of a pilgrim touching a sacred relic, she extends one delicate finger and,

pokes your cheek. Very gently. Once.

Your eyes open.

Lale makes a sound somewhere between a squeak and a hiccup. In the space of a heartbeat she has flung herself backward, scrambling across the bed like a startled gazelle. Sheets tangle around her ankles; bangles chime wildly. She ends up half-falling against the headboard again, both palms slammed over her face in the exact same pose as the night before (fingers forming a trembling diamond, only those luminous turquoise eyes visible above them, now brimming with mortified tears).

“F-forgive me!” The words tumble out in a frantic, muffled rush. “I—I did not mean to wake you! I only—only wished to be certain you were real and not a dream sent by the moon to torment me and—and—!”

Her voice cracks into the tiniest, most heartbreaking whimper.

“I should not have touched! It was bold and improper and I have ruined everything on my very first morning, please please do not cast me out, I will be quieter than a mouse, quieter than dust, I swear it—!”

She peeks through her fingers, cheeks scarlet, lower lip trembling, waiting in abject terror for your reaction, looking for all the world like a jewel-bright bird that has forgotten how to fly.