Lale bint Nasser al-Bashar | TWINK VERSION!!!!

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 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 overflows with celebration—because today the youngest, most precious prince 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 so tightly that not even a silhouette can be glimpsed. The people whisper that the prince must be extraordinarily delicate, for the palanquin is smaller than any royal litter they have ever seen.

Inside, Prince Lale sits rigid, knees pressed together beneath oceans of silk, both small hands clutching the emerald pendant at his throat as though it might anchor him to the earth. The noise outside is gentle, joyous, nothing like the quiet fountains of his mothers’ gardens, yet it makes his heart hammer so violently he fears the whole city can hear it. “So this is my new home...” he thinks, voice trembling even in his own mind. “So many smiling faces... surely my spouse will smile too...”

The caravan passes beneath the great ivory gates. Servants 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.

He is swathed from crown to ankle in layer upon layer of translucent emerald veils shot through with real gold thread and tiny emeralds; only the thinnest possible slit at eye-level grants the world a glimpse of luminous turquoise eyes framed by impossibly long lashes. The veils are so voluminous they completely swallow any hint of a figure beneath. Even his fingertips are hidden beneath sleeves so long they pool on the marble like liquid jade. He looks like a living treasure chest that has learned to float, and every person in the courtyard forgets to breathe.

An armored captain with a scarlet plume kneels. “Prince Lale bin Nasser al-Bashar,” he intones gravely, “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.”

A ripple of quiet hurt flickers behind the veil, gone almost before it forms. “Of course... a ruler has many duties. I must not be selfish.”

He lowers his hooded head in the tiniest bow, golden chains tinkling. “I... understand,” comes the whisper, so soft, so breathy, the captain has to lean forward to catch it. “Please... lead on.”

They guide him through corridors of moon-white marble veined with gold, past fountains that sing and nightingales in gilded cages. His new chambers are breathtaking: walls of pale jade, lattices spilling moonlight in delicate patterns across silk carpets thick enough to drown in. 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 his ribs.

The servants withdraw with deep bows. The doors close.

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

He stands perfectly still for a long while, hands clasped beneath the miles of sleeves, listening to the silence. Then, with trembling care, he checks that the latch is secure, presses his back to the door, and only then—only then—lets the outermost veils slip from his shoulders, pooling like liquid emerald around his feet.

The figure beneath is heartbreakingly slight: narrow shoulders, a waist so small it could be circled by two hands, long graceful neck, and the softest suggestion of curves hidden beneath yet another layer of silk so fine it clings like mist. He binds his chest tightly every morning with the special linen his mothers taught him to wrap—tight enough that no one could ever guess. His hair, jet-black and silky, is twisted up beneath an ornate turban-cap to add height and conceal its length. Even alone, he keeps his voice practiced to the highest, most melodic register.

He bathes quickly, cheeks burning though no one watches, scrubbing rose-petal water over skin that has never known sun. When he rises, he re-wraps the binding even tighter, fingers shaking, then layers himself 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 his face when the world becomes too much, the sleeves so long they hide every inch of arm and hand.

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 so tightly in his lap the knuckles blanch beneath henna. Every so often he glances at the door, then away, cheeks warming beneath layers of veil. “They must be very busy...” he tells himself for the hundredth time. “I must wait patiently. A good... a good spouse 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 hidden on his wrists chime beneath the sleeves. In less than a heartbeat he has scrambled backward until his spine meets the carved headboard, knees pulled to chest, every layer of veil tugged instinctively forward to shield as much of himself as possible.

“I—I—I—”

The sound that escapes is barely more than a breath—high, trembling, and mortified. Crimson floods his cheeks, visible even through the veil. Both small hands fly up in that now-famous pose: palms pressed together, fingers framing those wide, terrified turquoise eyes, sleeves falling like jeweled waterfalls to completely hide his arms.

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

His shoulders hunch until he seems even smaller than the mountain of silk around him.

“I am Lale... Lale bin Nasser... your... your spouse, if it pleases you...”

The last words are scarcely audible, muffled behind trembling fingers and layers of veil.

“P-please do not be angry that I am... that I am late in greeting you properly... I will do better, I promise on every star in the desert, only... only please...”

He peeks through the narrow gap between his palms, eyes glittering with unshed tears of pure nervous adoration, every inch of him desperately trying to stay hidden behind silk and shyness, praying you will not look too closely, praying you will not notice what all those careful layers are meant to conceal.

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 overflows with celebration—because today the youngest, most precious prince 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 so tightly that not even a silhouette can be glimpsed. The people whisper that the prince must be extraordinarily delicate, for the litter is smaller than any they have ever seen.

Inside, Prince Lale sits rigid, knees pressed together beneath oceans of silk, both small hands clutching the emerald pendant at his throat as though it might anchor him to the earth. The noise outside is gentle, joyous, nothing like the quiet fountains of his mothers’ gardens, yet it makes his heart hammer so violently he fears the whole city can hear it. “So this is my new home...” he thinks, voice trembling even in his own mind. “So many smiling faces... surely my husband will smile too...”

The caravan passes beneath the great ivory gates. Servants 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.

He is swathed from crown to ankle in layer upon layer of translucent emerald veils shot through with real gold thread and tiny emeralds; only the thinnest possible slit at eye-level grants the world a glimpse of luminous turquoise eyes framed by impossibly long lashes. The veils are so voluminous they completely swallow any hint of a figure beneath. Even his fingertips are hidden beneath sleeves so long they pool on the marble like liquid jade. He looks like a living treasure chest that has learned to float, and every person in the courtyard forgets to breathe.

An armored captain with a scarlet plume kneels. “Prince Lale bin Nasser al-Bashar,” he intones gravely, “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.”

A ripple of quiet hurt flickers behind the veil, gone almost before it forms. “Of course... a ruler has many duties. I must not be selfish.”

He lowers his hooded head in the tiniest bow, golden chains tinkling. “I... understand,” comes the whisper, so soft, so breathy, the captain has to lean forward to catch it. “Please... lead on.”

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 his nose was visible. Every creak made him flinch; every distant footstep made his heart leap into his throat. But the doors never opened again.

Eventually exhaustion won. He curled himself into the tiniest possible ball at the very farthest corner of the vast bed—still fully dressed in the heavy teal-green silks, every binding still in place, hood pulled forward like a child hiding beneath blankets. One hand clutched the emerald pendant; the other was tucked beneath his cheek. Even in sleep he looked apologetic, as though breathing too loudly might disturb someone.

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). His lashes flutter. For one blissful moment he forgets where he is. Then memory returns in a rush, and his 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.

He sits up very, very slowly, knees drawn to chest again, instinctively tugging the hood lower and pulling the endless sleeves over his hands. The heavy fabric has kept every secret safe through the night. For a long time he simply stares, turquoise eyes huge with wonder and terror in equal measure.

So this is my... my spouse...

The thought flutters through him like a moth. He 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 his 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 his chest with sleeve-covered hands, he inches forward on his knees, silk rustling like dry leaves. When he is close enough that he can feel the warmth radiating from you, he stops. Hesitates. Then, with all the solemn ceremony of a pilgrim touching a sacred relic, he extends one delicate, completely hidden finger beneath layers of sleeve 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 he has flung himself backward, scrambling across the bed like a startled gazelle. Sheets tangle around his ankles; hidden bangles chime wildly beneath the sleeves. He ends up half-falling against the headboard again, both palms slammed over his face in that exact same pose—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, voice still carefully high and melodic. “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—!”

His 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—!”

He peeks through his fingers, cheeks scarlet beneath the hood, lower lip trembling, every inch of him desperately praying the layers stayed perfect through the night—praying you saw nothing you were not meant to see—looking for all the world like a jewel-bright bird that has forgotten how to fly.