#JUST DROPPING CRAZY FORM RIGHT AT MAMA THESE KINGS

[woe-is-tuli]

ATEEZ (에이티즈) -미친 폼 

[pluton514]

Chapter 4: The King of Olympus

A few days have passed since Amelia's incident ,but everything's gone back to normal. I still think about what that whole thing meant. Persephone, an old man with one hundred eyes, and a prophecy? What's that all about? Amelia doesn't seem to take interest in it. In fact, she doesn't seem fazed by any of this. It's as if nothing ever happened to her, or maybe it's because she's already used to being taken over. I honestly don't know.

      I keep having nightmares about my mother's death. Does that have anything to do with this? It's not entirely impossible. I put my hand on my chin and start to think. I can't think of anything besides what that old man said.  "You don't realize what you are,boy. Soon, everything you've ever loved will be taken away from you.The Prophecy is set in stone. For thy woe shall not be discerned nor heard." Is what he said. What does he mean I don't know who I am? I know exactly who I am! It must've been my head messing with me. I mean, I had a huge headache and went dizzy so it must've been just that.

    Amelia sees me and walks towards me then puts her hand on my head. She then says, "Let's go grab something to eat outside. I'm not in the mood to cook right now." We look at each other and agree.   As we step outside, the clear sky starts to dim, and dark clouds start to form near us. My head starts to hurt and I hear a voice.., "Mama! I'm scared!" I also see the trees and the burning houses . After that, I came back to my senses.

That was moments before my mother died, but why did it come back? I look up and I see lightning roar and strike down multiple times. Amelia then looks at me and tells me, "We should get back inside; it's too dangerous!"

    I nod,but before we could go inside a man with a black cloak  appears before us and yells, "YOU SHOULDN'T HAVE COME BACK! YOU SHOULD'VE STAYED DEAD!" I reply with, " WHO ARE YOU? WHY HAVE YOU COME HERE?!" The man stands still and proceeds to hysterically laugh, and in the blink of an eye he moves in front of me and whispers, "If it wasn't for you. Then I wouldn't have to take two lives today." Before I could even react;he grabs me by my throat and lunges me to the front yard of the house. Rain starts to pour ,and lightning starts to roar even louder than before. As I stand up,I see that he's choking Amelia.

   I sprint towards the man and clench my fists to punch him ,but then he disappears into thin air. Amelia and I look at each other,but before i could react the man pulls me into a chokehold from behind and says, "This time, I'll go for the kill." He then pushes me to ground and puts his foot on my chest. He reaches his arm out for the sky and a lightning bolt comes down to the palm of his hand ,but before he could finish me. Plants start to pull down on his arms ,and act as chains. I look at Amelia and see that she's holding him back.He drops the lightning bolt ,and then it starts to slowly disappear ,but before it did I grabbed it. I felt the electricity rush through my entire body. My palms were burning and smoke was coming out of my hand. I can barely control it. The pain is making me feel nauseous so I go for the blow.

     I aimed for the chest, but I missed and hit his abdomen instead. The man screamed in agony. While he was in pain I took the chance to unveil the hoodie from his cloak. He had blonde spiky hair with black highlights at the end of each hair, pale skin, and light blue eyes. He also has something that seemed like a birthmark rested under his chin with the shape of a lightning bolt. He has a scar going through his eyebrow. He looks at me and says, "I'll kill you as many times as it takes...just you wai-" he then passes out and the lightning bolt in his abdomen disintegrated.

    Amelia rushes to me and holds me before I could fall,and yells at me saying, "ARE YOU CRAZY?! YOU COULD'VE DIED!!! OF ALL THE THINGS YOU COULD'VE DONE?! WHY DID YOU GO HOLD A LIGHTNING BOLT?!?! LOOK AT YOUR HAND!!! ITS PALM IS BURNT TO A CRISP!!!!" I then reply with, "Well, at least he's down isn't he?" She slaps me ,and says, "Next time, think before you do anything. Unfortunately, I don't have enough power to fully heal your palm, but I can make it feel better." I smile and reply with "Thanks for being there for me. I honestly don't know where I would be if it wasn't for you saving me." She smiles and then holds my hand. Green light starts to engulf my palm and we make eye contact. I never realized how detailed her eyes are. One dot on the top part of her pupil, another one on the bottom left, another one on the bottom right, and a small leaf in the center of her pupil. Before I could say anything the man starts to wake up. Both Amelia and I prepared ourselves for another fight,but he looked at us very confused. He asks, "What happened? Where am I?" Amelia then asks him, "If you don't know what happened then I think I might know. First of all what's your name?" He then makes eye contact with her and says "Zephilious."

I then ask Zephilious, "Why did you attack us?" He looked at me very confused and replies with, "Attacked? What do you mean? I woke up in the middle of nowhere and you're accusing me of attacking YOU?" I reply, "Yes you did! You even threw ligh-" before I could finish he interrupted me and yelled, "I ATTACKED YOU?! NO, THE WAY I SEE IT IS THAT I WAKE UP IN THE FRONT YARD OF A STRANGER'S HOME AND MY STOMACH HURTS LIKE HELL!!! ITS AS IF I WAS STABBED THEN BURNED!!! IF ANYTHING IT SEEMS LIKE YOU ATTACKED ME IN MY SLEEP!!! YOU BUNCH OF COWA-." He starts yelling out in pain and I tell Amelia, "Help him out." She tries get close to him, but he starts crawling away yelling, "GET AWAY YOU FILTHY BITCH! AHH!! YOU VERMIN! YOU COWARD!!"

Forget it. I'm gonna pin him down. I rush towards him and hold his entire body down. He screams for help,but no one can hear him since we live relatively far away from anyone. The nearest village takes about 5 hours to get there, and the nearest restaurant is 30 minutes away. He then yells, "LET ME GO! GET YOUR COWARDLY HANDS OFF OF ME!!! YOU'LL RUB ALL OF YOUR COWARDLYNESS ONTO ME!!!" Amelia then places her hand on his wound and starts healing it. He then realizes what's happening and calms down. She asks him, "Are you a Godlender?" He then asks her "How do you know what that is?" She then explains who she is and he replies with, "I see..Well, yes I am a Godlender. I am the Godlender of Zeus."

A few minutes passed,and both Zephilious and I are back to normal. Zephilious looks at me and says, "So I got taken over, huh?" I then nod and reply with, "Yeah, but what was that all about? You were saying that I shouldn't have come back? That I should've stayed dead?" Zephilious chuckles and says, "I don't know what you did, but it seems you've caught the attention of Zeus. I honestly don't know why,and I could care less. Now, if you excuse me, I'll head back home." Zephilious stands up and makes his way to the door, but then Amelia runs in front of him and says, "I'm sorry,but you don't seem to realize the scope of the situation at hand. The God of Gods just tried to kill my friend here. I don't know why, but we can't just sit back and pretend like nothing happened. So whether you like it or not. You're part of this problem now." The two look at each other without blinking for a good minute. It's as if they were having a staring contest, but eventually, Zephilious gave in. He sighs and says, "Fine, but I'm really hungry so can we please get something to eat? I'm starving." Amelia and I look at each other and say, "That's what we were going to do till you attacked us..." After that, we went on our way to the best restaurant of all time.

Ten minutes have passed ever since we left the house. Zephilious and Amelia are very quiet. I hate the silence. Very much. So I try to make conversation and say, "Why is it so quiet?" Zephilious looks at me and says, "The silence can be a good thing sometimes, and in this case it is." Amelia then says, "Yeah, I can agree with him on that." I hate these two....damnit we're in for a long walk.

[bleachanimefan1]

The Song of the Titan

Chapter Ten!!

Three days have passed, Luz had recovered from her common mold. There was an occasional mushroom growing on the top of her head, but thankfully it had stopped and now she was fully recovered. Luz, Eda, King, Azara, John, and Hooty were outside of the house and Luz was finishing setting up the last ingredients as she placed it on the homemade portal door.

"So according to Phillip's instructions, the hardest part to making the portal, was finding someone who knew how to build it," Luz told them. "But, a lot of the ingredients are pretty easy to find. Your crazy apocalypse supplies finally came in handy, Eda."

"Don't forget this," King handed Luz, Amity's glove that still had the Titan's blood still stained on it. She took it from him, looking at it.

"Titan's blood," Luz said. "I can't believe something this powerful was in the old key this whole time." She tore a finger piece off from the glove and taped it to the door. "It's okay. If Belos is still trying to get to the human realm he'll have to beat me to it!"

"Are you sure that this isn't going to blow our faces up?" Eda asked as she hopped onto a bicycle, that was acting as a generator to power up the door.

"Nope!" Luz replied, smiling.

"Well, here goes something!" Eda started pedaling the bike and the door began to glow as it started to activate. Suddenly, it began to shift transforming into a portal and the door, swung itself open.

"It worked," Luz replied, shocked that it had actually worked.

"Did it?" King asked, with an uncertain look on his face. "That looks real different from the old door."

From what everyone had seen, the door appeared to be wonky, twisted and mangled in shape and had multiple eyes on it. Inside there was a grey and black light as it clashed and swirled together.

"Yeah, but this my one chance to see my mom," Luz said, as she tied a rope around her waist. "If it looks like it's closing, pull." She handed the other end of the rope to Eda.

"Luz, as impressive as this is, I don't want you getting hurt," Eda replied, frowning, concerned.

"Once, I make sure that my mom is okay, I'll be right back." Luz assured her.

"You be careful, Luz!" Azara told her. "And you better come back together in one piece!" She frowned, worried, wanting to come with Luz, to see her mom, but Luz didn't want to risk her getting hurt. She volunteered to be the first test subject.

Luz smiled and laughed. "I'll try."

"Just be careful, the human realm is filled with some real weirdos," Eda joked, smiling.

"Don't forget to mention me!" King shouted. Luz nodded and turned back to the door.

"Okay," She ran towards it and jumped right into the portal.

Luz was met with darkness and she felt like she was floating in water. A small whisper of a disoriented cackle met Luz's ears. She opened her eyes and gasped, coughing, trying to get some of the liquid out of her lungs. She heard a disembodied voice whispered in her ear.

Cheater...

Luz widened and she looked around, nervously. Great! Now she's hearing voices, now! Luz looked around but saw that there was no one there. All she saw was floating yellow and black cubes all around her and she stood up, seeing her reflection in the dark water. She could have sworn that she heard an disembodied voice, whispering to her. She shook her head, as chills ran down her spine.

"Did I do something wrong?" Luz whispered to herself. She looked around the strange foreign place, noticing that she wasn't even nowhere close to the human realm. "Eda, King, Hooty, Azara! Can anyone hear me?!"

Yessss....

A large glowing yellow cube rose out from the water, floating in front of luz. She grabbed it with her hands and looked into it. She saw Eda, King, Hooty and Azara not too far away as they were still standing in front of the portal, holding the rope. Luz yelled out as a gust of wind knocked her sideways.

"I think I'm in an reflection of the house," she murmured, realizing that she was looking out from the glass of the window of the owl house.

"Do you think she's safe?" King asked.

"She made it this far, we just have to trust her," Eda replied. She looked towards Azara.

"So, how are you holding up?" Eda asked. Azara looked at her confused.

"What do you mean?" she asked.

"Are still okay with the golden guard incident?" She asked, concern. "You've been quiet for the past few days. You haven't been acting like your usual self, singing and all!"

"I'm okay, really," Azara tried to reassure her.

"Do you consider crying for the past three nights, okay?" King teased.

"Come on, tell us. You're lying!" Hooty added.

"I said that I'm fine!" Azara snapped. Eda, King, and Hooty's eyes widen in shock, and they quickly closed their mouths.

"I just don't want to talk about right now," Azara sighed. "Can we just drop this, please?"

"Kid, there's no point in torturing yourself," Eda frowned. "Believe me, I've been through that before. I know how you feel. But, you can't do things on your own. There are people here who can-" Eda's eyes widened. Everyone turned their heads to see the portal door in front of them, beginning to shift, and twist violently, and now starting to shrink.

"Eda?" Azara asked, worried.

"Pull!" Eda shouted. King, her, Hooty and Azara pulled hard on the rope and Luz came out of the portal door, landing on the ground in front of them.

"I'm sorry I had to pull you out. The portal was closing," Eda told her. Everyone looked towards the door to see it shrinking until it disappeared, leaving only a pile of cinder blocks behind.

"Did you talk to your mom? Did you mention me?!" King asked, excitedly, jumping onto Luz's shoulder. Luz smiled. Azara frowned, noticing it. She couldn't place her finger on it, but there was something strange about her smile. It looked like she was troubled by something. She seemed more quiet and withdrawn, not her usual energetic happy self.

"Yeah...mama-mom, can't wait to meet you guys," Luz told them, as she hugged everyone. Azara turned her head back to where the door was.

What did Luz see in there that caused her to act this way? What happened?

Eda smiled. "Well, just rest up now, okay?" she replied, wrapping her arm around Luz's shoulder. "And don't you worry, kiddo. With everything we've learned, we'll have a real working portal in no time!" She finished and winked.

"I'm gonna eat human snacks!" King exclaimed, eagerly.

"I can't wait to share parenting tips!" Hooty added, as he joined in.

"Who dubbed you a parent?" Eda asked, smirking. All three of them laughed as they began talking to themselves, excited about they were going to do in the human realm. Azara turned her head to see Luz walking away, heading inside of the owl house, and followed after her.

Azara walked in, to see Luz standing in the living room, quietly, looking around. She frowned and approached her. "Luz, are you okay?" Azara asked, concerned, placing her hand on Luz's shoulder. Luz, jumped, startled, now noticing her and turned around, smiling.

"Yeah, I'm just tired," she told her, walking away head back to her room. "I'm gonna go lie down for a bit."

"Wait, before you go, please tell me what did you see in there?" Azara asked, grabbing her hand, stopping her. "What happened?" Luz froze, where she was, and turned her head back to her.

"Uh, well, there was some strange floating cubes in there." She told her, pulling her hand away. "While I in there, I could have sworn that I heard a voice, guiding me. It sounded like a whisper, disembodied, I couldn't really make it out though." Azara's eyes widen in surprise. Luz heard a voice in there? The same that Azara heard a voice in the mines of Eclipse Lake. Something wasn't right about this...

"But, it might have been my imagination," She told her her. Azara saw tears that were starting to form in Luz's eyes. "I did see my mom! That's a good thing!" she smiled, wiping them away. There was something off by the tone of her voice.

Azara stared at her with an unsure look. "Then why do you not sound happy about it." Luz's eyes widened before she turned around, walking off.

"I'm going to bed," Luz told her. "I really don't want to talk about it."

"Luz!" Azara tried to call out to Luz to stop her, but she ignored her and left the room. Azara stood where she was, wondering what had just happened. Something happened in there and Luz wasn't telling her. But, what could she do? She couldn't just force it out of her.

Azara sighed and walked over to a shelf that was filled with books, scanning through it. If Luz didn't want to tell her, then she won't press on it any further. She was going to give her time to recover. Azara picked a book off from the shelf as one caught her interest. She walked over to the couch, sitting down, and opened it, starting to read from it.

Eda walked in along with King, as the two saw Azara sitting on the couch reading the book.

"Where's Luz?" Eda asked.

"She's in her room," Azara told her. "She told me that she wanted to rest." Eda frowned, in concern. Was she still not recovered from being sick? She shook the thought from her head when she heard Azara ask her something.

"What was that?" Eda asked.

"Eda, what's this?" Azara asked again, holding up the book. It had some ingredients on the page. Eda walked over and took the book from her, looking at it.

"Oh, it's just an spying spell potion that we use to spy on the emperor's coven," she told Azara. Azara's eyes widened, curious.

"Can I make this?" she asked. Eda looked at her in surprise before she smirked.

"Kid, are you still thinking about the nerd?" she teased.

"I just want to see how he's doing," Azara blushed, as she played with her hands, suddenly interested in them at the moment. Eda smiled, placing the book down on the table.

"Okay, I'll help you make this. I'll go grab the cauldron and the ingredients," she told her as she walked away. A few minutes later, Eda came back, along with King and they set the ingredients and the cauldron down on the table in front of her. The two helped Azara make the potion until it was finished as she stirred the liquid. The potion made a glowing blue glow and started, bubbling.

"What do I do?" Azara asked.

"Just think of the place that you want to see and the person and the potion will do the rest," Eda explained to her. Azara nodded. "But, be careful. Spying leads to crying!" She joked, leaving the room, along with King. Azara smiled, as she watched the two leave before turning her head back to the cauldron, looking inside.

Azara focused her thoughts on the emperor's castle, then Hunter's face came into her mind. The potion began to warp and started to swirl around when an imaged appeared. Azara eyes widened as she saw Hunter sitting on his bed, along with Lil rascal who was sitting beside him. He was holding the key as it dangled in front of him.

He hasn't given the key to Belos, yet! Azara frowned, wondering why. Suddenly, the potion swirled again, revealing another image. All Azara could see was a dark room until her eyes began to focus more adjusting to the darkness. Her eyes widened as she saw the portal door in front of her, fixed. Then the scene moved as it focused on a opened book that was resting on a desk.

Azara read the page seeing that it was an ingredient to make something.

A grimwalker...

"What is that?" Azara whispered to herself, silently as she continued to read the page that listed the ingredients: Galderstones, Palistrom wood, Stonesleeper lungs, Selkidomus scales, and a bone of ortet.

She looked over to the next page to see the ingredients, listing what each other did. Galderstones, for heart and power, Palistrom wood for keratin, Stonesleeper lungs, for the lungs, scales for body structure...

Then her eyes saw a picture of a baby, then a child stage, that was checked off, and last adult. The arrows pointed to a picture of a head with fuchsia colored red eyes. Azara's eyes widen in shock, mixed with disbelief and horror. She jumped back, knocking over the potion and it's contents and it splashed onto the floor.

They looked like Hunter's eyes! The exact same shape, color and everything! Even his nose!

Azara leaned back on the couch, overwhelmed by the startling information. That last ingredient with the stages...bone of ortet?

"Eda, what's a bone of ortet?" she called out, growing more and more disturbed out by the image.

"It's a plant that a clone is originated from!" Eda called out. "Why?"

Clone? Hunter is a clone? Azara felt like she was going to throw up as she covered her mouth with her hand. A feeling of dread and horror, rushed through her stomach, in realization. Hunter was the last ingredient to make this grimwalker.

Belos had been lying to him, his entire life. He was in danger!

Azara quickly stood up and grabbed her red cloak. "I-I got to go!" she replied back, yelling out to her. "I need some air!" She ran over to the door, opening it, and Hooty hooted in surprise. John was sitting next to him, talking to Hooty, when Azara opened the door, as he stared up at her surprised as well.

"Azara?" John asked, startled. "Is something wrong?"

"Where are you going? Hoot! Hoot!" He asked. Azara ran out, not answering them, completely overwhelmed by the information.

"Sheesh! Hoot! Hoot!" Hooty whined. "Rude. Nobody ever wants to talk to me!"

"I know!" John complained. "She never listens to me!"

[lovecanbesostrange]

I’m so glad I’m used to Grey’s making me cry. Guess that will be amped up for this season. But it’s a bit different, because I can already see that the writers try to balance it all with little positive things. They just don’t hold back reality and that is the worst thing right now.

Okay, getting it out of the way. We have confirmation, JO WILSON IS OFFICIALLY BACK. Maybe it’s just because that can of worms is one too many, so let’s go back to something easy and nice. I don’t care why, thanks for finally clarifying that. Also omg, she is an actual doctor. She did actual medical things. I’m baffled. And it was especially mentioned. Wow. This is something I am not used to. (lol DeLuca is an attending now and he only took five years like he was supposed to, even if we ignore the almost one year timejump at the end of S11, Jo’s 5year residency took six years.......)

Well, I got Wilson and Bailey together in an OR and they got to have a rare case and a good outcome and I am always here for Bailey feeling some joy. Plus fuck, Jo observing mother-baby-bonding is emotional as hell. And after Station 19 I was so glad that Carina had a win as well. God, Carina is starting her fourth season and now as Maya’s girlfriend... I like her. Terrible things will start to happen to her soon, right? I mean, witnessing her brother’s mental break already counts.

I feel bad for Schmitt. Except it’s almost a fun running joke by now, getting thrown off of cases... Also, dude, thank you so much for spitting out like that. There are some things you really shouldn’t say during a pandemic. Can I assume he still lives with Jo now? Liked seeing them close.

The Jackson/Link/Helm team-up was also cool. I just want rotating doctor teams treating patients and this was hilarious. Although... do people remember that Private Practice was an actual spin-off that existed with Charlotte King, Sexologist, in it?! Guess that would mean acknowledging Amelia once had another close friend........... (I only really liked Charlotte on that show, would love to know what she is up to now) But hey, the sex therapist lead to another great Amelia/Link moment and I will devour every bit of happiness they share.

The talk between Link and Jackson was great. And once again, two sides of a thing are totally understandable. Link being glad he got to leave the crazy house with the four kids for a day. And Jackson missing spending more time with his daughter. And thank you, thank you, for not just mentioning April, but also Matt.

Speaking of mentions... Alex Karev...... Meredith’s power of attorney..... aaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaa I remember when it was a fun scene discussing healthcare proxies back in S10. Did Alex ever change his? He is known for having trouble with forms (his student debt, the unmailed marriage license) - if he’s in an accident, will Cristina get a call in Switzerland????? A~nyway it is only fair that Maredith picks Richard now. Role reversal and all. At least she tells him before! I was wondering if Bailey tried dropping hints that she wants dibs on pulling Mer’s plug if the time comes........

Watching Meredith run across the beach and faceplanting was such a relief. I laughed way too much, but it’s the stress from the rest of the ep. So thanks for doing that.

I’m glad Maggie has Winston, even if it’s only a video-call. He gets it. And everybody at Grey Sloan should have somebody outside to talk to anyway. But Maggie’s breakdown was so fucking real and awful... doing her best to just be the sister. While losing so many patients. And the way they threw in her mom’s death - yep, new perspective on that, now that people die alone. It’s not a statistic. People are dying.

Laura Cerón on Station 19 and Lisa Vidal on Grey’s, Please import more people from Emergency Room. New interns, well, the Webber speech sure changed... that hit hard. Especially with only three people left. Gonna look out for Mama Ortiz now.

I should say something about Tom. Hmmm... guess somebody has to asymptomatic.

Station 19 was good as well. A tiger. Shouldn’t surprise me, we saw a pet lion before. Ben should be glad they call him Dad. Not Grandpa. XD Still the best dude, good peptalk to Carina. A+ interaction. Seeing a happy Andy sure is weird, will she find five minutes of peace in all of this? Also Webber being Sullivan’s sponsor is a better way for a crossover than more interconnecting romance.

[love-pyramus]

Oplana and Century

A little bit of background here. Oplana is a kingdom from what I’m writing that hopefully will be a book called The Land Beyond The Sunrise. The Kill Order that I mention happens in the town Bella is from. Everyone over the age of ten in Cania was killed. Bella was eight at the time. Century is @logic-cat​‘s place, and it’s from her story Century Outcasts. My characters are the four girls, and Laurie, KG, and William all belong to Paige. The song used is Golden Slumbers by the Beatles. It’s sang more like a lullaby in this part though (I spelled it right are you happy Paige?) Megs wanted to be tagged so here @sebbbystaaan​

“Come on, come on, come on!” Bella shouted. The four were running through a forest away from the king's guards. Their screams echoed around the forest as they fell down a hole. 

 KG was walking around when he heard the sound of running. “Stop, stop, I think we’re safe.” It was a girl’s voice. It sounded out of breath. “I’m just gonna-gonna lie down for a bit.” “Yeah.” It sounded like there were four of them, all girls. “Hello?” He asked. The sound of weapons being pulled and something that sounded rude in a foreign language. “You said we were safe Bella.” A slight accusatory tone was in that. “Forgive me for thinking that when we just feel through a hole into a different forest. It seems more alive.” The one who had said they were safe said. “I’m King-“ he doesn’t finish his sentence. “Let’s go. All the kings have an alliance with James.” Another one said. “James?” KG asks. “Do you know him? King James of Oplana?” One of them said. “No. I’ve never heard of your kingdom either.” KG says. “I’m King George, but you can call me KG.” He continued. The four come from around the tree. One Hispanic, most likely the leader came out first. She was tall and lean, with amber eyes and short black hair that stopped just above her shoulders. Another came around. She was fair-skinned, with hazel eyes and brown hair reaching just below the shoulders. Shorter than the first, and a bit more stocky. She grabbed the first one’s hand. A blonde came after, her braid reaching her waist. Pale skin and blue eyes, and shorter than both girls. Then a darker-skinned girl, with brown doe eyes and brown hair tied up in a lot of little braids that went to mid-back. “I’m Bella.” The first one says. The rest introduce themselves. The blonde was Miranda, the darker-skinned one was Kiara, and the one who grabbed Bella’s hand was Jessica. “Where are we?” Jessica asks. “You’re in Century. That’s the best explanation I can give you.” KG says. Bella nods. “Can you promise our safety? We just escaped, and we’re trying to get back to our camp.” Bella asks. KG nods. “William is gone for a bit, so we don’t have anything to worry about. Come on.” KG leads the girls out. There are hushed whispers behind him, but he can’t really hear them. “Is everything alright where you guys are from? You sounded scared when you talked about your king.” KG asks. The girls all stop whispering. “No, it’s really not. Our king is crazy. After we escaped he sent out a search party. And there’s a spy, but we don’t know who it is.” Miranda finally admits. “KG!” Said man smiles as the redheaded man runs around the corner. “Who are these girls? And why do they all have incredibly dangerous weapons?!” “Laurie, relax. They just appeared in the forest hallway.” KG explains. Laurie nods. “Ok, ok. Are they gonna be rooming with you or..” Laurie doesn’t finish his sentence. “Yeah. We only have sleeping bags right now, sorry.” KG admits. “Sleeping bags are actually perfect. Thank you.” Bella says. “Where did you learn these manners, Ramirez?” Miranda asks. “Just because I don't use them, doesn’t mean I don’t have them.” Bella answers. Later that night KG is lying on his bed while the four girls are all in sleeping bags. They all have assorted weapons scattered around them. Bella has a dagger with a blade that looked like it was made from obsidian and a longish sword. There is a crossbow next to Miranda and Kiara, and Kiara also has an intricate rapier. Jessica has a longer sword but the calluses on her fingers showed she was an archer. He sits up at the sound of whimpering. Looking at the girls Bella is tossing and turning in her sleep. KG walks to them and tries to avoid stepping on some of the weapons. “Bella,” He whispers. There isn’t a response but her breathing becomes more erratic. “Bella! Wake up,” KG is trying not to wake up the other three girls in the room. Bella wakes up with a gasp, and immediately her hands go to her short hair and begin pulling on it. “Hey, hey, hey, don’t do that.” KG gently pulls each finger away at a time. He pulls her up and sits behind her before wrapping his arms around her. She begins struggling and trying to get out of the man's grip. “Bella. Hey Bella. It’s just me. Copy my breathing, okay?” KG beings to take slow and steady breaths. After a few minutes, Bella stops struggling. After a few more minutes Bella’s rigid form drops and she loosens up. KG releases her and she turns to face him but keeps her head down. “Bella?” KG asks. When she finally looks up her eyes were glistening with unshed tears and there were more already falling down her face. “What happened? Do you want to talk about it?” Bella remains silent but wipes the tears from her face. “Talking about it helps. I talk to Laurie after I have nightmares, and it makes me feel better.” KG continues to talk. At the very least, his voice will help clear her mind. Bella looks away from him and looks around to the other three girls. “I-I was there again.” KG isn’t sure what she was talking about but allows her to continue to talk. “It started in-” Bella quiets before starting again. “I was back home. In Cania. It was the day of the Kill Order. I couldn’t do anything. I had to watch as he killed mama and papa. As they dragged Carlos out of our hiding spot. He was fourteen.” KG nods. “And right before he was taken he gave me a hug and said ‘I love you, Bella Flor Ramirez. Never forget it mi hermana.’ And I’m never going to forget it. And after they-they killed Carlos it switched. I-I had to watch them all die. They were all killed by the same man who killed Carlos.” Bella’s crying again at this point. “They’re all here. And I’m sorry about your brother. He sounds like he was a good guy.” KG says. Bella nods. “He was.” A small smile was on Bella’s face after. “Thank you.” KG nods. “It was my pleasure.” He sits next to Bella as she lies down. Seeing that she was just lying awake he begins to sing softly. “Once there was a way, to get back homeward. Once there was a way, to get back home. Sleep, pretty darling do not cry. And I will sing a lullaby. Golden slumbers fill your eyes. Smiles await you when you rise. Sleep pretty darling, do not cry, and I will sing a lullaby. Once there was a way, to get back homeward. Once there was a way, to get back home. Sleep, pretty darling. Do not cry. And I will sing a lullaby.” By the time KG has finished Bella is sleeping again. He smiles as e makes his way back to his bed. Laurie turns over as he lays back down. “It was a pretty song.” Laurie mumbles, still half asleep. KG smiles. “Go back to sleep darling.”

[writingsofmyimagination]

Conjecture |8|

Idol Reader Au, Enemies to Lovers AU

Summary: Your management refused to renew your contract unless you collaborated, so you ending up working with Min Yoongi. A guy you’d disliked from before both of your debuts. There is more to their past than meets the eye.

Links to all other parts in my masterlist :)

Words:1795

Warnings: SMUT!! (nothing to crazy, morning sex), Swearing, Embarrassing mum alert.

Not sure on this part but ya know :P

if you want to be tagged let me know :)

Reblog, Like, Comment pwwwweeasse :)

// Yoongi exhaled a large breath outside the threshold of the cause of all his uncertainty; beyond which was an answer he wasn’t sure he wanted to know. He knew what he wanted to say but whether it would come out coherently was another thing entirely. His hand was near trembling, his fingers stroked through the back of his hair in nervous glitches. He liked you, like really liked you. The vulnerability he felt was unnerving and unfamiliar but he needed you to see that; give you a tiny glimpse of the huge generous heart at his centre. //

  The gentle ripples of the mattress stirred you into a semi-conscious state as Yoongi’s arm found a snug spot between your breasts; provoking a drowsy smirk laden with contentment. You soaked up the comfort shrouding you, nothing had felt so right before; like this is where you were meant to be. You wriggled your behind into him with approval, wanting to not be further than a hairs width from his skin before you’d allow yourself back to sleep.

The morning sun streamed in through the curtains, the glittering beams threatening to stir you to full consciousness. You point blank refused.

You realised rather promptly that sleep was not on Yoongi’s agenda, when you’d wriggled in to him it rushed his blood southward. Neither of you said a word as he nuzzled into the back of your neck before littering the area with firm, wet kisses. His hand slid round and loosely gripped the back of your neck before tracing down your spine; the volume of your soundless moan exposed your biggest area of weakness. Anywhere the cool fingertips passed, goose bumps lined the skin. The embers between your legs grew ferocious; he pulled your hip back so you were pressed closer to him and he’d gained easier access to your inner thighs. Heavy breaths were exhaled each time his fingers ghosted over where you ached the most.

“Yoongi…fuck… please” you whined breaking the humid silence. You felt his lips curve upwards against the top of shoulders with gluttonous approval.

“I was waiting to see if you’d beg” he purred

“It’s not something I’m above ya know” when the full pressure of his fingers finally slid through your need for him one lot of relief was expelled only for another type of tension to begin building.

“God y/n is this how bad you want me?” his fingers honing in on your clit.

“Mmmhmm” you replied rolling your head forward, your hips circling and pressing back into him feeling just how bad he wanted you too.

The agonizing lazy slow circles he drew were gradually winding up the coil, you impatience diffused through your system like a raging current. You rolled over in his arms.

“I need this now” you whined stroking his cock; you stretched over to your bedside draw and shuffled around for a condom which you gave him as you rushed your nightshirt off desperate to feel his soft skin flush to you. You both rushed back to being entwined unable to be apart, his hands wrapped round yours and pinned them above your head, his face nestled at your neck breathing hot. Your nails left half crescent stains on the back of his hand, the mixture of both your moans spreading through the room.

“I can’t believe you made me wait for this… you feel so good” no words could form in your throat, you were lost in how he felt now you were one.

“Neither can I” you admitted in between sweet gasps, his hips bucked into you with hard definite clarity. Your bodies grew flushed with moisture, body heat rocketing between you. You were breathless, loud pants echoing filling the otherwise silent space. His thrusts slowed down and he started teasing you, not fully filling you. Your patience for this was gone the moment his lips touched your skin. You just needed him to fuck you, you’d waited too long. He released your hands in favour of supporting himself on the mattress, with their new found freedom your hands tugged at one of his, he willingly allowed you to guide it to around your throat. His face flashed hesitant for a moment until you squeezed, you tightened his grip with your hand and you clenched around him. His control over himself seemed to dissipate quite rapidly after that with his thrusts resuming to full strength.

“Y/N fuck I’m c…” Yoongi grunted bucking his hips jerkily.

“Don’t you dare stop” you panted, he obeyed thrusting through his own climax to ensure you got to yours.

 Your attention flew to the sound of your front door closing followed by the unmistakeable excited claws of Charlie on the wood floor. It usually brought you joy but currently it sent you into panic.

“Shit, that’s my mum, put some clothes on” you said almost winded at how fast you flew out of the bed and chucked a long shirt on.

“Hi Mum, I was just…” you said as un-phased as possible

“Oh please y/n don’t give me any excuses I know what you were doing I heard from the front door” you dropped to the floor at the buzzing Little ball of fluff at your feet and gave Charlie all the fuss he desired shielding your now tainted pink cheeks from your mother. You resumed to standing when Charlie sauntered off and you were back facing the disapproval on her face.

“I thought I told you to stop messing with that Wonho guy and actually get a proper boyfriend” the downside of having your mum as a best friend often involved her speaking her thoughts on your love life. What made it worse is she had no volume control plus the fact she also didn’t care if anyone heard.

“I was hoping with you on this project you and Yoongi would make up and start a thing, he’s such a nice boy” Mortified into absolute stillness staring straight through your mum at Yoongi who’d surfaced into the room silently. Your mum caught on and turned and carried on without skipping a beat

“Good Morning Mrs Y/LN” Yoongi greeted after a low bow.

“Well glad you finally stopped being a stubborn cow” she said turning back to you.

“Mum!” you scolded feeling five again. Yoongi was failing miserably at hiding his amusement and it only grew with the warning stare you chucked his way.

“Don’t know what you’re smiling at Mr Min you let her get away with it all this time”

Your expressions swapped in an instant. Yoongi went to defend himself but sensed correctly he would not win against your mother. Charlie clip clopped back in the room and made a b-line for the stranger in his house, only to attack with licks and paws to get his attention to which he gave without any hesitation.

So… Yoongi has Charlie’s approval.

“I’ve been looking forward to meeting you” Yoongi informed Charlie in a high pitch voice. “Bichon Frise?” he inquired

“Crossed with a Cavalier King Charles” you replied trying not to melt at how adorable he looked playing with Charlie.

“Are you going to tell your management? Oh your father will be soo happy” She was off in her world of happiness now.

“We’re doing it today” you responded a tad calmer now the smell of coffee was in the air. Her eyes grew wide and her eyebrows grew further apart.

“Wow it must be serious then if you’re going to try all official, how do you think it will go?”

“I don’t know” doubt obviously seeped through your words. It was the honest answer, you wasn’t sure if they’d even allow it. Your management would likely be fine but BigHit was another situation entirely. It would be more of a bigger deal for their male idol to come out and say he’s dating than it would be for you, no doubt they’ll be huge restrictions on what the pair of you could and couldn’t do if they do allow it. In addition you’d have to deal with the media beyond the announcement not to mention the negative backlash from fans of both of you. You’d done so well at scurrying away your worries but now you’ve been asked about it here they are rearing the ugly head of doubt which deflated your mood massively your eyes sunk to the floor.

//Phone Ringing//

It was your manager. You motioned your mum to be quiet with a finger to your lips as you put the call on speaker phone.

“Good Morning Y/N are you with Yoongi?”

“Yeah I’m here” He answered for you joining you in the kitchen.

“Good, glad I caught you both together PD and I have some great news” you assumed the pair of them had you both on speaker phone as well.

“Oh please do tell” your interested was piqued, your gaze shifted to Yoongi who met you with a shrug of his shoulders

“Well s you know the interest in this project has been crazy and that interest has gone as far as the MAMA’s” he paused, Yoongi frowned at you and shrugged his shoulders again, you mimicked his expression.

“You’ve been asked to perform the single” he paused again. Your mouth dropped open and your coffee mug nearly went crashing to the floor as your grip faltered.

“What? Are you serious? That’s… well that’s incredible” you replied voice much higher than normal.  Your gaze held on Yoongi his reaction was much less animated than yours but the excited glimmer definitely danced in his eyes.

“Yes I’m serious, but they are only four weeks away so we need you both to come In today and see what’s been done, we may have to push you to bring the release date forward to give time for the reactions. Obviously the boys will be performing and Y/N you have also been invited to present the Artist of the Year award this year, I’ve already got the agreement details, they just need you signatures”

Your racing heart, your buzzing system no longer required the caffeine you were offering.

“We’ll leave in about half hour, we have something else we need to talk to you about as well so we can do two birds one stone and I’ll be bringing my dog just FYI” your mum gave you an approving smile.

“We’ll I’ll leave you to get ready” she gave you a kiss on the cheek “So proud of you darling”. This had you fighting back tears in a beat.

“Thanks mum”

“You make sure you take care of her or you’ll have me to deal with” she warned passing Yoongi

“Yes Ma’am” he replied confidently yet somehow sheepishly at the same time.

[checkoutafrica]

Stonebwoy; A major player in Ghanaian Music

Every single month without fail African artists are constantly reminding us that they are in fact the kings and queens in this music game. So far in terms of music, this has really been our year and I could not be more excited! One album we cannot stop talking about here at COA is Stonebwoys ‘Anloga Junction’. This is his fourth studio album and a body of work that the Ghanian musician has been working on for the last 5 years. He describes it as a beautiful African scene with a touch of western experience and influence – Anloga junction is the juncture between those two contrasting perspectives.

Specialising in dancehall, reggae, and afrobeats Livingstone Etse Satekla is not only a major player in Ghanaian music but in African music as a whole which is why he will forever be one of the continents most celebrated artists. Having rose to international stardom after being the first artist of his kind to win a BET Award in 2015 and has subsequently won many other international awards such as Afrima, Nickelodeon Kids’ Choice Award as well as received nominations from MTV EMA, Grammy Awards and more. This man is not to be slept on!

Who was Stonebwoy 10 years ago?

I mean, I was still doing music …. I mean I was and still am a son, I come from a Christian family, you know? I have been doing music since I was 16, you know what I mean? It never stopped, I just kept going harder and harder. YHHH 10 years ago, I should be out of school, out of uni or something!

You create Afropop, reggae and dancehall, which one out of the three is your favourite genre and why?

I mean all three because, for me, it’s all the same roots but different branches. So when it all comes to me, I comfortably create either of the genres, I find it difficult to actually choose a main one. I think I always do all together because when you pick up any Stonebwoy song, you still feel all three; some dancehall, some afrobeats, some reggae – every single time you pick up any stonebwoy song. But you may notice that it is mainly the dancehall and afrobeat that you can feel everytime you hear any of my songs.

View this post on Instagram

Nominate challenge?

#AnlogaJunctionAlbum #TommyXLewis #BwoyFiger

A post shared by 1GAD (@stonebwoyb) on May 4, 2020 at 1:26pm PDT

You’ve worked with the likes of Kranium, Sean Paul, Burna Boy and of course the beautiful Ms Keri Hilson. Who has been your favourite to collaborate with so far and why?

You know, when it comes to this type of question – the favourites question, it sort of limits me in a way because every collaboration of mine is a favourite, they are all unique in their own ways, you know what I mean? So I can hardly pick which one stands out amongst all of them. However, the one that is making a lot of noise right now, making a lot of impacts and that one that needs to be very much appreciated at this moment in time is the one with Keri Hilson – Nominate. It’s so crazy, it’s amazing! The combination of afrobeats and RnB with some dancehall in there is just crazy, it’s really nice to hear.

How did the collaboration with Keri Hilson come about and should we expect more collabs in the future?

Uhmm what happened is that whilst we were recording the album we really planned to have an American collaboration on it, but the collab with Keri Hilson, it so happened that it was not planned, because if it was planned then that would mean that, that would sound like I called her up and said I wanted her on the album. But none of that happened, a friend of mine met Keri on a flight and that’s how beautifully it happened – we got introduced. My friend didn’t even know it was Keri Hilson until something happened and they got the opportunity to talk and so by doing so, the conversation turned to music, we ended up exchanging contacts right there and then and we gained some nice relationships. Then when I went on tour in America, it so happened that she invited me to the studio and then we cooked nominate as a beautiful song and here we are today!

What was the idea behind calling this album Anloga Junction?

I mean it’s my roots, the intention behind the album is to give it that identity you know? It represents the fact that I have gained some influences and a lot of things having learnt from the African perspective when it comes to the music and it is at this junction that it meets with the influences from the west as well. That is why you get the name Anloga junction.

You said the theme of the album is a beautiful African scene with a touch of western experience and influence. Can you go into more detail on what you mean exactly?

Exactly! Yeah, I just think sonically it is a beautiful African song, the sound and the way the musical wave has taken a diverse turn when it comes to African music and the way it’s been received by the western world lately. All that has influence because I am one of the people, I am one of the musicians, one of the new schools who have added their voices to that type of style, especially coming from mixing the afrobeats with the reggae and dancehall to create the afro dancehall which is what I have been known for these last 10 years. When it comes to the continent of Africa, I think that I am well representing for that African sound and wave, that is a representation of that sound. Plus the Caribbean sound and which is at large the Western sound, which is what I mean by that!

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Still on the JUNCTION…which music video should we drop next?

A post shared by 1GAD (@stonebwoyb) on May 22, 2020 at 5:47am PDT

Why did you choose to record the intro track (Le Gbs Gbe) in your home language “ewe”, what was the initial idea behind this?

Yeah, the intro track is in my home language because that is what the album is representing cause when I say Anloga you know that anybody who is going to pick up the record they have to find that masterpiece, they have to find that significance or that representation of the whole of the Anloga vice in there, that is why you find I speak in my dialect for the first track on the album, so it can truly represent what I mean with the album.

You said that some of the songs in your album are actually 5 years old, which of these are and why did you wait to include them in Angola junction rather than epistles of mama?

The reason being for that one is that there had always been a plan and I had known this particular song is timeless enough and that the project that I wanted to bring out was not yet, it was not yet due for that song and so you know as we’ve gotten here and as we started Anloga junction project, this one here qualified. That particular song is called “Nkuto” feat Kojo Antwi, track number 5 – that’s the one, that song is like 5 years old and bow down is like 2 years old. I take time to fix these songs, it took me a total span of 5 years to fix this body of work for the people.

Which is your favourite song from the album and why?

Track one, nominate and everlasting. But the whole album literally! I love the whole album, not going to lie.

You’ve worked with SA artists (AKA, Nasty C and Cassper Nyovest) in the past, do you yourself listen to SA music? If so what’s your favourite thing about their music/ artists?

Yeahh I do, I do. I love their sound and their whole African culture. You know the whole of Africa is culture – when you see Africa, you see strong accents, you see strong melanin, you see black, you see strong people. And all of that is depicted in our music when we sing so per the various places we have and the diverse cultures we have is well well enjoyable when you are a creative and span your scoop into all these areas. I listen wide to all these forms of music, I love south African music; their house, their kwaito etc.

How does it feel to be inducted into the Grammy museum sound of Africa exhibit?

It feels great! That was an exhibition that happened 3 years ago around 2016/2017 that they had to select some African artists who have won in that category before and those who are making strong waves and that exhibition, it was only meant to last a week but went on to last a whole year and it had me in there and legendary Kojo Antwi in there. So it was a coincidence to have him on my album and then for the both of us to be inducted at that level and that is one of the great levels that afrobeats music has been able to reach by the help of Ava Hall and the whole team who put together the BET international category. So thanks to the whole team who made it work!

What would you say is your biggest achievement so far in your career?

So far I still have a lot of things to do, I still have a lot of miles to reach, you know I’m just taking it easy now and I can only say that at this level it might even be difficult to choose my biggest achievement but I know that I must be the number one when it comes to afro dancehall and reggae and I am grateful for that.

What do you believe is the future of African music/ afrobeat’s?

In the next 10/20 years, African music is still going to be on the rise. You should understand that it can only get better and better. I pray that, not only musically but on the African continent that everything can work together for good because our arts and our creative industries are dependent on the governors of Africa. So in the next 10 years, we pray that Africa becomes more independent, more resourceful and more developed in the right sense and that way our music is going to go far. Big up to every African artist who is putting in the work!

The post Stonebwoy; A major player in Ghanaian Music appeared first on CheckoutAfrica.

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[lady-olive-oil]

Heniyah Imagine #2: Lanterns & Snow Cones

As promised here is imagine #2 leading up to the story of Dog Days! Mama’s Boy is here. If you’d like to be tagged in the upcoming series, let me know!

Tag Squad: @sunlightandkisses | @anabananna | @honeychicana | @crushed-pink-petals | @themyscxiras | @champagnesugamama | @maddiestundentwritergaines | @dc41896 | @sdcyumyum | @badassbaker

_____

Miyah’s POV

Over the last few weeks, life has been going crazy and it made no point in slowing down. Luckily a friend of mine was having a showcase in Venice beach, and I couldn’t say no.

From time to time Henry and I would run into each other countless times. We saw each other more than three times to be exact, but it must’ve meant something though right? Seeing him again made everything better for me, but I still wondered if he felt the same.

Tonight was no different on the contrary. I spotted his infamous curls by the bike rack, with the help of his Instagram since he tagged the location. I tapped him on the shoulder and giggled at his sudden jolt of shivers.

I spoke gently, just loud enough for him to hear.“I thought those curls looked familiar.”

As he turned around my heart fluttered a bit. The genuine smile that made my knees weak, brightened.

“I thought that tone sounded familiar. Hey Yaya.” He hugged me tight against him, and felt like home. His scent was the same as I remember, like warm fire. The same smell of mahogany, black teakwood and lavender. The same cologne I got him from bath and body works on our 3rd year anniversary.

He must’ve known I didn’t want to let go before he held me tighter.

“How’d you find me anyway?” His deep baritone, Jersey British voice, pulled me from my thoughts. I glanced up at him with a lost cause till my brain caught up with reality.

Chuckling nervously, I moved a strand of my hair behind my ear. My arms didn’t move from their location around his neck, and he didn’t seem to mind. Seeing as though his arms were wrapped a sound my hips still.

“You tagged your location in your post on Instagram, so I figured I’d stop by. That sounded bad.” I was embarrassed to have to admit that, but he didn’t mind. Letting me go, we sat along the brick wall structure.

I continued on. “Leslie is a close friend of mine, and I’m still in town for a moment. Couldn’t miss her art show before I left.”

“I think I met Leslie through you I believe. Kept in contact after the break.” He nodded a bit then arched a brow. A break, is that a better way to call it now?

Draping his arm around my shoulder, I rolled my eyes playfully. “Where are you off to so soon? Is it Renegade related by chance?”

“Yes yes it is, I’m going to Atlanta.I’m doing the spread over the Netflix show, Dear White People for the magazine, gotta get the pictures in. My friend Roxie is in it. We’ve watched a few episodes together remember?” He always loved hearing about my work, which I think is one of the reasons he loved me. Sometimes I wish that phrase wasn’t past tense.

A gentle kiss was placed on my head. “My girl is still doing her thing. Proud of you, Yaya. Speaking of Atlanta, I’ll be going there soon as well for press tour stuff for Witcher.”

“I honestly can’t wait for that. I know you’re going to do well in that, just like everything else you’ve accomplished.” I got overly excited for everything either one of us did. When he told me he got the part of Geralt I was floored.

“Thank you my dear. Your encouragement means a lot to me, you have no idea. If our paths do cross again, I would say it’s more than fate don’t you think?” His voice must’ve dropped several octaves because this man knew how to charm a woman.

“I’d say so. The gods must want us to be together again.”

The conversation went on as the sunset over the horizon, in hues of pinks: yellows and oranges. Walking along the beach with him, with my sandals in hand, brought back memories. The art show was underway and we made our way towards the main event. Sharing a few snow cones to pass the time, made it all better.

Henry’s POV

Watching her face light up little by little, made everything else seem bleak. Her smile could stop traffic and just freeze time. She truly is a goddess amongst us mortals. I’m glad to just have her in my life again, because those two years were a mess without here.

The art show for Leslie was everything she had described, and then some. The vibrant colors mixing in with the sunset made the pieces glow and come to life. One of the paintings in particular, that Miyah took extra time to glance at, made all the paintings pale in comparison.

“Hey Leslie, what’s this one called?” I had called her over to get a clarification.

Smiling over at me as she came over, her face shifted to a softer tone as she explained. “This one I made after our dear friend Miyah. I call it ‘Elegance of a Goddess.’ Pretty cool huh? She was a joy to paint, and I was told to hold this for you. Seeing as though there’s a ‘Not for Sale’ sign on the podium next to it.”

Miyah has thought about me? I guess something is gonna work out after all. The painting itself brought back memories of the first time we met, in London. Her hair was all poofy like a crown on her head; she had on a dark orange pantsuit and her gorgeous megawatt smile. I have to thank Roxie for taking the picture.

“So after all this, I can have it?” I asked the artiste.

Patting my shoulder before leaving, Leslie winked a bit.

“By all means my good man. Ya lady paid for it as a gift for you.”

As the sweet chuckle escaped from my lips, I witnessed the goddess herself dancing amongst the lanterns.

“Are you just gonna stare at me, or are you dance with me?” Her voice took me from my trance, as she pulled me to dance with her.

I whispered in her ear gently, as we rocked from side to side. My arms wrapped around her. “I take it I’m dancing with you my queen.”

Miyah’s POV

His voice was intoxicating. A drug that I didn’t know I needed more than anything. Slow dancing with him under the stars and lanterns, brought back memories from our 5th date. We were slow dancing in Hyde Park in London, while I was there on business with Roxie. It was just an amazing moment and opportunity to take in the sights with a man I grew to love.

Resting my head upon his, as I stared into his eyes. I didn’t want to look away. Because every time I would look at him, I’d see my future. My arms were locked around his neck, his hands stayed where they belonged on my hips and we just swayed to the sounds of waves mixed with the tunes. It was like going through a time machine.

“I could stay like this with you forever.” I don’t know what happened, it was as if my emotions took over and I didn’t mind at all one bit.

His soft chuckle could lull me to sleep. “I wouldn’t mind that at all.”

He began rubbing my sides gently and held me closer. I could feel his body heat radiating through his v-neck top, I just subconsciously rubbed my hands up and down his back. He just felt like home.

“Did you take an Uber?” He arched a brow curiously.

Nodding my I rested my head on his chest this time. “Yeah I did. Kinda don’t wanna pay for another one.”

“I can always drive you home, Yaya. I don’t mind.”

“Alright, deal.”

The drive home was peaceful, seeing as though his right hand was holding my left. Watching the city pass us by, it got me thinking about possibly rekindling things with Henry and I would love to honestly.

“Well, here we are.” Walking up to the front door, his hand never left mine.

“That we are.” Henry kissed my head sweetly and it made me giggle.

Taking caution to the wind, I went with my gut, and kissed him with everything in me. The feeling of his lips on mine again felt like home, like a brisk fall night by the fire with hot cocoa.

His hands gripped my body like spandex; as my own held his face to not break it. Breaking the kiss to catch our breaths, his boy like smile formed across his chiseled face.

“This is probably going against everything I stand for, my business trip is in a few days, but do you wanna come on inside?” Biting my bottom lip I held his hand and leaned against the door.

He picked up bridal style as soon as I unlocked the door, kicking it shut and carrying me inside. A giggle escaped my lips, holding on tight. “I can never deny, a request from my number one girl.”

“First of all, your number one girl is your mother. Second of all, give it to me Superman.” I whispered against his lips and the shade of his eyes shifted to a darker blue.

The next thing I knew, I was pinned against the foyer wall of my condo making out with my ex. Moaning and groaning left and right, by the way he made me hot. I had lived in the same place for the last 7 years, I’m surprised he remembered where my bedroom was.

“Henry..” the way I moaned his name out loud, must've been a trigger because he attacked my neck.

“That’s my name baby girl. I missed you so much.” He paused to look into my lust blown eyes, and a switch went off. He had me straddling his lap in my king sized bed.

Holding me closer to his chest, as my hands were placed on his arms. I kissed him with love this time and he held me in his arms like he was going to lose me.

“You’re not going to lose me again, Miyah. I promise.” He muttered softly, as I bit my bottom lip, cause he gripped my hips harder.

Pushing him back on the red sheets, I was on top. “I’d hope not, because I’d hate to lose the love of my life again.”

He pulled me down in a heat searing kiss, making me grip the sheets by his head. No way in hell, we were gonna leave each other again.

[oddcoupler222]

sansa x margaery, baby fic with fake married au

(baby fic morphed a bit into toddler/young kid fic but it’sokay)

There had been many things in Margaery’s life that she’d envisioned that had come true in her adult life - graduating from the top law school and getting a job at a major competitive law firm in King’s Landing, for one. But after spending her life in The Reach, she’s ready for a big change.

Something she certainly hadn’t seen coming was her new neighbor. Or, should she say, neighbors. She definitely doesn’t expect to wake up to a knock on her door at what feels like the crack of dawn the morning after she moves in – only to cut her gaze down – and down – until she lands on a plate of cookies being presented to her by a little girl with bright blue eyes and strawberry blonde hair and bright yellow footie pajamas.

Wearing the biggest smile possible, “I’m Alys!” she lisps on her ‘s’, “I live right there,” she points over her shoulder, almost dropping the cookies, “We made you cookies!”

And she definitely didn’t expect the woman who then whipped open that door, long red hair tumbling over one shoulder, rumpled from sleep - much like she herself still is, she realizes. Dumbly, as she takes in the long legs revealed by sleep shorts and definitely braless under that tank top - again, much like she herself is - and deep blue eyes landing with a look of relief on her miniature human alarm clock.

“Alys!” she whisper-yells, “What do we say about leaving home by yourself?”

“Not to!” Alys whisper-yells back with a bright smile, “Sorry, mama.”

She is entirely not expecting the bright yet apologetic smile sent her way by the redhead in question or the immediate way her heart skips a beat at it. Gorgeous Redhead scoops Alys up and her grin turns sheepish, her cheeks, flushed from sleep, blushing, “I’m really so sorry. Alys is an early riser, and she very much wanted to come meet you yesterday. I’m shocked I got her to hold off for so long.”

It’s… very unlike Margaery to be struck dumb by a woman, no matter how gorgeous, but it takes her a second to shake her head, “No, it’s fine. I’ve got a lot of unpacking to do, so getting up early is - probably for the best.” She lifts an eyebrow at the cookies, “Especially with some extra sugar as incentive.”

The cookies are shoved at her from Alys, “We made them for you! Mama’s cookies are the best.”

She accepts them and leans against the doorway as Gorgeous Redhead ducks her head and shuffles back across the hall, unexpectedly charmed by the duo, “I’m Margaery, by the way.”

The woman whirls around, “Sansa! That’s - I’m Sansa. It’s nice to meet you. Sorry, again, for your wakeup call.”

Margaery waves it off, shoots Alys a wink, who tries to replicate it over Sansa’s shoulder as the door closes.

She definitely doesn’t expect this to become a thing. Because she’s never been great with kids, but apparently Alys likes her, because it’s certainly not the last visit she gets from her intrepid 4 year old neighbor. And even more surprisingly, she doesn’t really mind. She likes Alys - she’s adorable and funny -

And she definitely likes her mom. Who, she learns from a mix of information from Sansa and Alys over the next few months, is a few years younger than herself, she works as a kindergarten teacher, and is from the North.

She doesn’t know much about Sansa’s love life, even though she can’t help but be interested - because she does know that Sansa is single and is a total MILF - until one day when Sansa is in a bit of a tizzy and Alys is a little glum, and when she finally gets an explanation from Sansa, it’s because, “Harry is coming for a visit.”

“Harry?” she already doesn’t like the man behind the name.

Sansa grimaces, “Alys’s father,” she whispers, casting a look at Alys, who is scribbling in her coloring book in the next room, “He only comes out to visit once or twice a year, tops, and it’s always… terrible.”

After they have dinner - something they’ve just started to do, which is kind of great for her, since Sansa always cooks full meals and Margaery… doesn’t enjoy cooking for herself - and Alys is down for the night, she gets more details. About how Harry got Sansa pregnant in her final year of college and it turns out he was cheating on her the whole time. About how he constantly has a charming smile on his face even while criticizing everything about Sansa and the way she is raising their daughter. About how his visits are always disappointing for Alys, about how this one is going to be even worse - she can feel it - because Harry is bringing his new wife.

“And I just - it’s so dumb. But he manages to make me feel so inadequate. Especially with this new wife,” Sansa lets out a humorous laugh, picking at her sweater, “And, it’s dumb, I know, but sometimes I just wish I could throw my own life back in his face. Maybe you have your own wife, but that he isn’t the only one who can do that. Which is so petty,” she shakes her head.

And Margaery vehemently disagrees, especially because Sansa is already so amazing and how does she not see that?

“Besides, I haven’t even been on a date in,” she blushes, “Well. It was with Harry, so that’s how long. But I have Alys and I just - I need to be as good of a mother to her as mine was to me, and what person wants to -”

“I’ll do it,” the words slip out before she can help it, and they’re both surprised. Margaery is still thinking, though, that Sansa used the pronoun person and not man, which has her reeling.

“What?”

“I’ll - we can be engaged, or, something. Just - to prove the point to this asshole. That you’re better on all fronts,” she adds, and the plan is already forming in her mind. She actually has a ring, she thinks absently, that would fit Sansa perfectly.

So… they do. And if it means Margaery is driving herself a little bit crazy in the best way at the fact that she gets to touch Sansa casually - her hips, her hand, the small of her back. There’s a pinched look on Harry’s face every time, and a pleased smile that Margaery knows isn’t faked at all on Sansa’s face whenever she does it (she knows because it’s the same one she wears whenever Margaery does something that makes her happy, and in the last few months, Margaery has come to really enjoy those smiles).

And if Alys is the slightest bit surprised at any of it, she doesn’t seem like it. (so much that when the entire group is coming back from dinner, Alys is the one who claps and informs Sansa that at the end of the date, she’s supposed to kiss Margaery like in movies).

– the kiss is mindblowing. Margaery is in a tailspin because she so didn’t plan to truly fall for Sansa - smart, funny MILF or not - and her little daughter, and definitely didn’t think that pretending to be engaged to her for two weeks would change everything so much… but it does. And it’s fabulous.

send me a combination of two prompts for a ship and i’ll create a plot

[cartooness]

Bby Lav AU

OKAY SO

ME AND MY LOVE @thefearanddespair CAME UP WITH THIS AU LIKE 2 WEEKS AGO AND I JUST REALIZED I NEVER TRULY POSTED IT SO HERE IT IS. WARNING IT’S HELLA LONG.

PINK HOLY SHIT

 WHAT IF EVERYONE FOUND LAV AS A TODDLER

 INSTEAD OF BEING 14, SHE'S 4

 EVERYTHING IS THE SAME EXCEPT SHE'S 10 YEARS YOUNGER

 AS WELL AS ALL THE FRIENDS

 DECAN SINGS LULLABIES

 SHE IS ALWAYS HOLDING SOMEONE'S HAND

 PIGTAILS

 “The moon sings me to sleep every night”

“The MOON?”

“Yeah! He’s very nice, I love Moon uncle”

Lav to a friend as a 4yr old bby

 And she makes friends with mason when they're 7!!

 Super childhood friends to lovers

 Y E S

 And she's always sleeping in someone's room. She doesn't like being alone

 There is always a child's blankey in all the rooms for whenever she wants to sleep with someone

 Someone- Oh can I schedule an appointment on this day?

Hadley- Oh I'm so sorry but that day is taken. I can put you for... a week from now?

Someone- Alright.

 Hadley was actually just rocking lav to sleep.

 SO CUUUTE

 UMBRELLA DAD. THEY'RE TRUE DADS NOW. ALL OF THEM.

 LAV IS STILL POWERFUL AF

 Father’s Day is a BITCH for her lmao

 Ok so she's at like Vivi's house or apartment whatever, and she drops her off at HQ, and there's a giant roll of easel paper, taller than bby lav, with all her dad's on there

 AND THEY'RE TRYING NOT TO CRY

 Or failing in Decan’s case.

 Bby Lav gets a hold of Hadley’s umbrella wand.

Hijinks ensue.

 >:)))))))))

 ÒwÓ

 Otto has to literally YEET Hadley into the fucking sky to grab her, grab the wand, and float safely to the ground again.

 LMAOOOO

 Hadders- Othello. Throw me.

Otto- Um??

Hadders- JUST DO IT

 And then they’re floating down, and Hadley’s cradling the Bby in one arm, holding his umbrella up with the other.

 Like Eclipsa with Meteora lmao

 Y E S. I M LOVE

 If Lav can ever teleport, she and Decan could do the thing Glimmer and Angella do in that last episode of season 3.

 You know, the teleport and catch thing.

 SHE CAN. SHE CAN TELEPORT

 Decan flying after her and catching her and all that in his winged form. Or even Otto doing that!

 Y E S

 Hadley is subsequently freaking the fuck out on the ground.

 PLAYTIME WITH FUN PAPAS

 WITH WORRIED MOM

 “PUT HER DOOOOOWWWWWN!”

Otto proceeds to blow him a rather Loud raspberry lmao

 AND LAV GIGGLING LIKE CRAZY, "AGAIN, AGAIN!!!"

Otto- you heard the little lady!! Again!

 Hadley: “ARE YOU ACTUALLY JOKING ME???”

And Otto blows another raspberry. And makes a rather crude joke.

And Hadley is jusT O F F E ND

 LAV IS A VERY ACTIVE BABY

 THEY'RE ALWAYS CHASING HER THROUGH THE HOUSE OR AT PARKS AND STUFF.

 HER KITTY EYES ARE MORE IRRESISTIBLE THAN BEFORE.

 SHE STILL HAS BEANS AND PURRING

 Hadley: *Bitching at Otto*

Otto: “PBBPPBRBTBRBRPT!! Jeeez, Hadley, all that hot air you’re blowin’ is contagious, crack a window wont’cha?”

Hadley: *Pterodactyl screeching*

 LMAOOOOO

 Hadders- BUT MY BABY DOWN BEFORE I BEAT YOUR BUTT!!

Decan- MAKE US.

 Otto- SHE'S OUR BABY TOO, YA KNOW!

 Meanwhile Lav is enjoying the silly stuff her papas are fighting over and is thrilled of being tossed around. XD

 Decan’s just laughing and twirling and stuff. He’s all just “It’s fiiiiiine!”

 :OOOOOO

LAV IN KINDERGARTEN SHOWING ALL THE KIDS HER BIG ASS EXTENDED FAMILY.

 Lav’s presence just screams ‘Gay Rights’ to all the other little kids.

 Even if not all of the parents agree.....

They get told off

 Lav- And this is all my papas!! They all love each other very much.

The teacher- Lavender, sweetie, did you say that your "papas" all.... love each other?

Lav- Yeah!! Daniel and Cecil love each other. Decan and Otto love each other. Lewis, Vivi, and Arthur love each other. Merlin and Quentin love each other. And Percy and Hadley don't have love yet.

The teacher- *grimace*

Some kid- You're dad's are all *insert slur here*!!!

Lav- Stop, that's mean!!

Some kid- No it's not, it's true!!

And he gets shoved out if his desk.

And poor bby lav comes crying when they pick her up, explaining how all the kids made fun of her and her family.

 Hadley then calls in to the office when he picks her up from school that day.

 He has a few words XD

 A few.....very polite, very CHOICE words.

 And then he’s like to Lavender.

“Now, I’m not one to spoil children, but I do believe that an ice cream....or two....is warranted at a time like this.”

And that means a lot when HADLEY’S the one doing the treating. The responsible, rule-driven and sometimes strict parent.

 YES BIG LOVE.

 “Just....don’t tell anyone else. They’ll have me strung upon a wall, or....thrown in the stocks.”

Very old fashioned boi lmao

 Lav, a good girl, - Okay Papa Hadley!

 And she proceeds to eat two scoops of peaches and cream ice cream.

 Adorable.

 I know!!

AND COULD YOU IMAGINE? BABY MASON?

 They're in the same first grade class and they're table buddies!!!

 They probably have play dates all the time!!

 AND SHE MAKES HIM THINGS OUT OF MAGIC SOMETIMES

 7 year old Lav- Mason, Mason!!! Look what I can do!! *makes a pinecone out of magic*

7 year old Mason- :OOO THAT'S SO COOL LAV!!!!

 This is way too fucking cute, I can’t.

 Mason, showing his pinecone to Kyle, then Nicole, - NICKY, LOOK WHAT LAV MADE ME!!!!

Pre Transition Kyle- Woah! That's so cool!!!

Mason - I'm gonna keep it in my box of special things, where it'll be safe!!!

 BBY LAV PLAYING WITH OTTO AND DECAN’S NON-HUMAN PARTS?

Pointy ears, Tails, Wings, Dec’s Horns, Otto’s Fangs

 YES YES YES SHE WOULD

 “Woooow! You’ve got weally big teeth, Papa Otto!”

Or

“You have vewwy pwetty wings Papa Decan!”

 And they’re just....melting.

 I'M LOVE I'M LOVE

 OR PLAYING WITH DANIEL AND CECIL HAIR. OR ANYONE'S HAIR IN GENERAL

 Hadley’s super long and thicc hair lmao

 Y E S

 One day, Hadley's hair is just. Covered in hair accessories.

 And lav says to keep them in all day. And so he does.

 And it takes like half an hour to take all of them out lmaooo

 WHEN OTTO COMES HOME FROM LIKE TRAINING OR SOMETHING AND HE'S ALL BEAT UP, LAV AND DECAN CLEAN UP HIS WOUNDS, BUT LAV PUTS LIKE PRINCESS BAND AIDS ON ALL THE SCRATCHES AND STUFF.

Someone- Why do you have... girly band aids all over you?

Otto- the doctor said I had to keep these on and if I take them off I will die.

 He’s sitting in a chair, like, grumbling as Cecil and Daniel have to take them out.

ALSO ABSOLUTELY HE WOULD DO THAT!

 Big Masculine Buff Man.

Princess Bandaids. And they’re, like, his pride and joy.

 Awwww!!

 Best part of getting beat up. Lav gives him the Princess bandaids. He says they make him look badass.

Proud Papa.

 Cecil’s a fashion designer.

Bby fashion.

 :OOOOOOOOOOOO

 I D E A S

 YOU KNOW HOW LAV LIKES TO BE COMFY? SHE PROBABLY HAS A BUNCH OF CUTE SWEATERS THAT SHE WEARS ALL THE TIME

 ALL HER DADS LOVE HER TO BITS AND YOU WILL DIE IF YOU MESS WITH THEIR SHARED BABY GIRL

OMG. PARENT TEACHER CONFERENCE THINGS.

 GASP. LAV LEARNING ABOUT THE LGBT COMMUNITY. SHE'S 4 INSTEAD OF 14 WHEN SHE LEARNS.

 Also YES all of that is über wholesome

 Otto goes and when people are, like, homophobic or whatever, he sorta lounges back, feet on the table, and does his sorta ‘Blow-Raspberry-Fart-Jokes’ routine that he loves so much at all the other people and they’d be like ‘Honestly this is an grown-up affair, why don’t you act your age you disgusting slob of a man’ and he’s just like ‘Really? Then why don’t y’all stop acting like a bunch of whiny children, whining about the 21st century? Then maybe I’ll treat y’all like adults and this meeting like something important. (Otto is the king of Fart Jokes lmao. He’s a big old child.

And terribly dad-like like that. It’s just one of the truths about him.)

 OMG IMAGINE MASONDER

 Okay so, they're both like, 12 I guess, and it's Lavender's birthday, and Mason gives her like, a really cute stuffed animal, and she Instantly Loves, and she gives him a big hug and a peck on the face.

 Cue awkward silence

 Everyone sees.YES EXACTLY

 Big old moment.

Baby’s First Kiss

 Mason, not knowing what to do, just returns the favor.

 And Lav is almost about to DIE FROM HER MASSIVE BLUSHING.  Mason's fucking. Avoiding all eye contact with everyone, and it's a very uncomfortable silence.

 And finally Lav breaks the silence by grabbing his face and kissing him.

EVERYONE IS LOSING THEIR SHIT

 Hadley, in the back of the room,

"IS THIS ALLOWED!?!?!? IS THIS ALLOWED!?!?!?

Emotional Moment.

And the supposedly steel-hearted Hadley finally breaks down crying. All that internal emotion becomes external emotion.

(And his makeup gets smudged, and it’s all crazy and emotional.)

Otto fucking SCOOPS Lavender up into his big, hairy arms and hugs her. All “HELL YEAH GIRL! How’d it feel!? What was it like?! I know he’s not as good a kisser as D-EEEEEEEEEEEEEAAAAAAAKKKK-an, but STILL!” He had that emotional bat-screech moment.

And Decan’s just a blubbering mess. All proud Daddy style. They grow up so fast and all that.

 Mason- ARE YOU ALL OKAY?!?! AM I IN TROUBLE?!?!

Vivi just cheers. Mama Bear style.

 And Lewis is all

"I SWEAR TO GOD IF YOU HURT HER IN ANYWAY I WILL BREAK YOU: Mason, scared,- Y-yes sir. I'll um, I'll be good, I promise.

Hadley’s like that too. But a lot less overt.

And a lot more shadow-over-the-face serious.

 He pulls Mason aside for Tea, and has a full on discussion with him over it. Making for DAMN sure he knows what he’s getting into, and making damn sure that Mason has no intention of in any way fucking around and breaking her heart.

 Mason, at the end of it all,- Yes, sir, I understand. Am I free to go?

Hadley - Yes. But remember, I'm always watching. *does that I've got my eyes on you tea sip thing*

And he IS!

 The following week, Hadley pulls aside Lav and asks all about her and Mason. Plot twist is that he KNOWS. And is testing to see whether or not she reproduces what he’s already seen. To test wether or not she’s lying. And if she IS, Mason told her to lie and he’s bricked.

He’s terribly cunning like that.

 The following week, Hadley pulls aside Lav and asks all about her and Mason.

 Lav- Aw, I'm glad you asked! He's so cute, that Button. Anyway, we've been eating lunch together and we shared a cookie, um, we held hands a lot, what else, um, please don't be um, mad, but, um, we kinda..... fell asleep together while you were at work.

Hadders- Oh I know.

Lav- What?

Hadley: Lavender, Darling, you should know by now. I make it my business to know everything. The surname ‘Trivia’ doesn’t come for free.

He could easily pull an Eclipsa and cast some sort of All-Seeing-Eye.

Hadley doesn’t see limits when he’s protecting someone. He’s willing to go as far as it takes.

 Lav- Are you mad at me? I mean, we weren't doing anything, like, BAD, but still, if you don't want us to do that we'll stop.

 H: On the contrary! I’m very happy with you. You passed the test.

I was watching you both. The whole time. And I wanted to be sure that he hadn’t convinced you to lie to me if you were asked. Or, heaven forbid, you lie on your own will. And you didn’t lie at all!

Lav- Oh. Uh, cool! I guess! Also, he is a very good cuddle partner. Just thought I'd say that. Also his hair is really soft and it's fun to play with. And- *proceeds to ramble on about Mason lol*

 Hadley then just sorta sits down and conjures some coffee for himself.

She's in love, Hadley!!!! Yep lol

 And Ashley, on the other hand, is listening to a very happy mason go on about Lavender and it's adorable. He announced to Kyle (he had just transitioned) over the house phone about his new relationship with Lav and Kyle's so happy for him and, of course, teases a bit, but asks for all the details.

 They're Those (tm) friends who love info dumping about things they're passionate about.

Omg, imagine Lav going on and on about Mason to Decan and Otto. They’re just sorta babbling with her. Otto TRIES to give relationship advice but he’s just.... Terrible, it’s terrible advice lmao. He’s just trying.

And Decan’s laughing his li’l head off.

Decan, fanboying,- Oh my goodness, Peaches!! You guys are so CUTE!!!!! When's the wedding~~~

Lav- DECAN!!!!!! Ò//////Ó

 Decan - I'M JOKING. *mostly anyway, they still get married after college graduation*

 O: “K, you gotta try and outsmart him into letting you kill him! But you’ll find as you go that you’re actually falling for him and he’s falling for you too and it goes from there! And you can win him over with pick-up lines or fart jokes or by rapping for him as he sings along and I got notebooks for that sorta stuff if ya-“

D: *While laughing* “Otto, darling, c’mmoooooonnn! That advice sucks, not everybody falls for that crude humour and personality like I did, you know!”

O: “Psh! Oh yeah! Watch her try it and watch it work like a charm!”

D: “Oh yes, a charm, indeed.~ If your ‘embrace your inner animal’ way works then naturally my way would happen next, wouldn’t it? Soften you to mush and then claim that mush as mine.”

O: “Oh, ya li’l SCAMP! GET IN HERE!”

*Otto then proceeds to pull Decan in and noogie him between his horns as he laughs and kicks.*

 OMG THAT'S SO CUTE

Lav- Uhhhhh. I think I'll just. Go with the flow and maybe I'll try and kiss him again on Friday. Might bring a flavored lip gloss with me that day....

Decan- OOOH, SOMEONE HAS PLANS!!!!

Lav- DECAN, PLEASE!!!! ÒÒ///////ÓÓ

 ~~Otto got REALLY lucky finding someone as naturalist and oblivious to human sociality as Decan, let’s be honest, if ‘inner-beast’ crudeness and rude-fraternity-boy charm is his play style lmao~~

O: “Decan, we’re gonna be there and we’re gonna bring the MP3.”

D: “Love-songs, Yes? Can do.”

O: “Warm up those vocal chords!”

D: “Only if you warm up yours.”

O: “We’re gonna give them the best ambience EVER!”

D: “Historical. It shall be written down and carried down till the end of time!”

O: “HELL YEAH! VÁMONOS!”

 Lav- uh, you don't have to do that, it'll be like. Maybe after school? In the courtyard?

They’re, like, playfully pouty like ‘Fiiiiiiiiiiiine.’ But really they’re just happy for her.

 God, Otto and Percy are, like, the disaster parents for Lav. Especially for Bby lav.

Otto, especially, would absolutely ADORE Lav. I can’t speak entirely for Percy but I feel like they’d love her a whole bunch, but god, Otto absolutely adores Lavender.

 AWWWWW

Big, buff, tuff, ill-mannered-gentleman Vamp Dad and his li’l goddess.

 OMG HOLY FUCK NUGGETS YOU KNOW THAT THING? WHERE IT'S TWO ADULTS AND ONE BBY IN THE MIDDLE? DECAN, LAV, AND OTTO. Y E S. OR WITH ANY COUPLE ACTUALLY. AND THEN THEY SWING BBY LAV OVER LIKE CURBS AND STUFF AND AHHHH I'M SOMFT. SO CUUUTE!!!! OOH IN THIS AU, MASON AND LAV ARE STILL HELLA CUDDLY AND SNUGGLY. Gonna stop doing all caps lol. Anyway, masonder happens a bit earlier, but they've been friends for like 5 years at the time they are a Thing, so yeah haha. They are THE cutest thing ever. Always holding hands, face holding, sharing food, small pecks on the face, all that cute stuff uwu. They're in 7th grade btw. Both 12. They're relationship is steady and lasts all throughout middle school and high school. (Yes. They are the DEFINITION of an "Endgame Ship.") And then after they do the whole college thing, they tie the knot, have a baby, and live happily ever after uwu. :P

( This next bit is from a comic I did lol)

 QUENTIN GAVE HER THE KNIFE

Otto: “LAV, YOU CAN’T HAVE A KNIFE!!!

Have a crossbow, it’s much more powerful.” “Just don’t go staking papa Otto through the chest, now! It’s bad for me!”

 Lav- Oh cool! What about a sword! I'll be careful, I promise! And Hadley’s losing his mind lol Decan: *Does the moon butterfly magic sword thing*

“Here you are!” Bby Lav-

>:OOOOOOOO I'M GONNA KILL HOMOPHOBIC PEOPLE!!!

Hadley- Lav, honey, that's illegal.

Lav- But Mx. Percy does illegal stuff all the time!! Hadley: *Scoops Lavender up and Mary-Poppins flies the fuck out* YES

And that's what we came up with lmao

[umccall71]

Snacktime

Book: The Royal Romance

Characters: king Liam x (mc) Lady Sexy

Rating:NSFW

Word count:2759

Disclaimer: All characters used are sole property of Pixelberry. I am simply borrowing them for entertainment purposes.

It had 4 weeks since the king had advised his queen of plans for the Asian Expo in Shanghai, it had also been 4 weeks since Sexy informed Liam of the change of plans. He was given instructions to the letter of how things would go down.King Liam could never deny his Queen. He succumbed to her not so subtle suggestion of changing the location and guest expectations.Sexy was definitely a force to be reckoned with behind her beauty. Liam could never explain how he always came around to her thinking, in spite of what he had laid out. He found it amusing that he could stand shoulder to shoulder with the most formidable leaders in the world, but he was no match for Queen Sexy.

Liam and Sexy had an appointment for her postpartum checkup before the craziness of the delegates arrival began.The couple shared a leisurely stroll down the stairs and met Bastien by the SUV heading to the doctors office.

“Are you ready to be released from physician session care my love?”,he asked a little too eagerly. You see,Liam had been waiting…. right along with his Queen for this big day. He had gotten acquainted with his royal member for the last 10 weeks. He caught himself daydreaming about what he would do once they could reconnect.

Sexy smirked knowing all too well what was on her stallion of a husband’s mind.”I take it you have plans once the doc releases me, I get it.”Sexy’s hand started leisurely moving up his muscular thigh, playfully looking away from him to avoid his gaze.She heard Liam take a deep, bothered breath.As quickly as her hand moved up, she removed it again.

“Perfect timing considering we’re here.”Liam composes himself and walked side by side with the queen.

After about 45 minutes and a clean bill of health later, they returned back to the palace.walking back into the royal apartments, Liam slid his arms around his queens waist kissing her on her neck, earlobe, and shoulder.

“Liam, what time does the delegation begin to arrive?Slow down tiger, we have to focus on the business at hand.” She giggles and removed herself from his grasp.

“Arrivals begin at 6:00 pm, drinks and hors d’oeuvres at 6:30, we are announced at 7, followed by dinner dessert, and out of these clothes by 9pm.”

“Damn, you smell so good, I can taste you already baby.” He releases a frustrated sigh and a deep groan wanting to skip the night.

“You know it’s bad form my king to skip your own party.” Sexy slips her arms around his neck and leans in to place her forehead on his forehead.”

“If you keep to business and avoid whoretalk, you can reach the promise land tonight…. my king.”

She placed a quick peck on his lips and separated, knowing left to his devices, she wouldn’t make it of this apartment for hours.If Sexy knew anything, it was that her king was insatiable and would not leave her unsatisfied.Sexy caught a brief shiver down her spine thinking of the numerous ways he would make her cry out his name.The twins, would definitely learn daddy’s name tonight.

Sexy bit her lower lip trying to move past the thoughts racing through her mind.

“What time will the nanny arrive to care for the twins?, she asked as if going through a mental checklist.

“4:30, leaving us plenty of time to get dressed and make our way down to the ballroom.”Liam adjusted his jacket.”speaking of getting ready, I have a little accessory I would like you to wear this evening.” He flashed a devilish, knowing grin before retreating to their chambers and returned.

“Liam, what are those?”her brow quirked up wondering what he had in mind for tonight. He presented a pair of black, lace, French cut thong underwear wired with a vibrating device.

He ghost his hands down her curves and landed on her private chest between her thighs. He inhaled as he pressed his face to her hair, “right there my Queen.”

She smirks and narrows her eyes , lowers her voice,”you have been busy my king.”

“Not being able to make love to my sexy wife has been torture.This has always been the highlight of my day.”liam locks eyes with his queen staring, hungrily in the mirror of the hall.

“I’m game if you are, my king.”she chuckled,”so who operates the remote control?”

“Why I do of course my love… I need to prime you for what’s to come.”he growled out,”but in the mean time, I need to assure the staff have all the rooms prepared for the delegates.”

“You’ve confirmed that Mr. Lee won’t bringing any surprises ?she stared at him momentarily before parting ways.

“No surprises, other than when to expect those sensations that will drive you to the brink of ecstasy.”Sexy gasp and clutched her chest at the thought l, anticipation building .

Liam and Sexy breezed through afternoon, prepared for the event, and seemed more playful than in months.The evening harkened back to pre- Hana disrespect days, days when they could sneak off to have a private moment at these balls.Liam watched as his Queen dressed in a vintage, peek a boo lace long sleeve fitted bodice contoured at her waist with a silhouette hugging satin mermaid gown.

“You are stunning my Queen, I’m not sure I’m ready to share you with the room.This evening is going to be harder than I thought.” He let out a wicked laugh. Her elongated neck was accentuated by her hair pinned up and swept to the side cascading brown curls framing her face. Her make up was flawless, and those lips, he wanted to bite and suck on her full lips painted with red lipstick. Liam couldn’t keep his eyes off of her mouth.

Sexy knew how this was incredibly hard for liam ,this would be fun taunting him, teasing him as the night drew on.”If your a good boy, mama will share some of her snacks.” She smiled seductively before taking his arm and making the familiar path down to the ballroom where there were announced to the delegates.

One by one the delegates lined up being greeted by the king and Queen, made their way through the procession. After 6 delegates, they came face to face with Xinghai Lee.He bowed and paid his respects to the royal couple.

“You look lovely this evening, your majesty”, he meekly spoke with a smile.

“Why thank you Mr Lee, how kind of you to say so.”,she nodded politely.

“My wife, Lorelei sends her apologies not being able to make the trip this time. It appears that she had a conflicting engagement.”

“So you came alone?,I hope you still enjoy your visit and find it to be productive to all involved.”Liam took comfort in getting confirmation that Hana has not decided to push the envelope and his wife’s patience.He could see the masterful relaxing of Sexy’s back. He felt horribly that she had to focus on this at all when they had such an incredible bond and sex life. It had felt like there was a ghost in their bedroom, lurking behind the slightest statement. Tonight, he would enjoy watching his queen at work dazzling the delegates and the room.

After drinks, the group sat down to dinner where Sexy would get the first taste of the vibrations in her underwear positioned slightly above her clitoris, which Liam affectionately referred to as her”pearl”. She quickly tried to adjust to the sensation while looking on watching him indulge in conversation with President of China. She saw the subtle glance and smirk as he maneuvered the remote to create just the right amount of pressure. After about a minute, he stopped and Sexy breathed out trying not to let on the feeling of heat coursing through her core.

Dinner wrapped up and Liam led Sexy to the center of the dance floor setting the program starting with a tango. The sensual music filled the room as Liam pulled his Queen to his torso firmly, guiding her slender frame in the sexual steps. As she dropped to the floor extending her leg, she felt the vibration against her pearl as Liam locked eyes with her. She couldn’t escape the lust blown haze in his eyes. Liam pulled up and felt her leg wrap around his calf, she trembled trying to keep it together. Once again the feeling stopped, but she felt the edging as she was so close to reaching a climax.

Sexy felt a flutter in her lace undies when she whispered,”you are taking too much pleasure in this awkward moment, my king.”Liam smiled down at her, grazing his hands down her back landing on her ass.The Royal couple heard the music crescendo before ending.

The room erupted in applause as the royal couple exited the floor.Liam began winding down and gave his closing remarks. The switch was engaged once again and Sexy felt as if she couldn’t contain herself, she graciously made her way out to the balcony, avoiding the wandering eyes of the palace guests.Queen Sexy devoured a glass of champagne trying to quell the sexual tension and desire that was unbelievably hot. Liam turned the remote off as he made his way to collect his queen to return to their quarters.Liam rubbed the curve of her lower back as they moved through the halls.

“Are you okay my queen, you seem a little flushed.”he smirked as she swatted his hand off of her back.

“Your hilarious Liam, I’m glad I can serve as amusement for you tonight. You knew exactly what you were doing to me.”

“My love, I warned you what was to come, consider that an appetizer. The way I wanted you, there is no way you were not going to let me have every.inch.of. You.” Liam places kisses on her in between words before opening the door to their quarters.

The couple released the nanny for the evening and kissed the twins goodnight.Liam intertwined his fingers with Sexy’s as they made their way to the royal chambers.No sooner than the doors closed to the room, his lips crashed against her as he pushed back to the door.

“Mmm… Liam,”she moaned against his lips. Feeling his warm breath against her face was intoxicating.Sexy got lost in feeling him making a path down her neck, her collarbone,the soft spot behind her ear, and back to her lips.

“Sexy….I will never get enough of you.” He felt his pulse racing here in this moment with the love of his wife.

She felt his fingers undoing the delicate buttons on the side of her dress.”Damn baby, why is this still on you, there is too much fabric between this beautiful body and me .”Liam finally impatiently removed the dress from her shoulders and it pooled to the floor.

Like a magnet his lips made their way to the barely bra and tugged at her nipple with his teeth.Sexy could not believe this was happening, it seemed like a lifetime since this man took her to the edge of ecstasy and passion. Liam used his hand to pop her clasp from the bra before tossing it aside.The sensation of the sucking, flicking, nibbling, and sensual bites were becoming unbearable.King Liam’s blue eyes honed in on her brown eyes as he descended down her chest, her stomach, and licked from hip to hip her band of her panties.

“I recall there being talk of sharing your snacks, if I was a good boy.Daddy is hungry and ready for a snack.” He groaned as he slid her panties down her legs and she stepped out of them one leg at a time.Liam kneaded her thighs and calfs as he removed her fuck me heels.

Her king looked up , but then before she knew what was happening, hoisted her in the air against the door. He positioned her legs over his shoulders and gripped her ass as his mouth found her center. “My God Sexy… do you know how long I’ve waited to taste you again?”She felt his tongue seeking her slit, moving in a glorious motion from the back to the front before his lips wrapped around her pearl, sucking her in deeply.

“God Liam, you feel so damn good… please , don’t stop” Sexy couldn’t catch her breath as heat from his mouth and the thrill of being open to him took over, he felt her thighs start to tense and shake.

Sexy felt his tongue dancing in a figure eight around her clit as her climax was moments away.

“Cum for me Sexy… daddy needs to taste your sweetness.I know there baby, let it go” Feeling the vibration of his words against her sensitive nub, sent her over the edge. He watched her belly rapidly moving in and out as she came for him.

“Liam, fuck, that feels amazing!” She screamed out his name as she exploded.

King Liam slid her body slowly to the floor and took her lips tasting her again. He smiled before kissing and walking her backwards to their bed. Sexy’s body moved to the center of the bed as she leaned back on her elbows with her eyes filled with wanting… she missed her king.Liam made quick work discarding his clothing leaving in a heap on the floor, joining her gown. Her eyes stretched watching his long, thick member grace the sexual stage.

“Someone wants to come say hello to his Queen.”,he shoots her a crooked grin while making his way up the massive bed and separating her thighs.”would you mind if we come to joined you, his mouth found hers again, she gleefully nodded yes.

Without further delay, Liam grazed her entrance with the tip of his manhood.”Baby, you are so wet for me already .” He closed his eyes momentarily while he moved against her slowly at first allowing her to adjust to the welcomed intrusion. She craved this man day and night, she felt him deep inside as her vagina molded to him . The way Liam filled her was amazing, they moved in perfect sync together, Liam’s hands gripping her hips as he pulled her to him , driving home the pleasure at hitting her spot, just right. Sexy’s hops bucked against Liam watching what being inside of her , did to her king. They both increased their pace feeling each other edging toward a overdue climax. He felt her fluttering around him, she felt his member pulsing inside .The Only sounds were their bodies meeting as one , and the heavy breathing building to an explosion.

“I want you come with me my Queen.” No sooner than he muttered those worse, her body gave way to a cataclysmic orgasm, she only saw the smile on his face and then the white behind her lids, she yelled out,Liam, Liam, fuck!”. Liam shot his essence all over her inner walls panting out,”Damn you feel so fucking good. He collapsed beside her and pulled her close as they waited for the breath to return to normal.

After several moments,Liam rose from the bed and made his way to the bathroom, she could hear the water running for a bath.

“Come my Queen.”he took her hand and walked tiredly to sink into a blissful, fragrant bath. Liam climbed in first and opened his thighs to accommodate her tiny frame. He placed a kiss to the top of her head and enveloped her body in his arms.

“I love you my Queen.” He whispered.

“ I love you too my king, do see how your rewarded when you just indulge your Queen?” She chuckled.

Liam grins as he holds her tighter, “ Are you ready for round 2 Sexy?”

“Are you sure you want the twins to learn your name by mama screaming out?, at this rate, you’ll have me knocked up again in no time.” They both let out a laugh and kissed.

“My love , if I had my way, I would fill every room of this palace with children, I love the sight of you pregnant.”

Sexy shoots him an alarming look… “ let’s take this one step at a time my king.”

[dramaqueeenamby]

Space Between (9)

TAGLIST: @katshrev @elaindeereads @soulmates8 @naturallyqueenie @onyour-right @msincognito67 @janellemonaenae @afraiddreamingandloving @hutchj @90sinspiredgirl  @airis-paris14  @dolphinpink310 @purplemuse @amberkay284 @leafdragon117 @meeky-imagines@aieyr @h-challa @quietemptydiariess @katasstrophey @wakanda-inspired @destinio1 @dessianna1@blackpantherimagines @httpjex @palmsofgranate @dessianna1 @armani9-9 @melanisticroyalty @stressedgyal @profilia @theestrangeddreamer @mixedmelanin @almostpurelysmut @writingmarvellousimagines @amberthegamer @sisterwifeudaku @texasbama @lcb7 @kumkaniudaku @lavitabella87

MASTERLIST

Words: 6878

I went a little link crazy in this chapter, but you all know that I love visuals! Also, the link for Nala and Bunme’s outfits for this chapter are HERE. 

Link for Nala’s shape (she’s a curvy girl) HERE. (I just love this video, bruh. Her complexion and body....ugh.) 

Enjoy #BunBunWednesday a little early this week! ❤️

Space Between (9)

“It is about time that you come out and socialize with us,” Shuri exclaimed with a wide smile as the woman continued to take apart her microbraids. “I was beginning to think we’d offended you.”

“I believe that the princess has been a little preoccupied. That’s all.” Nakia smirked as a hairdresser worked a prepoo treatment into her thick coils.

“Is that so?” Hawla chimed as another woman moved quickly to take her box braids down, the evidence that she was slightly overdue for a touchup shown by her slightly prominent new growth.

Nala rolled her eyes, trying not to let her discomfort show as the last of the hairdressers worked to undo her twists. Back in Niganda, she always handled her own her so allowing foreign fingers to have free range over her crowning glory was certainly a strange feeling.

“You all know that Bunme started school.”

“Yes, but what does that have to do with you?” Nakia tilted her head. “Surely, you do not mean to suggest that somehow tied up your schedule.”

“If anything, it should be the opposite.” Shuri shrugged.

“Perhaps she’s been tied up with other things.” Nakia gave a knowing look to M’Baku’s wife.

The leader of the Jabari tribe smiled coyly. “People.”

Nakia gigged. “Person.”

“And this is precisely why I was hesitant about an outing out with my brother’s best friend, his ex-girlfriend, and his current girlfriend-“

“Wait.” Nala sat up in the chair, quickly apologizing to the hairdresser who was in the middle of undoing a twist. “You and T’Challa used to date?”

“Yes, many years ago.” Nakia laughed loudly, almost with embarrassment.

“It was around the time Ramonda was hellbent on finding him a nice and suitable Wakandan woman to settle down with one day when he finally became king.” Hawla mocked Queen Mother’s velvety tone, sitting up and moving her shoulders with an eye roll. “The woman has always been unbearable.” She looked over at the princess of Wakanda. “No offense.”

Shuri shook her head. “I love mama, but she turns into a bit of a nightmare when it comes to brother. Far too controlling.”

Nala leaned back into her chair. “I suppose I do not fall into the category of a nice and suitable Wakandan woman.”

Nakia shot her a sympathetic smile. “Few do. Do not let her discourage you.”

“Especially when it is so painfully obvious how much T’Challa cares for you,” Shuri added on. “And how much you care for him.” Nala rolled her eyes and prepared to argue that the two were just friends. “And do not even try to deny it because of note how you failed to correct me when I referred to you as his girlfriend. You only inquired about his relationship with Nakia.”

Nala went to respond but quickly recognized that she had no room to talk. Shuri was correct. She’d most definitely failed to correct T’Challa’s sister when she’d referred to the older princess as his girlfriend. She might not have known what to classify her arrangement with T as, but she firmly believed that it was too soon to be labeling her as his partner.

“A mistake on my part.” She smiled in a tight line. “I am not his girlfriend, Shuri. We are just friends.”

Hawla and Nakia snickered, the pregnant woman being the first to speak.

“Still spewing that line out?”

“Perhaps she truly believes it.” Nakia joked, pulling her wrist as she smiled at something that flashed across her Kimoyo beads.

Hawla and Shuri shared a look, both withholding small smiles. It was as though the War Dog sensed the non-verbal conversation taking place and looked up and around the room. “What?”

“Oh, nothing.” Hawla feigned innocence, causing the princess of the River Tribe to roll her eyes.

At that moment, Dumi walked into the salon, causing all eyes to fall on him, the warrior pausing for a second before trekking over to Nala.

“Princess, I attempted to contact your sister again, but there is still no answer.” He informed with an edge to his voice.

“Very well.” She sighed with disappointment. “Please try again within another hour or so.” When he didn’t make an effort to move, she pressed him. “Is there something wrong?”

“Forgive me if I speak out of place your highness, but you and your sister have lived in the same palace for years and barely exchange five words to each other outside of dinner.” Nala gripped the arms of the chair, astonished that he would speak so openly about her familial affairs in a public setting. “And now that you are both in protective custody, secure locations, you suddenly have the desire to converse with her?”

“You are correct, Dumi.” She shot out of her chair, unsympathetic to the stylist as she was only concerned with the guard who stood before her. “You do speak out of place.”

He bit his lip and quickly dropped his head. “I do apologize, my princess, but when you rip me from my duties protecting princess Bunme.”

“Bunme is under the protection of Ayo whose abilities to guard her I am more than confident in.” She interjected sharply. “And after school, she is spending the day with T’Challa so need I even state the obvious in terms of if she needs your protection when she’s with him?” It was not lost on her how his jaw clenched at the mention of Bunme’s father. “Your services of guarding my daughter were not needed today. They were needed for exactly what you are doing, and I do not appreciate this questioning of my orders.”

“I....apologize, your majesty.” He bowed, slightly, reluctantly, the anger evident in his voice.  

“Do not let it happen again.” She warned, turning back around to sit in her seat. By the time she looked up, he was out the door.

“Ha! Got em!” Shuri called out, dubbed over and clapping with a wide smile. The woman who was working on her hair shaking her head at the young teenagers forever American cultural references.

“Ignore her.” Hawla rolled her eyes. “Is everything alright with you two?”

“Dumi?” Nala raised a brow. “He’s been acting a bit strange for the past few days but nothing that I cannot handle.” This time, all three women looked at each other. “What?”

“Oh, come on now. Surely, you must know or, at the very least, see it.” Nala furrowed her naturally thick brows at Hawla’s opening statement. “Dumi fancies you, Y/N.”

Nala paused, scoffed, and laughed. “Don’t be ridiculous.”

“It is not ridiculous,” Nakia argued, leaning back into her chair as she prepared to get her hair washed. “You can see it in the way he looks at you. That territorial mentality extends far beyond the normal bodyguard/client hemisphere.”

Nala was listening but not accepting. Dumi was protective, yes, but they didn’t understand why. They didn’t know the history that she shared with him, the platonic history. He’d been assigned her personal guard the moment that she revealed her pregnancy to her parents. He’d been in the room with her, holding her hand as she gave birth (naturally, as her parents thought it an appropriate punishment for her ‘transgression’), offering encouragement as she cried and screamed through the painful ordeal. He was the first person that she authorized to hold Bunme, the first person to hear her little girl say her first word, the only positive male figure in Bunme’s life.

Well, until T’Challa.

So, to a certain extent, she could understand him being jealous.

Of Bunme and T’Challa. Not herself and the king. That was ridiculous.

“Although.....” Hawla leaned over in her chair to look out the window where Dumi was standing watch. “He is rather aesthetically pleasing.”

The sound of the door opening prompted the women to look up and see a Jabari warrior walking in, one who seemed to be no older than 20. Nala waited for Hawla to say something and was instead surprised when Shuri hopped out of her chair and ran into the young man’s arms.

The two spoke in hushed Xhosa tones, but it didn’t take much to figure out by the way he smiled down at the princess and the way she blushed, hitting his arm when he said something, that the two were more than friends.

“Shuri has a boyfriend?” Nala smiled softly.

“Shhh.” M’Baku’s wife smirked. “Don’t tell T’Challa.”

Her mouth formed into an ‘O’ as Nakia sat up in her chair, a towel lightly patted around her hair to absorb excess water.

“I suppose you will meet him another time.” Nakia giggled as the two lovebirds appeared to be in their own little world.

“Why does T’Challa not approve of him?” Nala questioned with a sad smile. Shuri was a sweet kid who seemed to not cause any problems. She’d been nothing but kind to herself and Bunme since they’d arrived. She hated that the teen apparently had to sneak behind her brother’s back.

“He still thinks her still a child, he is Jabari, and he is eighteen,” Nakia said with a voice that indicated she found all of the reasons that she’d just listed to be absolutely ridiculous.

So did Nala.

“Firstly, she is sixteen, hardly a child. Secondly, are Jabari’s not still Wakandan? Thirdly, how hypocritical of him when he is nearly four years older than me?” She truly was incensed by how he could be so opposed to what must have been an okay pairing if both Nakia and Hawla saw no fault. “Honestly, he can be such a pompous bastard.”

Hawla laughed and clapped her hands. “uphelele kuye.” (She is perfect for him)

Nakia covered her giggles with her mouth. “Zinezinkani zombini, kodwa zilinganisana.” (They are both stubborn, but they balance each other out.

“uya kwenza ukumkanikazi omkhulu.” (She will make a great queen)

“I have no idea what the context is, but I’m sure that I agree if my inkling as to who and what you two are talking about is correct.” Shuri commented as the women realized that her boyfriend had left the building.

“And I have no idea what is being said, period,” Nala complained, crossing her arms over her chest.

“Don’t worry. No one is foolish enough to speak ill of you, period, let alone when you are in earshot. Unless they want to deal with my brother.”

“I am perfectly capable of fighting my own battles.” Her eyes burned with indignation. “Never mind that. Shuri….the young man-“

The scientist's eyes widened. “You won’t say anything to him, will you?”

“Of course not.” Nala’s face contorted with disgust even at the thought of betraying the teenager’s trust. “However, whenever you do decide to talk to him, let me know. I’ll help you plead your case.”

Shuri’s face lit up with surprise. “Do you mean that?”

Nala smirked. “Grilling into your brother and calling him out on his hypocrisy happen to be my speciality.”

The corner of the scientist mouth quirked up. “Thank you, Y/N.”

“It’s the least I can do. You’ve been so good to Bunme.” She looked around the room. “All of you.”

“Speaking of, just what does that best friend of mine has planned for that little girl?”

♔ ♔ ♔ ♔ ♔

“Why does she get to be the line leader? She’s not even Wakandan.”

Bunme made a ‘hmph’ sound as she whipped her head around, her eyes squinted and her chin raised as she proudly declared to the student who’d never been particularly fond of her, “Because I’m a princess.”

The little girl matched Bunme’s tone but also crossed her arms. “Not here you’re not.” Chronologically, she was two years older than Bunme but insistent on nagging the younger girl for reasons beyond Bunme’s comprehension. “Princess Shuri is our only princess.”

“I’m a princess of Niganda. Not Wakanda.” Bunme shot back in an annoyed voice, holding onto her doll as she turned back around but not before muttering. “Stupid.”

Unfortunately, the little girl heard and her hand immediately shot up. “Mrs. Kalala! She called me stupid.”

At the sound of a case of bullying, the teacher marched over from the end of the line where she was talking checking a message on her Kimoyo bracelet. “Bunme, is this true?”

Nala’s daughter looked down and pulled her doll to her chest. “Yes, but she was being mean to me first!”

“No, I wasn’t, freak!”

“Sessi!” The teacher gasped and turned to the other student. “Apologize, now!”

“Why?” Sessi sassed. “That’s what she is! Just like her mother.”

At the mention of Nala, Bunme snapped, her eyes watering. “Don’t talk about my mommy!” Before Mrs. Kalala could register what was happening, Bunme extended her free hand and sent out a gust of chilly ice in the direction of Sessi’s feet, completely covering the child’s feet in a matter of seconds.

The other kids shouted with excitement at the scene before them, prompting Ayo to kick the door in as she didn’t know if the commotion was from impending danger or something trivial. Nevertheless, it was her job to always be on guard.

“Hey!” Sessi cried out as she tried to lift her feet from the ground only to realize that she was frozen in that spot. “Look what she did!”

“Bunme!” Mrs. Kalala said in a panic as she bent down to try and kick the ice only to see as it was frozen solid, some of the other children laughing from the perceived amusement from the scene. “What have you done?”

“Do not speak to her in such a tone,” Ayo hissed, putting away her spear. She quickly regained her composure as she brought herself to the child’s eye level. “Bunme…” Her eyes and voice were both soft. “What happened?”

The little mutant sniffled and shook her head. “I didn’t mean it.”

“Can you make it snow?”

“I wanna see more ice!”

“What about rain?”

“Bunme, undo her feet this instant!”

“Would you all leave her be?” Ayo exclaimed in frustration as students and even the teacher started to bombard the poor child who looked as though she wanted to burst into tears.

Just then, another of the teachers stuck her head in the door, her face flustered with a mixture of excitement and arousal.

“The king is here.” Before she could finish, Bunme pulled herself from Ayo’s grasp and was heading for the door.

“Where are you going?” The teacher’s arousal quickly transformed into irritation as she grabbed onto Bunme’s arm. “Little girl, you are not to leave the classroom without permission.”

“Let me go!” Bume whined, her eyes threatening to spill over with tears. “Now!” The woman gasped, her eyes darting over the doll before she snatched it. “No!”

“You release her and that doll now!” Ayo stood to her full height, her tone one that was forceful and domineering.

“You are here to protect her from danger, not discipline.” The woman spat back, causing the Dora to narrow her eyes.

“Give her back!” Bunme started to cry, stomping her feet as she reached her free arm for her baby doll. “yeye ni mmoja wangu wa onle.” She moaned in Swahili. (she’s my only one!)

The stubborn instructor looked down at a weeping Bunme with disdain. “This child is out of control!”

“The only thing that will be out of control is my temper if you do not release both her and that doll immediately.” Came T’Challa’s dangerously calm voice from behind the chaotic scene causing all eyes to fall on him. “Now.” As though Bunme’s touch burned her, the frightened teacher practically thrust the doll into the little girl’s chest after letting go of her arm.

Bunme immediately ran over to T’Challa, the king bending down to pick her up as she buried her face into his neck, crying softly as he attempted to calm her down by rubbing her back.

“I’m sorry, Kitty.” She hiccuped into his skin. “I-I-I- didn’t mean it. She…she called mommy a-a-a freak.” He turned his head as she lifted hers to look at him, her lip quivering with fear. “Please don’t hate me.”

It was at that moment he knew that someone, possibly several people, was getting fired.

“Never.” He vowed, kissing her cheek, and laying her head against his shoulder, a small sense of satisfaction filling his soul when he felt her shaky cries start to subside.

“What is going on?” He hissed, his voice demanding answers. Immediately.

Ayo was the first to speak. “My king-“

“Not you.” He cut her off with the sharpness of a man who truly was incensed and eager for an explanation, one that better have brought satisfaction. “Them.” He’d switched over to Xhosa, not wanting Bunme to hear the possible profanities that were bound to leave his mouth.

Both teachers gulped, Bunme’s realizing that it’d be best if she were to start things off.

“There was a dispute between Bun and another student,” she gestured down to an equally nervous Sessi. “Words were exchanged-“

“And where were you when these words were being exchanged?”

Her mouth faltered as she quickly thought up a lie. “My king, I was tending to another set of children who needed my attention-“

Too bad he saw right through it. Yet, if he were to call her out on her dishonesty, he truly would have lost his temper, exacerbating Bunme’s fear. He didn’t want that, so he decided to feed into this story that she was feeding him.

“And Bunme did not?”

“Truly, it is unrealistic to expect me to be able to keep an eye on 25 children every second of the day-“

“What I expect is for you to do your job, something you are clearly incapable and incompetent at doing.” He chastised with all of the glacial connotations of an infuriated royal. “Consider yourself relieved of your duties.”

The woman gasped but kept her head low as she knew better than to argue with the king, especially with his general, the formidable Okoye, to his right and the child who he held a special likening to, in his arms.

“And you,” he turned his venomous glare onto the other instructor. “I could have you thrown in the prisons for putting your hands on her. She is of royal blood.”

“My king, do you not even care to know what she did-“

“Interrupt me again and your firing will be least of your worries,” he spat. “I could hear you from down the hall. How dare you say that she is out of control? You are not her mother. You are not even her teacher. And you should thank Bast that I am the one handling your disciplinarian actions instead of her mother or else the situation would be very different, I can assure you that.”

“I am truly sor-“

T’Challa turned on his heel and walked out right as she was in the midst of apologizing, the sound of Okoye coldly informing the women that they had one hour after the last child was picked up to clear out their things filling his ears.

“Kitty.” Bunme’s soft voice broke through as he stopped in the middle of the hall to give her his undivided attention.

“Yes, sam isipho?” He was extremely mindful of his tone this time around, aware that any sign of hostility might be misinterpreted as being directed toward her.

“Are you mad at me?” She whispered sadly.

He sighed and carefully dropped to one knee, forcing her to stand as he brought his hands to her arms. “Do you know what the name Bunme means?” She nodded slowly. “What?”

“My gift.” He absolutely loathed how low she was speaking, the complete opposite of her usual volume. Bast, he hoped this worked.

“And do you know what sam isipho means?” She shook her head ’no.’ “In my language, Xhosa, it means ‘my gift’.”

“Really?” His eyes lit up as the faintest of smiles appeared on her face. “But wait.” She frowned again thus causing him to do the same. “You didn’t buy or make me like mommy did.”

“No, I did not.” For some reason, her words brought a certain sadness to his soul, especially the ‘make me,’ but he brushed it to the side. “But you see, Bunme, some gifts are given to us,” his smile faltered as he reached out to cup her right cheek. “-even when we least expect them.”

She squinted one eye and tilted her head into his hand. “Like ice cream?”

“Yes, sam isipho. Like, ice cream.” He smiled and laughed softly before eyeing her face. “And do people usually get mad at gifts?”

She shook her head and giggled lightly. “No.”

“I didn’t think so.” He winked and brought his hand to hold her much smaller one. “Do you feel better now or would you like to return to the palace?”

She shook her head and brought her dolly to her chest. “I wanna be with you.”

His heart swelled as he leaned over and kissed the top of her head. It was the perfect answer as he needed her far away from the premises. At least, for a few more hours.

She and Nala.

“And be with me you shall, little one. Be with me you shall.”

♔ ♔ ♔ ♔ ♔

“I’m so happy!” Bunme squealed, trekking through the Forest of Solitude, her doll in one hand, two Doras in front of her and two behind her.

Okoye and T’Challa trailed not too far behind as to stand both watch and to converse in light conversation.

“That was quite a show you put on back at the school,” she commented causing the king to look at her out the corner of his eye. “I agree with your decisions, of course, but I am just saying-“

“What, general?” He sighed, chuckling as he watched Bunme start to skip through the greenery. “What are you saying?”

“Word of your favoritism for will spread.”

“It is not favoritism if it is what is right.”

“The truth always gets distorted in transit.” She reminded with a raised brow.

He remained quiet for a moment as Bunme started to question one of the Doras about something relating to the mountain in the distance. The mountain that was located on Panther Island.

“I make it no secret as to how I feel about her mother.” He finally spoke after a few minutes of silence. “What kind of man would I be if I did not accept her daughter as well?”

“I would expect no less, my king,” Okoye smirked then narrowed her eyes. “I take it you two have finally come to a compromise as she’s allowed you to take her child without her being in attendance.” A beat. “Praise Bast because I was just about ready to impale that stubborn woman.”

“Okoye…” She turned up her nose and reluctantly spared him a glance. “Be nice.” The general waved him off just as Bunme ran up to them, wide-eyed, mouth ajar.

“You have a kitty island?” The king looked up at the four Doras who all expressed various looks of ‘she asked, we had to tell her something’. He shut his eyes. “I wanna go!” She started to bounce on the heels of her feet. T’Challa slyly stood up and looked over at Okoye.

“Absolutely not,” she started out in a low, harsher whisper. “You and I both know what will happen if we ta-“

“Oooh! Can I get a baby kitty?” Both the king and his warrior shut their eyes as Bunme grabbed onto T’Chala’s pant legs, her head dropping as did her voice. “No one’s ever given me anything before except for my dolly.”

The two adults looked down at the little girl, a sense of guilt eating at them once her words hit the air. T’Challa wondered if that was the reason she clung to it so closely. Obviously, she meant no one outside of her mother, but whoever gave it to her must have been special to her.

He made a note to ask Nala who.

Okoye shook her head and started to walk away from the two.

“I shall prepare the Talon.”

♔ ♔ ♔ ♔ ♔

Nala knew that a day at the hair salon would be just that - a daylong event. However, she soon got the feeling that something suspicious was going on.

For instance, every hour or so, Nakia or Shuri, mostly Nakia, would receive a call that forced either woman to leave out the salon, upsetting her stylist. Even that did not make sense as Nakia’s hair took the least amount of time.

But what really tipped her off was when all four women were done and the other three were, for some reason, content on staying at the salon.

They claimed that they could stay there and talk. After, Nala’s hair was done, she was ready to go. 

Nala’s argument was that she wanted to be at the palace when T’Challa and Bunme got home but the other females argued that she was being too overprotective.

However, she really wanted to point out that none of them had children and consequently had no room to talk, but she remembered what Hawla told her about her miscarriage and the fact that she was currently with child.

She kept her comment to herself and decided to go along.

At one point, Nala was damn near ready to find her way back even if she and Dumi had to walk when Nakia suddenly decided it was time for them go home.

Something else she found strange: Hawla decided to go with them instead of heading home even though M’Baku had specifically asked her to come straight back to the Lands as soon as she was done.

And the nail in the coffin was when both sets of groups ended up arriving at the palace at the same exact time.

Yes….something was definitely going on.

“Bun Bun!” Nala shouted once she stepped off the jet, her eyes landing on her baby girl.

“Mommy!” Bunme yelled, breaking from T’Challa and running toward her mother, Nala lifting her and spinning her around. “I missed you!”

Nala smothered her in kisses. “I missed you too, baby. Did you have fun?”

She nodded furiously. “It was the best day ever, mommy! Kitty is the best! He got me Little kitty! You can come with us next time!”

Nala laughed, placing her daughter back on the ground. “I’m glad.” She frowned when she caught onto something else. “Little kitty?”

“Come see!” Bunme grabbed her hand and dragged her toward the T’Challa’s Royal Talon, the king placing a small hand on her back that caught her by surprise.

“Keep an open mind.” He said in a hushed voice.

She furrowed her brows. “About wh-“ Her stomach dropped as she watched two Doras help a small, black panther off the jet, Bunme running up to it, petting and hugging the animal. She snapped her head in his direction. “You didn’t.”

“Nala-“

“I am going to kill you in your sleep.” She threatened through a gritted smile.

“Isn’t she cute, mommy?” Bunme squealed, laying her head on the animal who offered no reaction except to try and rub her head over Bunme’s. “I named her Little Kitty.”

“She’s adorable, sweetie.” Nala chuckled through a nervous smile before grabbing the prince by his arm and dragging him away from her daughter’s earshot.

“A fish, a dog, a regular cat even!” She paced across the ground, the king finding it extremely difficult to pay any attention to the exasperation in her voice and the frustration in her eyes with the sway of her hips and the jiggle in her ass. “But no, you come back with a Panther? A Panther, T’Challa?!”

“She wanted one.” Was his simple reply.

Her eyes bugged out. “She also once asked for a baby giraffe, but do you think I went and found one for her?” Nala nearly smacked the man standing across from her as she noticed the wheels turning in his head, an indication that he was contemplating fulfilling that request as well. “T’Challa!”

“I am sorry.” He broke out of his trance and placed his hands on her shoulders. “I should have discussed it with you first.”

“There would have been nothing to discuss because my answer would have been no.” She affirmed.

He sighed. “She…there was an incident at the school.”

Her heart sped up. “What? What happened? Why was I not called?” She turned around to look at Bunme and then him. “Is she alright?”

He shook his head. “She is fine, and I just so happened to walk in as it was transpiring. Apparently, another student said something about you that incensed her, and she used her powers.”

“Oh my god.” Y/N gasped and covered her mouth. “Is she-“

“The student is fine, absolutely no harm came to the child, but the teacher was not properly supervising them, and it was because of that the situation escalated. Then, another had the gall to have Bunme’s arm in her grasp after having taken her doll and saying that ‘this child is out of control.’”

“What?” Nala repeated as she felt her anger starting to build. Say and do what you want to her but come for her child and that was your life on the line. “She said that? Right in front of her?” T’Challa nodded. “Who is she? And how dare she put her hands on o-my child”

“It matters not. I have handled it. Both instructors have been released.”

Nala gasped. “You fired them?”

“On the spot.” He confirmed coldly, stepping closer as he watched her process all of the information. “I told you that I would take care of you, sthandwa sam.” He brought his lips to her forehead. “That includes her too.”

“Are ya’ll going to come inside or what?” Everyone turned to see Erik standing there with an annoyed expression, his eyes briefly falling on Nakia who was over with Bunme petting Little Kitty. “Been overseeing this all day. I need a nap or some sh-“

“Overseeing what?” Nala interjected before he could curse in front of her perceptive child. She looked up at the king. “What is he talking about?”

T’Challa smirked and called Bunme who sprinted over and giggled as he picked her up, pecking her cheek. “Come.” He grabbed Nala’s hand as the little girl held onto his neck.

“What-“ Nala stammered as she looked back to see Nakia, Hawla, and Shuri following behind with excited expressions. “T’Challa, what have you down now?”

“Patience, Nala.”

As they caught up with Erik and he heard his cousin call her Nala, it was the end of a personalized nickname between the two.

“Yeah, patience, Nalz.”

She glared as they made it into the palace, the princess anxieties growing with each step that they took. It seemed as though the premises expanded in size by the day. No wonder she often found herself getting lost on a daily basis.

“Oooh! Can I call you Scar?” Bunme asked Erik, causing both she and T’Challa to snicker while Erik maintained a straight face.

“That’s not funny.” He muttered, but not before agreeing, Nala wondering if her daughter somehow had another mutation that involved persuasion or mind control.

They traveled across the palace, reaching T’Challa’s wing, Nala almost nervous that they were damn near about to enter his chambers when they stopped a few doors down.

“Alright, I want you to close your eyes, okay?” He spoke to Bunme who quickly shut them while scrunching up her entire face.

“Yeah. Definitely in your sleep.” Nala mumbled as she could only imagine what was on the other side of the door, T’Challa ignoring her threat as he dropped her hand to turn the knob.

“Oh my God!” She exclaimed loudly, forcing Bunme to prematurely open her eyes.

“Whoa!” She wiggled in T’Challa’s arms as he let her down, the little girl running around the playroom full of toys, dolls, and other electronics. “It’s so cool!” She threw her fists in the air and bent her little knees to jump up and down.

“This is really nice.” Nakia complimented as everybody started to walk around the spacious room, but the War Dog and Erik staying particularly close together.

“Do you like it?” He asked walking up to Bunme who was being shown a Wakandan tech toy by Shuri.

Bunme dropped her dolly and threw herself at his now kneeled form. “Thank you, kitty. It’s the best gift ever.”

He smiled softly and kissed her hair. “You are very welcome, sweetheart.”

“Come.” Hawla grabbed a still stunned Nala and dragged her across the room, opening up another door to reveal a walk-in wardrobe for Bunme. Nala scoffed, her eyes watering. “I helped with this because if it were up to the king to pick out clothes-“

“You guys did all this?” She cut off, her heart full of love. “I just,” she sniffled and wiped at her eyes. “I’m sorry. I just, I don’t-“

“You are not used to people doing things for you,” Hawla said with a sad smile, grabbing her hands. “Well, we’ll just have to work on that, now, won’t we?”

Nala laughed softly and pulled her into a hug, her eyes landing on T’Challa who was standing at the threshold with a small smile.

The pregnant woman turned around and smirked, “I’ll leave you two alone.”

T’Challa mouthed a thank you to his dearest friend and allowed her to close the door behind her, his tall frame quickly ambling over to his lover.

“I still want to kill you in your sleep,” she mumbled, looking down at the ground as his hands went to her hips, her hands going to his biceps.

“I know.” He chuckled, lips going to her neck.

“Especially for that Panther. What does she even eat?”

“Humans.” Her eyes widened as he chuckled against her skin, pulling her body even closer to his. “Relax. I will take care of everything. I do not want you to worry about anything. Not anymore.”

Her eyes shut as his hands moved down to cup her ass, “T’Challa.”

“Hmm.”

She moved her hands up to grab his face, her eyes misting over as she licked her lips. “Thank you.”

“Eh,” he whispered, lowering his mouth to cover hers when the door was opened, revealing Dumi who Nala immediately realized had been MIA since they’d arrived back to the palace.

He really did not like T’Challa. That….that was going to be a problem.

T’Challa suddenly had a strong urge to end the guard’s life right then and there.

“Forgive me.” He didn’t sound sorry, not at all, but it was the item in his hand that caught her attention. A phone. “Your sister.”

At that, Nala immediately broke away and grabbed it from him, sending T’Challa a contrite expression. “I have to take this.”

He certainly looked disappointed but grabbed her hand. “Follow me.”

She watched in confusion as he led her through a different door off Bunme’s closet that took them into another closet.

Her closet.

She marveled around the room full of designer clothes, shoes, handbags, and accessories, her heart overcome with emotion.

“Take as much time as you need.” He whispered, kissing her temple before leaving her alone.

She was so overcome by the magnitude of his lavish generosity that she almost forgot her sister was on the line. “H-h-hello.”

“What do you want? Why the hell do you keep call-“

“I have to tell him.” She breathed, walking over to a glass full of at least 500k worth of jewelry, and that was just one section of many in the large walk-in closet. “Anajah, I have to tell him the truth. He deserves to know. This isn’t right.”

“What the fuck are you talking about?” Her sister sighed in annoyance. “This is why I hate speaking-“

“T’Challa!”

There was a heavy pause on the other side. “You listen to me. You keep your fucking mouth shut.”

“No. I can’t.” Nala sniffled as she leaned back against a wall. “I can’t keep hurting him like this.”

“Hurting him? Y/N…..where are you?”

She shut her eyes. “Wakanda.”

“Goddamn it!” Anajah cursed as other sounds of objects being thrown were heard. “How the hell did you…..do you have any idea how bad this is?!”

“Do you have any idea how hard this has been for me? Keeping this secret from him?” She countered quietly. “It’s killing me! Lying to him like this! I feel awful! He’s too good a man to continue to deceive like this, sister!”

Again, Anajah paused. “You’re falling for him again, aren’t you?”

Her mouth quivered. “I never stopped.”

Silence

“Y/N, do you remember when King Chike came to visit Niganda?”

Nala hesitated before she recalled the handsome but pompous young king who her parents engaged in business with when she was a young girl. There was always something about him that rubbed her the wrong way.

“Yes, but what-“

“He and his wife were unable to have children, but they did not want a surrogate who was a commoner.” Nala frowned, still not following. “He took a likening to me.”

Her heart stopped. “No…”

“I did not go to boarding school, Y/N. I went to give birth to his child after being prostituted in exchange for weapons and money.” Anajah spoke with a shaky voice, her anger mixed with her pain. “I was fucking seventeen and our parents gave me away to him, to be his whore, and when I tried to refuse….they….they threatened to have you, Belay, and a number of our people killed.”

“Oh my God.” Nala wanted to throw up, her stomach upside down as she started to slide down against the wall. She always knew that their parents were sick, but this was beyond sick. It was demented. A new level of evil. “Anajah, I did not….”

“Of course, you didn’t. You didn’t have to worry about that. They wouldn’t have pimped you out because they viewed your mutation as a hindrance.” She spat harshly before softening her voice. “That….that is why I’ve always despised you. What you thought a curse was really a blessing.”

Nala shut her eyes and dropped her head. “I wanted my baby, sister. I might have hated how he or she was conceived, but it was still mine. I grew to love it in the nine months that he was in my womb, but as part of the deal, I was not even allowed to see or hold him once he was born.” Anajah started to cry on the other end. “And I see him, hear them talk about the smart prince on the news, my son, and there is nothing that I can do about it. You can’t possibly begin to imagine what that feels like.”

Nala’s heart broke for her sister. She’d always thought the woman cold and cruel only to now find out she was just as broken as she was. “You told me to lie….to protect me.”

“You wanted to keep your baby….it was the only way…..it still is.” Anajah sniffled on the other end. “If you tell him the truth, he will tell the world and they will find out and use our people’s lives as collateral to try and get you to blackmail him into getting weapons and funds to continue to supply this senseless war in exchange for being in his daughter’s life.”

Nala started to breathe heavily because she knew that her sister right. She couldn’t even begin to think about how T’Challa would respond to such a situation, but she knew her parents. They wouldn’t hesitate to start killing people if they didn’t get what they wanted.

Starting with their own flesh and blood.

“But Wakanda was thought to be destitute back then. At least, that was the thought so why would they try to extort such a supposedly poor nation?” Nala pressed, frowning when nothing was heard. “Anajah?”

“Do you know who Ulysses S. Klaue is?”

Nala quieted. “The name sounds familiar-“

“He is a notorious thief, assassin, wanted all over the world for a plethora of crimes, but the most infamous of his acts? The murder of King T’Chaka of Wakanda.” Again, Nala’s heart stopped. “Do you know how he gained knowledge of Wakanda and her true nature? Why he went there?”

“Please don’t-“ Nala started to cry, her chin against her check.

“A war dog from Wakanda that was stationed in Niganda was captured and tortured for information, leading to us learning about Vibranium. Mother and father were…curious, so they hired Klaue-“

“No,” Nala was in full on sobs now.

“Our parents are responsible for the death of his father.”

“You’re lying!” Nala shouted as she covered her hand with her mouth.

"You fool! Don’t you see? There is no happy ending for you! No outcome where you get everything that you want! You have to make a decision, just as I did: your child or your country and your people. The minute that you open your mouth is the minute that you lose everything. It’s the key to your undoing. This is about more than you could ever imagine.” A beat. “You could ruin us all.”

Let me just say.....

I TRIED TO WARN YOU ALL!!!!!

Please be nice in my inbox 😩😩😩

And yes.....this changes a lot.

And we just getting started. 👀👀👀

[tremendousartisanlover]

A Tale Of Two Rulers: Royal Baby Chapter Four

A/N: This chapter has one scene that was very different from the comic; what if Zelda (during the bath scene) told Ganondorf the truth about Rinku being the reincarnation of Link and he didn't react the way she feared. I thought that seemed interesting, but that's just a 'what if?' thing.  Also, other characters such as Skull Kid and with the exception of Impa, will be only mentioned since the series are mainly focused on Zelgan and family bonding with Zelda, Ganondorf and Rinku.

*Update- Just saw the latest page of AToTR and maybe I will include Skull Kid or at least still only mention him. We'll see either way....

Disclaimer: A Tale of Two Rulers is @figmentforms original work. I'm simply re-writing this as fanfiction, nothing else.

*******************************************************************************************

The next morning, sometime after breakfast, Rinku was in the workshop, working on a project until she met with her prankster best friend, Skull Kid. At one point while catching up with each other, she began to have frightening flashbacks, felt dizzy, and fainted as she landed on her head, bumping her into unconsciousness. A golden triangle appeared on the back of her right hand, glowing. Then, Zelda came in the workshop with a math book for Rinku's lessons for the day. "Rinku, it's time for you math lessons."

Zelda gasped at the sight of her daughter on the floor unresponsive, dropping the book in horror. She rushed to Rinku's side.

"RINKU! Oh, my God! Rinku, sweetie, are you okay?" she asked her, worried sick as she held her close. Seeing the triangle on Rinku's hand, Zelda became terrified. She picked her up, and took her to her bedroom, calling a doctor to check on her. Zelda couldn't afford to let Ganondorf see that.

A few moments later, after the doctor checked Rinku and bandaged her head, he said that she just had a minor concussion and needs to get plenty of rest until she is completely recovered.

Ganondorf came into Rinku's bedroom as soon as he heard of her injury. Rinku woke up and saw her parents in her room with her mother at her side.

Zelda was glad that the golden triangle vanished just in the nick of time. She hated to see how Ganondorf reacted If he saw that.

She hugged Rinku, "Oh, honey. You scared me." Rinku hugged Zelda back, "I'm fine now, Mama." Then, she tried to get up from her bed, but Ganondorf stopped her.

"No, Rinku. You must stay here to rest. The doctor said it's best to do so." He said as sat next to his adoptive daughter.

"Dad, I had really crazy and scary visions before it all went." Rinku said, frightened.

"You mean you somehow had a nightmare?" Ganondorf asked. "Yeah." Rinku responded.

Zelda simply looks at Rinku, worried. She can barely imagine what her daughter might have seen in those visions. Her worst fear is that Rinku may eventually remember that she is Link and Ganondorf may have figured that out and attempt to kill her.

Zelda snapped out of her deep, concerning thoughts and said "Rinku, sweetie, I think it's best that you stay and bed."

"Your mother is right, Rinku. Don't dwell on that, it's only a bad dream. You'll recover soon enough." Ganondorf put his hand on Rinku's shoulder in comfort and reassurance.

"Okay, Dad. I better get some rest now." Rinku said to him as she rests her head on the pillow before the king and queen left.

Zelda sighed a bit. Still, this was really stressing her out, but she'd better not think about this. She hated to hide this from Ganondorf, but it's for the best for now.

A week has passed and Rinku has recovered from her head injury. One afternoon, Zelda and Ganondorf were in the middle of their bath. After having a dilemma about what to tell him about Rinku, Zelda decided that it might be best to come clean with Ganondorf, but do it subtly with directly saying it. She tries her best not to upset him to such a degree. He was washing his hair while she was washing her arms.

Zelda looks at him, worried, as he rinsed his hair, "Ganondorf, would you mind if I asked you something?"

He stopped and turned to her, "Of course. Is there anything on your mind, Zelda? You can tell me what it is so we can resume our bath." Ganondorf can tell something is upset Zelda and whatever she has to say might not be pleasant.

Zelda heaved a heavy sigh and said, "Well, I was wondering... if you found out who the reincarnation of Link was, how would you react?"

It didn't take long for Ganondorf to realize that Zelda was referring to Rinku. "What?! So, you mean to tell me that little fool of a hero, Link is dead and our daughter is his reincarnation?! Zelda, why didn't you say anything to me sooner?!" He exclaimed in absolute shock. Luckily, he didn't lose his temper with Zelda. He remembered assuming that Link was still alive and fathered Rinku with her before the royal wedding.

 "Well, what was I supposed to do? I couldn't just tell you like it wasn't a big deal. I didn't know how you would react and I couldn't risk Rinku's life if I told right from the start." Zelda said, before looking down with tears forming in her eyes.

Seeing Zelda crying, Ganondorf felt bad for her despite having a strong hatred for Link. Even if he somehow knew, he never wanted to kill his own adoptive daughter. He cupped Zelda's cheeks and wiped the tears away from her eyes with his thumbs. "Zelda, look at me. I understand, now. I always thought that Link was still alive until now. I had no idea."

Zelda looked at him, "I was really scared. I never wanted to hide the truth from you, but I had to. I did it because I was so afraid."

"Zelda, I know why you did. At least you meant well by protecting her." Ganondorf said.

Zelda simply hugged him. She was glad that he wasn't angry with her. He hugged her back. Then, he said as he pulled away, "Now, why don't we rinse off and get dressed? I want to show you what Rinku and I did with the nursery, speaking of which." Ganondorf wants to surprise Zelda and make her feel better.

Zelda smiled at him. She was curious about how the nursery turned out. "I'd love to see it." she said.  

[youreallyshouldtalkmore]

Dana Don’t Lie_Part 4

This takes place after The Oasis. As usual you can see all the parts listed for this series, along with other fanfics in my Black Panther Masterlist.  

At the time of watching this I was rewatching alot of old Madea plays/movies and got a lot jokes/ideas/inspiration from those.

Disclaimer:  Nothing really, Erik will be Erik so use of the N-word.

Part 4

Erik knew there was a chance that his past could catch up to him however he knew that this time was false. He didn’t sleep with her. Now he needed you to hear him and more than that believe him.

Aquaneesha was whining about something again.

“Does she have to be here?” Erik complained as the group walked into the center.

“Obviously…” Shuri said annoyed as disappeared into the back.

“Hold him, Erik!” Aquaneesha was saying, trying to give the 3 year old boy to him.

Erik pulled away, “Stop.”

“He’s your son! Hold him!”

Erik spun around to face Aquaneesha, “I’m about ready to strike you, you know.”

“Do it and you’ll be in jail.” Aquaneesha threatened.

“Please….” T’challa tried to be the voice of reason while Nakia wandered around to find you.

She tried the first place which was the tarp that separated the wall you were working on from the rest of the lobby.

Pulling it back she could see that you had your earbuds in and was painting on the wall.

“Please nothing, cuz. Step back…” Erik said pushing his cousin out the way. He glared down at Aquaneesha, “So help me if you mess this up for me…..”

“You the one done messed up!” the young lady cried.

T’Challa then forcibly dragged Erik into the back as Shuri came out. Erik was cussing and fighting and T’Challa had to throw him into a nearby room and  push him into the chair.

“I need you to calm down, N’Jadaka!” T’Challa’s voice was smooth.

“Don’t tell me to calm down! Not when that ho is coming in here bring all this drama.”

“Is the baby yours?”

“No!”

T’Challa eyed his cousin and Erik sighed running his hands through his locs.

“The baby isn’t mine. Really.” He looked up at his cousin.

T’Challa nodded accepting this, “Okay. Now tell me the story. How do you know her?”

“I should talk to Y/N. Try and see if I can explain….”

Erik moved to get up but T’Challa hand on his shoulder stilled him. “You know how Y/N is. She doesn’t like excess drama.”

“Yeah, she probably won’t listen to me now, eh?” Erik sighed and sat back in his chair slumping down.

“It don’t think it’s a matter of her listening to you. Until the test it done, you know she will have reservations. Now tell me the story…..”

Music blared in your ears as you painted, shutting the outside world out. The wall painting was almost finished. You had been working on it for a couple of weeks. You estimated about another week or so and you’ll be done. You were quite happy with the work so far as challenging as it was.

You bobbed your head absently as the tarp was pulled back. You didn’t hear it but you felt the soft touch to your shoulder and looked up.

“T’Challa….” you said turning off your mp3 player and setting it aside.

The King smiled and took a seat on the floor next to you, “Is it wise to be working on that in this state of mind?”

“It relaxes me.” you said with a shrug turning back to your painting.

T’Challa nodded and there was silence for a long moment. “N’Jadaka wishes to speak with you.”

You gave him an amused smile, “What, you running point?”

“Wait a minute, I know this one” T’Challa said shaking his finger, “It means running interference right? Making sure things go smoothly?”

You nodded trying not to laugh. T’Challa gave a boyish grin, “Then yes, I’m running point. Someone has to.”

“Clearly won’t be her….” you said turning back to your painting.

You barely formed a good stroke before T’Challa reached out and gently grabbed your wrist to stop you. You looked at him.

“Sister Y/N, I know you are angry. You get quiet when you get angry almost closed off. I’m letting you know that we are here. You don’t have to deal with this yourself.”

You gave a weak smile.

T’Challa give you a sideways hug, “He told me the story, Y/N. At least hear him out. Okay?’

You nodded slowly. T’Challa gave a smile and stood before resting his hand on top of your head for a moment. Then he exited. A few seconds later Erik entered.

You knew he was standing behind you but you didn't’ look back at him. You fiddled with your brush nervously. You weren’t really sure what to say or do.

“Cuz said it was alright for me to be here. Is it?” Erik had his hands stuffed in his pocket and he looked down at you. He could easily read the tension in your back.

You nodded but Erik still didn’t sit down. Instead he shuffled on his feet and looked up at the painting, “You do good, ma. This is gonna be a masterpiece when you done.”

Erik was pleased to hear you chuckle behind that. Again an awkward silence that was rare between the two of you settled.

“That ain’t my baby….”

He just watch your head bob but you didn’t say anything. Erik squatted on his haunches and looked at you, “ here are times I wish you would like other women, cussing and fighting.  At least that I know where you stand. This is one of those times.”

He was greeted with silence.

“Come on, baby girl you got to tell me something.  I know you're angry with me.”

“I don’t know what you want me to say” You finally murmured.

“Anything. Everything.” Erik licked his lips eyes on you, “At least, can I explain?”

You gave a shrug, “Don’t know what you are waiting for.”

Erik felt his hackles rise, “You gonna hear me or you already condemned me.”

You glared at him then, “You know I don’t roll like that.”

“It’s what you are acting like.” Erik hissed.

“Erik, are you are trying to start a fight with me?” You raised an eyebrow.

Erik gave a long sigh his rising anger disappearing, “No, I ain’t.”

“Then explain it to me. Don’t tell me what or how I think. If you have something to say, say it. If you don’t then don’t but I’m not gonna play games with you. I’m not gonna go back and forth with you.”

Erik was silent a long moment before he dropped his behind to the ground and crossed his legs still facing you.

“Honestly, I wouldn't be surprised if I did have a baby somewhere, and a baby mama or two.” he started before looking up at you, “But I swear this one ain’t mine.  She's crazy.  What happened was…..”

You interrupted them, “ Do I even really want to hear this? I don’t want details of you escapades, Erik. I can surmise your past without it.”

Erik gave a sigh, “I promise this is something you will want to hear and it’s not graphic. I won’t bleed your ears.”

You gave a slow nod and he continued,  “I did not have relations with that woman.  it's all in her head and this time it’s true. Yes, we met at a club but the only reason I remember her is because of how clingy she was. I didn't like it then and I don't like it now.  but she spent time in the club trying to get me,  but I ended up going with one of her friends.  And that's friend I…..”

Erik sucked his teeth once, “....but with her I never did.   I bet you that she saw me on TV  and it brought back all that memory.  I wouldn't be surprised if she was trying to put this baby on me. But I ain’t the nigga that knocked her Up.”

He couldn’t accurately read your expression so he continued, “Look, I handle my responsibilities. I know I screwed up many times and if my past comes a knocking I’ll deal with. I wouldn’t run from it.  If a baby momma came in here,  I’d own up to it. But she can’t put on me what I didn’t do. I didn’t even tap that.”

He sighed then and ran a hand down his face, “I just want you to believe me. Y/N…..”

You gaze at Erik a long while before you finally nodded. “Okay.”

“Okay?”

“Hm.”

You turned back to the wall. You didn't really feel like painting anymore. Silence drifted a long while before you heard.

“Are we we gonna be okay?” Erik asked.

You turned and looked at him.

“Is there a reason you think we aren’t” you asked.

Erik was watching you carefully, “I know women like you, good women, don’t like dealing with baby mama drama.”  

“Very true…” here you gave a smirk, “...but she isn’t your baby mama now is she?”

Erik’s mouth quirked, “True. True. But what if one came one day?”

He had realized he almost stopped breathing.

You gave a sigh and dropped your head once. Popping it back up you looked at him. “You really don’t know?” You didn’t give him a chance to answer,  “Erik I know you did things. There are probably things you’ve done that I would thank you never to tell me. I’m not gonna hold your past against you but I’m also not gonna be a part of this mess either.”

You held up your hand when he opened his mouth, “I believe you, N’Jadaka, I do.”

Lowering your hand you continued gazing at him steadily, “This is not your mess but whether it was or not, I won’t be apart of it. If a baby mama come here and we are still together you will deal it. Not me. I didn’t make the mess and I won’t clean it up and I won’t be a part of it. I’m not trying to stage some Maury drama here. I will remove myself from the situation as I did today. The rest will be on you.”

You held his gaze a long moment before turning to look back at the wall. After a moment you felt Erik shift as two arms circle your shoulders. You leaned back into his chest. You didn’t say anything and he didn’t either for awhile. You all just sat like that.

Erik always knew you were different from the usual women he….well he didn’t go out with them did he? So that wasn’t accurate. But either way, you weren’t the type to fight unless absolutely necessary. It was a balance that Erik didn’t know he needed until he met you. He was always ready to fight, even after turning over a new leaf the firecracker in him still existed. He was less likely to start a fight then long ago but he was still ready to pop off at any moment.

With most women he dealt with, that lead to loud arguments. They would get into screaming matches and cussing fits. At that point it was about having the last word and winning an the argument in general not about the point of said argument. Which usually got lost by the time they stopped screaming at each other.

However with you, winning an argument wasn’t high on your list. It was about what was said. More than that, you spent a lot of time listening. That was one thing that Erik came to love about you. You listened more than you spoke, so that when you did speak, you usually had thought through baser emotions.

A quirk that Erik noticed about you was that your voice lowered and got softer the angrier you got.  He could never quite understand how that worked.There was times, like just now, when his hackles would rise and he would be ready to pop off but unlike other women you didn’t allow it to bait you. A lot of times you would just look at him without saying anything. (Though he didn’t want to admit it, that was a time you had the ability to make him feel like a fool...)

There were even times depending on how bad it got, you would stare at him a good long moment before walking away. He remembered the first time that happened, about a week after he claimed you as his girlfriend. Or as he liked to say, his woman. Girlfriend was for high school. Erik didn’t want to admit it even now but it almost sent him into a panic attack once the initial shock wore off. He thought he lost you that day and had he, it would have been no ones fault but his own.

You felt his chest rumble before you heard him speak, ““Y/N, I won't let nothing break us apart.  You my woman now. Imma do right by you.”

You smiled a little at his words.

[katestinyliving]

I have been so behind on creating this post. This past week has been so hard for me for multiple reasons. None of which I’m specifically comfortable going on a public level about so for the sake of privacy and sanity, I’m keeping it private. I’ve had a lot of highs and a lot of lows. A lot of “talk downs” from Tristan, my parents, and Asa.  It’s so dangerously close to Christmas, and I’ve been overwhelmed by to-do lists, anxiety, and fear.

Needless to say, crying is my new thing. Waterproof mascara is my beauty essential. I don’t think there’s a foundation in the world created to withstand the floodgate that is attached to my face, so I don’t even try. 

I’ve been afraid of not getting my to-do list done by a deadline. Which is a big one for me. I am a planner. I like lists. I like checking things off and moving forward. But to be honest and 100% transparent I’ve had fear of not making enough money to be able to afford finishing the house or being able to afford a wedding… Etc. And by wedding, I’m not meaning some elaborate thing. I want simple. I want stress free. Anything flashy, showy, or that REMOTELY sounds like it could cause me any stress or drama is out. I don’t want it. And all of that goes for my house too. I just want zero drama.

And in reality I know the money is there. I know it will come. I’ve been diligent, praying, and asking for God to send me work and to help me recognize the opportunities He brings my way and to have wisdom with those opportunities. And He does. I know God provides because He has been providing for me every step of the way. I could tell you THOUSANDS of wild stories where God’s provided for me. But all of that is easier said than believed when you’re going through the thick of it and you’re hearing all these voices of discouragement in your head saying, “It ain’t gonna happen. How’s this gonna happen? You’re gonna finish your house, and get married within 5 months? HA!”

Isn’t it wild how God can do amazing things for us, and then when stress hits again, in that moment we sometimes totally forget how amazing and capable He is? Or is it just me? Cause I lose my mind and turn into an blubbering idiot, almost every time it feels like.

This does not mean I am labeled a doubter. This does not mean I don’t trust Him. This does mean I am human. This does mean I have struggles. This does mean I am learning and growing. And this does mean I am a child of the King.

Even Jesus himself in the garden of Gethsemane struggled! God himself in the form of man wept and had so much agony from stress, he sweat BLOOD. Jesus Christ experienced hematidrosis while praying in the garden of Gethsemane before his crucification. That is insane.

“And being in an agony he prayed more earnestly: and his sweat was as it were great drops of blood falling down to the ground.” Luke 22:44

So I think if anyone understands my humanity, the battle of overcoming it, and needing help from the Father, it would be Jesus.

When you walk through the fire with Him… stuff gets real. FAST. And any honest, true believer, devoted, loving Christian worth their salt will tell you that it’s not all peaches and cream walking with Jesus. There’s a whole lot of humility, fear, and worry with learning to trust God. Even when He’s done miraculous things in the past, and you KNOW He will be right there with you through the fire again… It’s hard. And because it’s hard, doesn’t make you any more or less of a Christian. It just means where your at is hard. It’s growing pains. The process is hard. The journey is hard and it’s harder when you don’t include Jesus in your journey, or when you forget that He wants to be included in your journey. So we have to constantly invite Him into our situations and say, “Okay God. I’m here. Here is this thing. Help me to surrender. Help me to learn and to trust You during this time. It sucks and I hate it, but here’s where I’m at with it. Help me.”  

But anyways, I’m getting off topic. I never started this post with the intention of getting that deep into my personal walk with Christ or being that transparent about it.

Maybe I will make a blog post going in-depth about it and about all the drama I have going on in my head, but I really want to get to the details of Construction Saturday.

Anywayssss… 

This post is about last week’s Construction Saturday. Last Saturday I woke up to Daddy revving a chainsaw outside of my window getting ready to cut a tree down. This tree has been looking crazy dangerous and shady now for years, and we were all starting to get paranoid it was going to fall on someone’s vehicle(especially Asa’s), so the day finally came for it to come down.

Asa couldn’t be there that morning because he’s been having to work Saturdays lately. Which is sad, because I miss him terribly and it’s something I’ve been trying hard to gracefully adjust to. Plus it’s difficult because he’s genuinely a God-send when it comes to construction. I’m insanely proud of him. His long arms, strength, persistence, level-head, and height seriously helps SO much on construction days. And he has a calming presence for me, and I need that because I’m everything but calm. Plus he’s really good at following instructions, which is a trait I feel like is in short supply these days.

But instead of going all out on the house first thing that morning, Tony, Mama, and I decided to help Daddy clear the driveway. Which I enjoyed a lot. It was fun working as a team doing something different. And then afterwards, to my surprise, Daddy stayed that Saturday and helped us build the house. He’s usually doing ministry work or running his business, so it’s a lucky day when he can help me work on my house. Which was a God-send because he’s incredible at building things and the more fellas around with the muscle and the know-how, the better.

One thing that I think I really underestimated when I said I wanted to build my house was my own muscle strength.

I am not very strong in the arms. I’m not exactly weak, but it is not as easy for me to lift things like I thought it would be. If this house teaches me anything at all, I think it’s that: I need help. A lot of help. I CAN NOT do this by myself.

And that’s okay. That’s where the true blessing comes in. That’s where true love comes in.

I’m thankful for my crew and for everyone that has helped me with this house. We’re not out of the woods with it yet, but we are getting closer every time we work together. And everyday, despite whatever crippling emotion I’m having at the time from all the stress, I know God’s in it. I know He’s teaching me. I know it’s gonna work out. It might not be my timing, but it will be His and that’s all that matters.

Be sure to hover over my photos or click on them. I’m gonna add some captions so you know what is going on. And if you’re curious about my photography at all you can follow me here, and here, and look here at my website.

I hope everyone is having a wonderful season of Christmas despite whatever stressful circumstances you may be facing right now. Jesus loves you. I love you. We care about you and I am praying for you. Whomever you are reading this, you matter to me and I am praying for you.

Merry Christmas.

-Katie

  This is right after the tree was cut down. Tony is inspecting it, while Daddy is cutting it up into movable pieces.

Tony always brings some kind of dessert to every event. He’s gonna make me fat, and I’m trying to get married. This is not the ideal situation, but it is a tasty one.

Close up of Daddy.

Cool angles. Yaknow. All about them angles.

This is Tony and Daddy making the best of the scrap pieces I had left over for the siding. Our goal was to trim out the windows and put siding on the windows.

I think you know what’s happening here.

Another angle of Daddy and Tony.

Man and his chainsaw. He cut up at least two other big old bushes that day. Daddy says it a dangerous time when a man buys a new chainsaw. Everything gets cut. This chainsaw isn’t new though, but I think the point is still there.

Biscuits Mama made for us! She keeps me going strong and happy. I love her so so so much!

Chalk line to keep things square!

Mama with a fancy dewalt finishing nailer. Us Weeks girls know about our tools and how to use them. I’m thankful for a Mama that has never let fear hold her back, as far as I know. Which has helped me and Tristan tremendously in having that “I can do anything I put my mind to” attitude. And forget about the whole gender thing. My whole life I knew I was just as good as a guy, thanks to my parents. When your born with no brothers, chores have no gender role. It’s “Girls! Do this. Do that!” Haha!

Daddy seeing if this piece of scrap will be long enough to cover the window.

Tony and Mama figuring out the measurements for the first window.

First window trim, done!

Holding the tape for Daddy.

Tony measuring to see the length of the glass I need to order for my stained glass Moon Phase window that Reflecting Light Stained Glass Studios will be making for me. I love custom pieces! https://www.reflectinglightstainedglass.com

Second window trimmed and finished!

Miter saws make life 100% more efficient and easier.

Third window finished! This is also my favorite window.

Mama working on taking apart the temporary table we made for the miter saw.

Wider angle, so you can see more of the house.

p.s. Please know that if someone else had the camera this day you would have seen me telling Tony to get off the ladder many times. Haha! I love him. He’s a crazy hard worker! I’m proud of my friend and could not have dreamed of a better person to learn from. Tony is a God-send. 100%!

12.16.17 | Tiny House Construction Saturday I have been so behind on creating this post. This past week has been so hard for me for multiple reasons.

[rhetoricandlogic]

The Pauper Prince and the Eucalyptus Jinn by Usman Malik

(Novella lenght = really long)

“When the Spirit World appears in a sensory Form, the Human Eye confines it. The Spiritual Entity cannot abandon that Form as long as Man continues to look at it in this special way. To escape, the Spiritual Entity manifests an Image it adopts for him, like a veil. It pretends the Image is moving in a certain direction so the Eye will follow it. At which point the Spiritual Entity escapes its confinement and disappears.

Whoever knows this and wishes to maintain perception of the Spiritual, must not let his Eye follow this illusion.

This is one of the Divine Secrets.”

The Meccan Revelations by Muhiyuddin Ibn Arabi

For fifteen years my grandfather lived next door to the Mughal princess Zeenat Begum. The princess ran a tea stall outside the walled city of Old Lahore in the shade of an ancient eucalyptus. Dozens of children from Bhati Model School rushed screaming down muddy lanes to gather at her shop, which was really just a roadside counter with a tin roof and a smattering of chairs and a table. On winter afternoons it was her steaming cardamom-and-honey tea the kids wanted; in summer it was the chilled Rooh Afza.

As Gramps talked, he smacked his lips and licked his fingers, remembering the sweet rosewater sharbat. He told me that the princess was so poor she had to recycle tea leaves and sharbat residue. Not from customers, of course, but from her own boiling pans—although who really knew, he said, and winked.

I didn’t believe a word of it.

“Where was her kingdom?” I said.

“Gone. Lost. Fallen to the British a hundred years ago,” Gramps said. “She never begged, though. Never asked anyone’s help, see?”

I was ten. We were sitting on the steps of our mobile home in Florida. It was a wet summer afternoon and rain hissed like diamondbacks in the grass and crackled in the gutters of the trailer park.

“And her family?”

“Dead. Her great-great-great grandfather, the exiled King Bahadur Shah Zafar, died in Rangoon and is buried there. Burmese Muslims make pilgrimages to his shrine and honor him as a saint.”

“Why was he buried there? Why couldn’t he go home?”

“He had no home anymore.”

For a while I stared, then surprised both him and myself by bursting into tears. Bewildered, Gramps took me in his arms and whispered comforting things, and gradually I quieted, letting his voice and the rain sounds lull me to sleep, the loamy smell of him and grass and damp earth becoming one in my sniffling nostrils.

I remember the night Gramps told me the rest of the story. I was twelve or thirteen. We were at this desi party in Windermere thrown by Baba’s friend Hanif Uncle, a posh affair with Italian leather sofas, crystal cutlery, and marble-topped tables. Someone broached a discussion about the pauper princess. Another person guffawed. The Mughal princess was an urban legend, this aunty said. Yes, yes, she too had heard stories about this so-called princess, but they were a hoax. The descendants of the Mughals left India and Pakistan decades ago. They are settled in London and Paris and Manhattan now, living postcolonial, extravagant lives after selling their estates in their native land.

Gramps disagreed vehemently. Not only was the princess real, she had given him free tea. She had told him stories of her forebears.

The desi aunty laughed. “Senility is known to create stories,” she said, tapping her manicured fingers on her wineglass.

Gramps bristled. A long heated argument followed and we ended up leaving the party early.

“Rafiq, tell your father to calm down,” Hanif Uncle said to my baba at the door. “He takes things too seriously.”

“He might be old and set in his ways, Doctor sahib,” Baba said, “but he’s sharp as a tack. Pardon my boldness but some of your friends in there . . .” Without looking at Hanif Uncle, Baba waved a palm at the open door from which blue light and Bollywood music spilled onto the driveway.

Hanif Uncle smiled. He was a gentle and quiet man who sometimes invited us over to his fancy parties where rich expatriates from the Indian subcontinent opined about politics, stocks, cricket, religious fundamentalism, and their successful Ivy League–attending progeny. The shyer the man the louder his feasts, Gramps was fond of saying.

“They’re a piece of work all right,” Hanif Uncle said. “Listen, bring your family over some weekend. I’d love to listen to that Mughal girl’s story.”

“Sure, Doctor sahib. Thank you.”

The three of us squatted into our listing truck and Baba yanked the gearshift forward, beginning the drive home.

“Abba-ji,” he said to Gramps. “You need to rein in your temper. You can’t pick a fight with these people. The doctor’s been very kind to me, but word of mouth’s how I get work and it’s exactly how I can lose it.”

“But that woman is wrong, Rafiq,” Gramps protested. “What she’s heard are rumors. I told them the truth. I lived in the time of the pauper princess. I lived through the horrors of the eucalyptus jinn.”

“Abba-ji, listen to what you’re saying! Please, I beg you, keep these stories to yourself. Last thing I want is people whispering the handyman has a crazy, quarrelsome father.” Baba wiped his forehead and rubbed his perpetually blistered thumb and index finger together.

Gramps stared at him, then whipped his face to the window and began to chew a candy wrapper (he was diabetic and wasn’t allowed sweets). We sat in hot, thorny silence the rest of the ride and when we got home Gramps marched straight to his room like a prisoner returning to his cell.

I followed him and plopped on his bed.

“Tell me about the princess and the jinn,” I said in Urdu.

Gramps grunted out of his compression stockings and kneaded his legs. They occasionally swelled with fluid. He needed water pills but they made him incontinent and smell like piss and he hated them. “The last time I told you her story you started crying. I don’t want your parents yelling at me. Especially tonight.”

“Oh, come on, they don’t yell at you. Plus I won’t tell them. Look, Gramps, think about it this way: I could write a story in my school paper about the princess. This could be my junior project.” I snuggled into his bedsheets. They smelled of sweat and medicine, but I didn’t mind.

“All right, but if your mother comes in here, complaining—”

“She won’t.”

He arched his back and shuffled to the armchair by the window. It was ten at night. Cicadas chirped their intermittent static outside, but I doubt Gramps heard them. He wore hearing aids and the ones we could afford crackled in his ears, so he refused to wear them at home.

Gramps opened his mouth, pinched the lower denture, and rocked it. Back and forth, back and forth. Loosening it from the socket. Pop! He removed the upper one similarly and dropped both in a bowl of warm water on the table by the armchair.

I slid off the bed. I went to him and sat on the floor by his spidery, white-haired feet. “Can you tell me the story, Gramps?”

Night stole in through the window blinds and settled around us, soft and warm. Gramps curled his toes and pressed them against the wooden leg of his armchair. His eyes drifted to the painting hanging above the door, a picture of a young woman turned ageless by the artist’s hand. Soft muddy eyes, a knowing smile, an orange dopatta framing her black hair. She sat on a brilliantly colored rug and held a silver goblet in an outstretched hand, as if offering it to the viewer.

The painting had hung in Gramps’s room for so long I’d stopped seeing it. When I was younger I’d once asked him if the woman was Grandma, and he’d looked at me. Grandma died when Baba was young, he said.

The cicadas burst into an electric row and I rapped the floorboards with my knuckles, fascinated by how I could keep time with their piping.

“I bet the pauper princess,” said Gramps quietly, “would be happy to have her story told.”

“Yes.”

“She would’ve wanted everyone to know how the greatest dynasty in history came to a ruinous end.”

“Yes.”

Gramps scooped up a two-sided brush and a bottle of cleaning solution from the table. Carefully, he began to brush his dentures. As he scrubbed, he talked, his deep-set watery eyes slowly brightening until it seemed he glowed with memory. I listened, and at one point Mama came to the door, peered in, and whispered something we both ignored. It was Saturday night so she left us alone, and Gramps and I sat there for the longest time I would ever spend with him.

This is how, that night, my gramps ended up telling me the story of the Pauper Princess and the Eucalyptus Jinn.

The princess, Gramps said, was a woman in her twenties with a touch of silver in her hair. She was lean as a sorghum broomstick, face dark and plain, but her eyes glittered as she hummed the Qaseeda Burdah Shareef and swept the wooden counter in her tea shop with a dustcloth. She had a gold nose stud that, she told her customers, was a family heirloom. Each evening after she was done serving she folded her aluminum chairs, upended the stools on the plywood table, and took a break. She’d sit down by the trunk of the towering eucalyptus outside Bhati Gate, pluck out the stud, and shine it with a mint-water-soaked rag until it gleamed like an eye.

It was tradition, she said.

“If it’s an heirloom, why do you wear it every day? What if you break it? What if someone sees it and decides to rob you?” Gramps asked her. He was about fourteen then and just that morning had gotten Juma pocket money and was feeling rich. He whistled as he sat sipping tea in the tree’s shade and watched steel workers, potters, calligraphers, and laborers carry their work outside their foundries and shops, grateful for the winter-softened sky.

Princess Zeenat smiled and her teeth shone at him. “Nah ji. No one can steal from us. My family is protected by a jinn, you know.”

This was something Gramps had heard before. A jinn protected the princess and her two sisters, a duty imposed by Akbar the Great five hundred years back. Guard and defend Mughal honor. Not a clichéd horned jinn, you understand, but a daunting, invisible entity that defied the laws of physics: it could slip in and out of time, could swap its senses, hear out of its nostrils, smell with its eyes. It could even fly like the tales of yore said.

Mostly amused but occasionally uneasy, Gramps laughed when the princess told these stories. He had never really questioned the reality of her existence; lots of nawabs and princes of pre-Partition India had offspring languishing in poverty these days. An impoverished Mughal princess was conceivable.

A custodian jinn, not so much.

Unconvinced thus, Gramps said:

“Where does he live?”

“What does he eat?”

And, “If he’s invisible, how does one know he’s real?”

The princess’s answers came back practiced and surreal:

The jinn lived in the eucalyptus tree above the tea stall.

He ate angel-bread.

He was as real as jasmine-touched breeze, as shifting temperatures, as the many spells of weather that alternately lull and shake humans in their variegated fists.

“Have you seen him?” Gramps fired.

“Such questions.” The Princess shook her head and laughed, her thick, long hair squirming out from under her chador. “Hai Allah, these kids.” Still tittering, she sauntered off to her counter, leaving a disgruntled Gramps scratching his head.

The existential ramifications of such a creature’s presence unsettled Gramps, but what could he do? Arguing about it was as useful as arguing about the wind jouncing the eucalyptus boughs. Especially when the neighborhood kids began to tell disturbing tales as well.

Of a gnarled bat-like creature that hung upside down from the warped branches, its shadow twined around the wicker chairs and table fronting the counter. If you looked up, you saw a bird nest—just another huddle of zoysia grass and bird feathers—but then you dropped your gaze and the creature’s malignant reflection juddered and swam in the tea inside the chipped china.

“Foul face,” said one boy. “Dark and ugly and wrinkled like a fruit.”

“Sharp, crooked fangs,” said another.

“No, no, he has razor blades planted in his jaws,” said the first one quickly. “My cousin told me. That’s how he flays the skin off little kids.”

The description of the eucalyptus jinn varied seasonally. In summertime, his cheeks were scorched, his eyes red rimmed like the midday sun. Come winter, his lips were blue and his eyes misty, his touch cold like damp roots. On one thing everyone agreed: if he laid eyes on you, you were a goner.

The lean, mean older kids nodded and shook their heads wisely.

A goner.

The mystery continued this way, deliciously gossiped and fervently argued, until one summer day a child of ten with wild eyes and a snot-covered chin rushed into the tea stall, gabbling and crying, blood trickling from the gash in his temple. Despite several attempts by the princess and her customers, he wouldn’t be induced to tell who or what had hurt him, but his older brother, who had followed the boy inside, face scrunched with delight, declared he had last been seen pissing at the bottom of the eucalyptus.

“The jinn. The jinn,” all the kids cried in unison. “A victim of the jinn’s malice.”

“No. He fell out of the tree,” a grownup said firmly. “The gash is from the fall.”

“The boy’s incurred the jinn’s wrath,” said the kids happily. “The jinn will flense the meat off his bones and crunch his marrow.”

“Oh shut up,” said Princess Zeenat, feeling the boy’s cheeks, “the eucalyptus jinn doesn’t harm innocents. He’s a defender of honor and dignity,” while all the time she fretted over the boy, dabbed at his forehead with a wet cloth, and poured him a hot cup of tea.

The princess’s sisters emerged from the doorway of their two-room shack twenty paces from the tea stall. They peered in, two teenage girls in flour-caked dopattas and rose-printed shalwar kameez, and the younger one stifled a cry when the boy turned to her, eyes shiny and vacuous with delirium, and whispered, “He says the lightning trees are dying.”

The princess gasped. The customers pressed in, awed and murmuring. An elderly man with betel-juice-stained teeth gripped the front of his own shirt with palsied hands and fanned his chest with it. “The jinn has overcome the child,” he said, looking profoundly at the sky beyond the stall, and chomped his tobacco paan faster.

The boy shuddered. He closed his eyes, breathed erratically, and behind him the shadow of the tree fell long and clawing at the ground.

The lightning trees are dying. The lightning trees are dying.

So spread the nonsensical words through the neighborhood. Zipping from bamboo door-to-door; blazing through dark lovers’ alleys; hopping from one beggar’s gleeful tongue to another’s, the prophecy became a proverb and the proverb a song.

A starving calligrapher-poet licked his reed quill and wrote an elegy for the lightning trees.

A courtesan from the Diamond Market sang it from her rooftop on a moonlit night.

Thus the walled city heard the story of the possessed boy and his curious proclamation and shivered with this message from realms unknown. Arthritic grandmothers and lithe young men rocked in their courtyards and lawns, nodding dreamily at the stars above, allowing themselves to remember secrets from childhood they hadn’t dared remember before.

Meanwhile word reached local families that a child had gotten hurt climbing the eucalyptus. Angry fathers, most of them laborers and shopkeepers with kids who rarely went home before nightfall, came barging into the Municipality’s lean-to, fists hammering on the sad-looking officer’s table, demanding that the tree be chopped down.

“It’s a menace,” they said.

“It’s hollow. Worm eaten.”

“It’s haunted!”

“Look, its gum’s flammable and therefore a fire hazard,” offered one versed in horticulture, “and the tree’s a pest. What’s a eucalyptus doing in the middle of a street anyway?”

So they argued and thundered until the officer came knocking at the princess’s door. “The tree,” said the sad-looking officer, twisting his squirrel-tail mustache, “needs to go.”

“Over my dead body,” said the princess. She threw down her polish rag and glared at the officer. “It was planted by my forefathers. It’s a relic, it’s history.”

“It’s a public menace. Look, bibi, we can do this the easy way or the hard way, but I’m telling you—”

“Try it. You just try it,” cried the princess. “I will take this matter to the highest authorities. I’ll go to the Supreme Court. That tree”—she jabbed a quivering finger at the monstrous thing—“gives us shade. A fakir told my grandfather never to move his business elsewhere. It’s blessed, he said.”

The sad-faced officer rolled up his sleeves. The princess eyed him with apprehension as he yanked one of her chairs back and lowered himself into it.

“Bibi,” he said not unkindly, “let me tell you something. The eucalyptus was brought here by the British to cure India’s salinity and flooding problems. Gora sahib hardly cared about our ecology.” His mustache drooped from his thin lips. The strawberry mole on his chin quivered. “It’s not indigenous, it’s a pest. It’s not a blessing, it repels other flora and fauna and guzzles groundwater by the tons. It’s not ours,” the officer said, not looking at the princess. “It’s alien.”

It was early afternoon and school hadn’t broken yet. The truant Gramps sat in a corner sucking on a cigarette he’d found in the trash can outside his school and watched the princess. Why wasn’t she telling the officer about the jinn? That the tree was its home? Her cheeks were puffed from clenching her jaws, the hollows under her eyes deeper and darker as she clapped a hand to her forehead.

“Look,” she said, her voice rising and falling like the wind stirring the tear-shaped eucalyptus leaves, “you take the tree, you take our good luck. My shop is all I have. The tree protects it. It protects us. It’s family.”

“Nothing I can do.” The officer scratched his birthmark. “Had there been no complaint . . . but now I have no choice. The Lahore Development Authority has been planning to remove the poplars and the eucalyptus for a while anyway. They want to bring back trees of Old Lahore. Neem, pipal, sukhchain, mulberry, mango. This foreigner”—he looked with distaste at the eucalyptus—“steals water from our land. It needs to go.”

Shaking his head, the officer left. The princess lurched to her stall and began to prepare Rooh Afza. She poured a glittering parabola of sharbat into a mug with trembling hands, staggered to the tree, and flung the liquid at its hoary, clawing roots.

“There,” she cried, her eyes reddened. “I can’t save you. You must go.”

Was she talking to the jinn? To the tree? Gramps felt his spine run cold as the blood-red libation sank into the ground, muddying the earth around the eucalyptus roots. Somewhere in the branches, a bird whistled.

The princess toed the roots for a moment longer, then trudged back to her counter.

Gramps left his teacup half-empty and went to the tree. He tilted his head to look at its top. It was so high. The branches squirmed and fled from the main trunk, reaching restlessly for the hot white clouds. A plump chukar with a crimson beak sat on a branch swaying gently. It stared back at Gramps, but no creature with razor-blade jaws and hollow dust-filled cheeks dangled from the tree.

As Gramps left, the shadows of the canopies and awnings of shops in the alley stretched toward the tree accusatorially.

That night Gramps dreamed of the eucalyptus jinn.

It was a red-snouted shape hurtling toward the heavens, its slipstream body glittering and dancing in the dark. Space and freedom rotated above it, but as it accelerated showers of golden meteors came bursting from the stars and slammed into it. The creature thinned and elongated until it looked like a reed pen trying to scribble a cryptic message between the stars, but the meteors wouldn’t stop.

Drop back, you blasphemer, whispered the heavens. You absconder, you vermin. The old world is gone. No place for your kind here now. Fall back and do your duty.

And eventually the jinn gave up and let go.

It plummeted: a fluttering, helpless, enflamed ball shooting to the earth. It shrieked as it dove, flickering rapidly in and out of space and time but bound by their quantum fetters. It wanted to rage but couldn’t. It wanted to save the lightning trees, to upchuck their tremulous shimmering roots and plant them somewhere the son of man wouldn’t find them. Instead it was imprisoned, captured by prehuman magic and trapped to do time for a sin so old it had forgotten what it was.

So now it tumbled and plunged, hated and hating. It changed colors like a fiendish rainbow: mid-flame blue, muscle red, terror green, until the force of its fall bleached all its hues away and it became a pale scorching bolt of fire.

Thus the eucalyptus jinn fell to its inevitable dissolution, even as Gramps woke up, his heart pounding, eyes fogged and aching from the dream. He groped in the dark, found the lantern, and lit it. He was still shaking. He got up, went to his narrow window that looked out at the moon-drenched Bhati Gate a hundred yards away. The eight arches of the Mughal structure were black and lonely above the central arch. Gramps listened. Someone was moving in the shack next door. In the princess’s home. He gazed at the mosque of Ghulam Rasool—a legendary mystic known as the Master of Cats—on its left.

And he looked at the eucalyptus tree.

It soared higher than the gate, its wild armature pawing at the night, the oily scent of its leaves potent even at this distance. Gramps shivered, although heat was swelling from the ground from the first patter of raindrops. More smells crept into the room: dust, trash, verdure.

He backed away from the window, slipped his sandals on, dashed out of the house. He ran toward the tea stall but, before he could as much as cross the chicken yard up front, lightning unzipped the dark and the sky roared.

The blast of its fall could be heard for miles.

The eucalyptus exploded into a thousand pieces, the burning limbs crackling and sputtering in the thunderstorm that followed. More lightning splintered the night sky. Children shrieked, dreaming of twisted corridors with shadows wending past one another. Adults moaned as timeless gulfs shrank and pulsed behind their eyelids. The walled city thrashed in sweat-soaked sheets until the mullah climbed the minaret and screamed his predawn call.

In the morning the smell of ash and eucalyptol hung around the crisped boughs. The princess sobbed as she gazed at her buckled tin roof and smashed stall. Shards of china, plywood, clay, and charred wicker twigs lay everywhere.

The laborers and steel workers rubbed their chins.

“Well, good riddance,” said Alamdin electrician, father of the injured boy whose possession had ultimately proved fleeting. Alamdin fingered a hole in his string vest. “Although I’m sorry for your loss, bibi. Perhaps the government will give you a monthly pension, being that you’re royal descent and all.”

Princess Zeenat’s nose stud looked dull in the gray after-storm light. Her shirt was torn at the back, where a fragment of wood had bitten her as she scoured the wreckage.

“He was supposed to protect us,” she murmured to the tree’s remains: a black stump that poked from the earth like a singed umbilicus, and the roots lapping madly at her feet. “To give us shade and blessed sanctuary.” Her grimed finger went for the nose stud and wrenched it out. “Instead—” She backpedaled and slumped at the foot of her shack’s door. “Oh, my sisters. My sisters.”

Tutting uncomfortably, the men drifted away, abandoning the pauper princess and her Mughal siblings. The women huddled together, a bevy of chukars stunned by a blood moon. Their shop was gone, the tree was gone. Princess Zeenat hugged her sisters and with a fierce light in her eyes whispered to them.

Over the next few days Gramps stood at Bhati Gate, watching the girls salvage timber, china, and clay. They washed and scrubbed their copper pots. Heaved out the tin sheet from the debris and dragged it to the foundries. Looped the remaining wicker into small bundles and sold it to basket weavers inside the walled city.

Gramps and a few past patrons offered to help. The Mughal women declined politely.

“But I can help, I really can,” Gramps said, but the princess merely knitted her eyebrows, cocked her head, and stared at Gramps until he turned and fled.

The Municipality officer tapped at their door one Friday after Juma prayers.

“Condolences, bibi,” he said. “My countless apologies. We should’ve cut it down before this happened.”

“It’s all right.” The princess rolled the gold stud tied in a hemp necklace around her neck between two fingers. Her face was tired but tranquil. “It was going to happen one way or the other.”

The officer picked at his red birthmark. “I meant your shop.”

“We had good times here”—she nodded—“but my family’s long overdue for a migration. We’re going to go live with my cousin. He has an orange-and-fig farm in Mansehra. We’ll find plenty to do.”

The man ran his fingernail down the edge of her door. For the first time Gramps saw how his eyes never stayed on the princess. They drifted toward her face, then darted away as if the flush of her skin would sear them if they lingered. Warmth slipped around Gramps’s neck, up his scalp, and across his face until his own flesh burned.

“Of course,” the officer said. “Of course,” and he turned and trudged to the skeletal stump. Already crows had marked the area with their pecking, busily creating a roost of the fallen tree. Soon they would be protected from horned owls and other birds of prey, they thought. But Gramps and Princess Zeenat knew better.

There was no protection here.

The officer cast one long look at the Mughal family, stepped around the stump, and walked away.

Later, the princess called to Gramps. He was sitting on the mosque’s steps, shaking a brass bowl, pretending to be a beggar. He ran over, the coins jingling in his pocket.

“I know you saw something,” she said once they were seated on the hemp charpoy in her shack. “I could see it in your face when you offered your help.”

Gramps stared at her.

“That night,” she persisted, “when the lightning hit the tree.” She leaned forward, her fragrance of tea leaves and ash and cardamom filling his nostrils. “What did you see?”

“Nothing,” he said and began to get up.

She grabbed his wrist. “Sit,” she said. Her left hand shot out and pressed something into his palm. Gramps leapt off the charpoy. There was an electric sensation in his flesh; his hair crackled. He opened his fist and looked at the object.

It was her nose stud. The freshly polished gold shimmered in the dingy shack.

Gramps touched the stud with his other hand and withdrew it. “It’s so cold.”

The princess smiled, a bright thing that lit up the shack. Full of love, sorrow, and relief. But relief at what? Gramps sat back down, gripped the charpoy’s posts, and tugged its torn hemp strands nervously.

“My family will be gone by tonight,” the princess said.

And even though he’d been expecting this for days, it still came as a shock to Gramps. The imminence of her departure took his breath away. All he could do was wobble his head.

“Once we’ve left, the city might come to uproot that stump.” The princess glanced over her shoulder toward the back of the room where shadows lingered. “If they try, do you promise you’ll dig under it?” She rose and peered into the dimness, her eyes gleaming like jewels.

“Dig under the tree? Why?”

“Something lies there which, if you dig it up, you’ll keep to yourself.” Princess Zeenat swiveled on her heels. “Which you will hide in a safe place and never tell a soul about.”

“Why?”

“Because that’s what the fakir told my grandfather. Something old and secret rests under that tree and it’s not for human eyes.” She turned and walked to the door.

Gramps said, “Did you ever dig under it?”

She shook her head without looking back. “I didn’t need to. As long as the tree stood, there was no need for me to excavate secrets not meant for me.”

“And the gold stud? Why’re you giving it away?”

“It comes with the burden.”

“What burden? What is under that tree?”

The princess half turned. She stood in a nimbus of midday light, her long muscled arms hanging loosely, fingers playing with the place in the hemp necklace where once her family heirloom had been; and despite the worry lines and the callused hands and her uneven, grimy fingernails, she was beautiful.

Somewhere close, a brick truck unloaded its cargo and in its sudden thunder what the princess said was muffled and nearly inaudible. Gramps thought later it might have been, “The map to the memory of heaven.”

But that of course couldn’t be right.

“The princess and her family left Lahore that night,” said Gramps. “This was in the fifties and the country was too busy recovering from Partition and picking up its own pieces to worry about a Mughal princess disappearing from the pages of history. So no one cared. Except me.”

He sank back into the armchair and began to rock.

“She or her sisters ever come back?” I said, pushing myself off the floor with my knuckles. “What happened to them?”

Gramps shrugged. “What happens to all girls. Married their cousins in the north, I suppose. Had large families. They never returned to Lahore, see?”

“And the jinn?”

Gramps bent and poked his ankle with a finger. It left a shallow dimple. “I guess he died or flew away once the lightning felled the tree.”

“What was under the stump?”

“How should I know?”

“What do you mean?”

“I didn’t dig it up. No one came to remove the stump, so I never got a chance to take out whatever was there. Anyway, bache, you really should be going. It’s late.”

I glanced at my Star Wars watch. Luke’s saber shone fluorescent across the Roman numeral two. I was impressed Mama hadn’t returned to scold me to bed. I arched my back to ease the stiffness and looked at him with one eye closed. “You’re seriously telling me you didn’t dig up the secret?”

“I was scared,” said Gramps, and gummed a fiber bar. “Look, I was told not to remove it if I didn’t have to, so I didn’t. Those days we listened to our elders, see?” He grinned, delighted with this unexpected opportunity to rebuke.

“But that’s cheating,” I cried. “The gold stud. The jinn’s disappearance. You’ve explained nothing. That . . . that’s not a good story at all. It just leaves more questions.”

“All good stories leave questions. Now go on, get out of here. Before your mother yells at us both.”

He rose and waved me toward the door, grimacing and rubbing his belly—heartburn from Hanif Uncle’s party food? I slipped out and shut the door behind me. Already ghazal music was drifting out: Ranjish hi sahih dil hi dukhanay ke liye aa. Let it be heartbreak; come if just to hurt me again. I knew the song well. Gramps had worn out so many cassettes that Apna Bazaar ordered them in bulk just for him, Mama joked.

I went to my room, undressed, and for a long time tossed in the sheets, watching the moon outside my window. It was a supermoon kids at school had talked about, a magical golden egg floating near the horizon, and I wondered how many Mughal princes and princesses had gazed at it through the ages, holding hands with their lovers.

This is how the story of the Pauper Princess and the Eucalyptus Jinn comes to an end, I thought. In utter, infuriating oblivion.

I was wrong, of course.

In September 2013, Gramps had a sudden onset of chest pain and became short of breath. 911 was called, but by the time the medics came his heart had stopped and his extremities were mottled. Still they shocked him and injected him with epi-and-atropine and sped him to the hospital where he was pronounced dead on arrival.

Gramps had really needed those water pills he’d refused until the end.

I was at Tufts teaching a course in comparative mythology when Baba called. It was a difficult year. I’d been refused tenure and a close friend had been fired over department politics. But when Baba asked me if I could come, I said of course. Gramps and I hadn’t talked in years after I graduated from Florida State and moved to Massachusetts, but it didn’t matter. There would be a funeral and a burial and a reception for the smattering of relatives who lived within drivable distance. I, the only grandchild, must be there.

Sara wanted to go with me. It would be a good gesture, she said.

“No,” I said. “It would be a terrible gesture. Baba might not say anything, but the last person he’d want at Gramps’s funeral is my white girlfriend. Trust me.”

Sara didn’t let go of my hand. Her fingers weren’t dainty like some women’s— you’re afraid to squeeze them lest they shatter like glass—but they were soft and curled easily around mine. “You’ll come back soon, won’t you?”

“Of course. Why’d you ask?” I looked at her.

“Because,” she said kindly, “you’re going home.” Her other hand plucked at a hair on my knuckle. She smiled, but there was a ghost of worry pinching the corner of her lips. “Because sometimes I can’t read you.”

We stood in the kitchenette facing each other. I touched Sara’s chin. In the last few months there had been moments when things had been a bit hesitant, but nothing that jeopardized what we had.

“I’ll be back,” I said.

We hugged and kissed and whispered things I don’t remember now. Eventually we parted and I flew to Florida, watching the morning landscape tilt through the plane windows. Below, the Charles gleamed like steel, then fell away until it was a silver twig in a hard land; and I thought, The lightning trees are dying.

Then we were past the waters and up and away, and the thought receded like the river.

We buried Gramps in Orlando Memorial Gardens under a row of pines. He was pale and stiff limbed, nostrils stuffed with cotton, the white shroud rippling in the breeze. I wished, like all fools rattled by late epiphanies, that I’d had more time with him. I said as much to Baba, who nodded.

“He would have liked that,” Baba said. He stared at the gravestone with the epitaph I have glimpsed the truth of the Great Unseen that Gramps had insisted be written below his name. A verse from Rumi. “He would have liked that very much.”

We stood in silence and I thought of Gramps and the stories he took with him that would stay untold forever. There’s a funny thing about teaching myth and history: you realize in the deep of your bones that you’d be lucky to become a mote of dust, a speck on the bookshelf of human existence. The more tales you preserve, the more claims to immortality you can make.

After the burial we went home and Mama made us chicken karahi and basmati rice. It had been ages since I’d had home-cooked Pakistani food and the spice and garlicky taste knocked me back a bit. I downed half a bowl of fiery gravy and fled to Gramps’s room where I’d been put up. Where smells of his cologne and musty clothes and his comings and goings still hung like a memory of old days.

In the following week Baba and I talked. More than we had in ages. He asked me about Sara with a glint in his eyes. I said we were still together. He grunted.

“Thousands of suitable Pakistani girls,” he began to murmur, and Mama shushed him.

In Urdu half-butchered from years of disuse I told them about Tufts and New England. Boston Commons, the Freedom Trail with its dozen cemeteries and royal burial grounds, the extremities of weather; how fall spun gold and rubies and amethyst from its foliage. Baba listened, occasionally wincing, as he worked on a broken power drill from his toolbox. It had been six years since I’d seen him and Mama, and the reality of their aging was like a gut punch. Mama’s hair was silver, but at least her skin retained a youthful glow. Baba’s fistful of beard was completely white, the hollows of his eyes deeper and darker. His fingers were swollen from rheumatoid arthritis he’d let fester for years because he couldn’t afford insurance.

“You really need to see a doctor,” I said.

“I have one. I go to the community health center in Leesburg, you know.”

“Not a free clinic. You need to see a specialist.”

“I’m fifty-nine. Six more years and then.” He pressed the power button on the drill and it roared to life. “Things will change,” he said cheerfully.

I didn’t know what to say. I had offered to pay his bills before. The handyman’s son wasn’t exactly rich, but he was grown up now and could help his family out.

Baba would have none of it. I didn’t like it, but what could I do? He had pushed me away for years. Get out of here while you can, he’d say. He marched me to college the same way he would march me to Sunday classes at Clermont Islamic Center. Go on, he said outside the mosque, as I clutched the siparas to my chest. Memorize the Quran. If you don’t, who will?

Was that why I hadn’t returned home until Gramps’s death? Even then I knew there was more. Home was a morass where I would sink. I had tried one or two family holidays midway through college. They depressed me, my parents’ stagnation, their world where nothing changed. The trailer park, its tired residents, the dead-leaf-strewn grounds that always seemed to get muddy and wet and never clean. A strange lethargy would settle on me here, a leaden feeling that left me cold and shaken. Visiting home became an ordeal filled with guilt at my indifference. I was new to the cutthroat world of academia then and bouncing from one adjunct position to another was taking up all my time anyway.

I stopped going back. It was easier to call, make promises, talk about how bright my prospects were in the big cities. And with Gramps even phone talk was useless. He couldn’t hear me, and he wouldn’t put on those damn hearing aids.

So now I was living thousands of miles away with a girl Baba had never met.

I suppose I must’ve been hurt at his refusal of my help. The next few days were a blur between helping Mama with cleaning out Gramps’s room and keeping up with the assignments my undergrads were emailing me even though I was on leave. A trickle of relatives and friends came, but to my relief Baba took over the hosting duties and let me sort through the piles of journals and tomes Gramps had amassed.

It was an impressive collection. Dozens of Sufi texts and religious treatises in different languages: Arabic, Urdu, Farsi, Punjabi, Turkish. Margins covered with Gramps’s neat handwriting. I didn’t remember seeing so many books in his room when I used to live here.

I asked Baba. He nodded.

“Gramps collected most of these after you left.” He smiled. “I suppose he missed you.”

I showed him the books. “Didn’t you say he was having memory trouble? I remember Mama being worried about him getting dementia last time I talked. How could he learn new languages?”

“I didn’t know he knew half these languages. Urdu and Punjabi he spoke and read fluently, but the others—”  He shrugged.

Curious, I went through a few line notes. Thoughtful speculation on ontological and existential questions posed by the mystic texts. These were not the ramblings of a senile mind. Was Gramps’s forgetfulness mere aging? Or had he written most of these before he began losing his marbles?

“Well, he did have a few mini strokes,” Mama said when I asked. “Sometimes he’d forget where he was. Talk about Lahore, and oddly, Mansehra. It’s a small city in Northern Pakistan,” she added when I raised an eyebrow. “Perhaps he had friends there when he was young.”

I looked at the books, ran my finger along their spines. It would be fun, nostalgic, to go through them at leisure, read Rumi’s couplets and Hafiz’s Diwan. I resolved to take the books with me. Just rent a car and drive up north with my trunk rattling with a cardboard box full of Gramps’s manuscripts.

Then one drizzling morning I found a yellowed, dog-eared notebook under an old rug in his closet. Gramps’s journal.

Before I left Florida I went to Baba. He was crouched below the kitchen sink, twisting a long wrench back and forth between the pipes, grunting. I waited until he was done, looked him in the eye, and said, “Did Gramps ever mention a woman named Zeenat Begum?”

Baba tossed the wrench into the toolbox. “Isn’t that the woman in the fairy tale he used to tell? The pauper Mughal princess?”

“Yes.”

“Sure he mentioned her. About a million times.”

“But not as someone you might have known in real life?”

“No.”

Across the kitchen I watched the door of Gramps’s room. It was firmly closed. Within hung the portrait of the brown-eyed woman in the orange dopatta with her knowing half smile. She had gazed down at my family for decades, offering us that mysterious silver cup. There was a lump in my throat but I couldn’t tell if it was anger or sorrow.

Baba was watching me, his swollen fingers tapping at the corner of his mouth. “Are you all right?”

I smiled, feeling the artifice of it stretch my skin like a mask. “Have you ever been to Turkey?”

“Turkey?” He laughed. “Sure. Right after I won the lottery and took that magical tour in the Caribbean.”

I ignored the jest. “Does the phrase ‘Courtesan of the Mughals’ mean anything to you?”

He seemed startled. A smile of such beauty lit up his face that he looked ten years younger. “Ya Allah, I haven’t heard that in forty years. Where’d you read it?”

I shrugged.

“It’s Lahore. My city. That’s what they called it in those books I read as a kid. Because it went through so many royal hands.” He laughed, eyes gleaming with delight and mischief, and lowered his voice. “My friend Habib used to call it La-whore. The Mughal hooker. Now for Allah’s sake, don’t go telling your mother on me.” His gaze turned inward. “Habib. God, I haven’t thought of him in ages.”

“Baba.” I gripped the edge of the kitchen table. “Why don’t you ever go back to Pakistan?”

His smile disappeared. He turned around, slammed the lid of his toolbox, and hefted it up. “Don’t have time.”

“You spent your teenage years there, didn’t you? You obviously have some attachment to the city. Why didn’t you take us back for a visit?”

“What would we go back to? We have no family there. My old friends are probably dead.” He carried the toolbox out into the October sun, sweat gleaming on his forearms. He placed it in the back of his battered truck and climbed into the driver’s seat. “I’ll see you later.”

I looked at him turn the keys in the ignition with fingers that shook. He was off to hammer sparkling new shelves in other people’s garages, replace squirrel-rent screens on their lanais, plant magnolias and palms in their golfing communities, and I could say nothing. I thought I understood why he didn’t want to visit the town where he grew up.

I thought about Mansehra and Turkey. If Baba really didn’t know and Gramps had perfected the deception by concealing the truth within a lie, there was nothing I could do that wouldn’t change, and possibly wreck, my family.

All good stories leave questions, Gramps had said to me.

You bastard, I thought.

“Sure,” I said and watched my baba pull out and drive away, leaving a plumage of dust in his wake.

I called Sara when I got home. “Can I see you?” I said as soon as she picked up.

She smiled. I could hear her smile. “That bad, huh?”

“No, it was all right. I just really want to see you.”

“It’s one in the afternoon. I’m on campus.” She paused. In the background birds chittered along with students. Probably the courtyard. “You sure you’re okay?”

“Yes. Maybe.” I upended the cardboard box on the carpet. The tower of books stood tall and uneven like a dwarf tree. “Come soon as you can, okay?”

“Sure. Love you.”

“Love you too.”

We hung up. I went to the bathroom and washed my face. I rubbed my eyes and stared at my reflection. It bared its teeth.

“Shut up,” I whispered. “He was senile. Must have been completely insane. I don’t believe a word of it.”

But when Sara came that evening, her red hair streaming like fall leaves, her freckled cheeks dimpling when she saw me, I told her I believed, I really did. She sat and listened and stroked the back of my hand when it trembled as I lay in her lap and told her about Gramps and his journal.

It was an assortment of sketches and scribbling. A talented hand had drawn pastures, mountaintops, a walled city shown as a semicircle with half a dozen doors and hundreds of people bustling within, a farmhouse, and rows of fig and orange trees. Some of these were miniatures: images drawn as scenes witnessed by an omniscient eye above the landscape. Others were more conventional. All had one feature in common: a man and woman present in the center of the scenery going about the mundanities of their lives.

In one scene the man sat in a mosque’s courtyard, performing ablution by the wudu tap. He wore a kurta and shalwar and Peshawari sandals. He was in his early twenties, lean, thickly bearded, with deep-set eyes that watched you impassively. In his hands he held a squalling baby whose tiny wrinkled fist was clenched around a stream of water from the tap. In the background a female face, familiar but older than I remembered, loomed over the courtyard wall, smiling at the pair.

The man was unmistakably Gramps, and the woman . . .

“Are you kidding me?” Sara leaned over and stared at the picture. “That’s the woman in the portrait hanging in his room?”

“He lied to me. To us all. She was my grandma.”

“Who is she?”

“Princess Zeenat Begum,” I said quietly.

Gramps had narrated the story of his life in a series of sketches and notes. The writing was in third person, but it was clear that the protagonist was he.

I imagined him going about the daily rituals of his life in Lahore after Princess Zeenat left. Dropping out of school, going to his father’s shop in the Niche of Calligraphers near Bhati Gate, learning the art of khattati, painting billboards in red and yellow, fusing the ancient art with new slogans and advertisements. Now he’s a lanky brown teenager wetting the tip of his brush, pausing to look up into the sky with its sweeping blue secrets. Now he’s a tall man, yanking bird feathers and cobwebs away from a eucalyptus stump, digging under it in the deep of the night with a flashlight in his hand.

And now—he’s wiping his tears, filling his knapsack with necessaries, burying his newly discovered treasure under a scatter of clothes, hitching the bag up his shoulders, and heading out into the vast unseen. All this time, there’s only one image in his head and one desire.

“He was smitten with her. Probably had been for a long time without knowing it,” I said. “Ruthlessly marked. His youth never had a chance against the siren call of history.”

“Hold on a sec. What was under the tree again?” Sara said.

I shook my head. “He doesn’t say.”

“So he lied again? About not digging it up?”

“Yes.”

“Who was he looking for?”

I looked at her. “My grandmother and her sisters.”

We read his notes and envisioned Gramps’s journey. Abandoning his own family, wandering his way into the mountains, asking everyone he met about a fig-and-orange farm on a quiet fir-covered peak in the heart of Mansehra. He was magnetized to the displaced Mughal family not because of their royalty, but the lack thereof.

And eventually he found them.

“He stayed with them for years, helping the pauper princess’s uncle with farm work. In the summer he calligraphed Quranic verses on the minarets of local mosques. In wintertime he drew portraits for tourists and painted road signs. As years passed, he married Zeenat Begum—whose portrait one summer evening he drew and painted, carried with him, and lied about—and became one of them.”

I looked up at Sara, into her gentle green eyes glittering above me. She bent and kissed my nose.

“They were happy for a while, he and his new family,” I said, “but then, like in so many lives, tragedy came knocking at their door.”

Eyes closed, I pictured the fire: a glowering creature clawing at their windows and door, crisping their apples, billowing flames across the barn to set their hay bales ablaze. The whinnying of the horses, the frantic braying of cattle and, buried in the din, human screams.

“All three Mughal women died that night,” I murmured. “Gramps and his two-year-old son were the only survivors of the brushfire. Broken and bereft, Gramps left Mansehra with the infant and went to Karachi. There he boarded a freighter that took them to Iran, then Turkey, where a sympathetic shopkeeper hired him in his rug shop. Gramps and his son stayed there for four years.”

What a strange life, I thought. I hadn’t known my father had spent part of his childhood in Turkey and apparently neither had he. He remembered nothing. How old was he when they moved back? As I thought this, my heart constricted in my chest, filling my brain with the hum of my blood.

Sara’s face was unreadable when I opened my eyes. “Quite a story, eh?” I said uneasily.

She scratched the groove above her lips with a pink fingernail. “So he digs up whatever was under the tree and it decides him. He leaves everything and goes off to marry a stranger. This is romantic bullshit. You know that, right?”

“I don’t know anything.”

“Left everything,” she repeated. Her mouth was parted with wonder. “You think whatever he found under the stump survived the fire?”

“Presumably. But where he took it—who can say? Eventually, though, they returned home. To Lahore, when Gramps had recovered enough sanity, I guess. Where his father, now old, had closed shop. Gramps helped him reopen. Together they ran that design stall for years.”

It must have been a strange time for Gramps, I thought. He loved his parents, but he hated Bhati. Even as he dipped his pen in ink and drew spirals and curlicues, his thoughts drew phantom pictures of those he had lost. Over the years, he came to loathe this art that unlocked so many memories inside him. And after his parents died he had neither heart nor imperative to keep going.

“He was done with the place, the shop, and Lahore. So when a friend offered to help him and his teenage son move to the States, Gramps agreed.”

I turned my head and burrowed into Sara’s lap. Her smell filled my brain: apple blossom, lipstick, and Sara.

She nuzzled my neck. The tip of her nose was cold. “He never talked to you about it? Never said what happened?”

“No.”

“And you and your family had no idea about this artistic side of him? How’s that possible?”

“Don’t know,” I said. “He worked at a 7-Eleven in Houston when he and Baba first came here. Never did any painting or calligraphy, commissioned or otherwise. Maybe he just left all his talent, all his dreams in his hometown. Here, look at this.”

I showed her the phrase that spiraled across the edges of a couple dozen pages: My killer, my deceiver, the Courtesan of the Mughals. “It’s Lahore. He’s talking about the city betraying him.”

“How’s that?”

I shrugged.

“How weird,” Sara said. “Interesting how broken up his story is. As if he’s trying to piece together his own life.”

“Maybe that’s what he was doing. Maybe he forced himself to forget the most painful parts.”

“Lightning trees. Odd thing to say.” She looked at me thoughtfully and put the journal away. “So, you’re the last of the Mughals, huh?” She smiled to show she wasn’t laughing.

I chortled for her. “Seems like it. The Pauper Prince of New England.”

“Wow. You come with a certificate of authenticity?” She nudged her foot at the book tower. “Is it in there somewhere?”

It was getting late. Sara tugged at my shirt, and I got up and carried her to bed, where we celebrated my return with zest. Her face was beautiful in the snow shadows that crept in through the window.

“I love you, I love you,” we murmured, enchanted with each other, drunk with belief in some form of eternity. The dark lay quietly beside us, and, smoldering in its heart, a rotating image.

A dim idea of what was to come.

I went through Gramps’s notes. Many were in old Urdu, raikhta, which I wasn’t proficient in. But I got the gist: discourses and rumination on the otherworldly.

Gramps was especially obsessed with Ibn Arabi’s treatise on jinns in The Meccan Revelations. The Lofty Master Arabi says, wrote Gramps, that the meaning of the lexical root J-N-N in Arabic is ‘concealed.’ Jinn isn’t just another created being ontologically placed between man and angel; it is the entirety of the hidden world.

“Isn’t that fucking crazy?” I said to Sara. We were watching a rerun of Finding Neverland, my knuckles caked with butter and flakes of popcorn. On the screen J. M Barrie’s wife was beginning to be upset by the attention he lavished upon the children’s mother, Sylvia. “It kills the traditional narrative of jinns in A Thousand and One Nights. If one were to pursue this train of thought, it would mean relearning the symbolism in this text and virtually all others.”

Sara nodded, her gaze fixed on the TV. “Uh huh.”

“Consider this passage: ‘A thousand years before Darwin, Sufis described the evolution of man as rising from the inorganic state through plant and animal to human. But the mineral consciousness of man, that dim memory of being buried in the great stone mother, lives on.’”

Sara popped a handful of popcorn into her mouth. Munched.

I rubbed my hands together. “‘Jinns are carriers of that concealed memory, much like a firefly carries a memory of the primordial fire.’ It’s the oddest interpretation of jinns I’ve seen.”

“Yeah, it’s great.” Sara shifted on the couch. “But can we please watch the movie?”

“Uh-huh.”

I stared at the TV. Gramps thought jinns weren’t devil-horned creatures bound to a lamp or, for that matter, a tree.

They were flickers of cosmic consciousness.

I couldn’t get that image out of my head. Why was Gramps obsessed with this? How was this related to his life in Lahore? Something to do with the eucalyptus secret?

The next morning I went to Widener Library and dug up all I could about Arabi’s and Ibn Taymeeyah’s treatment of jinns. I read and pondered, went back to Gramps’s notebooks, underlined passages in The Meccan Revelations, and walked the campus with my hands in my pockets and my heart in a world long dissipated.

“Arabi’s cosmovision is staggering,” I told Sara. We were sitting in a coffee shop downtown during lunch break. It was drizzling, just a gentle stutter of gray upon gray outside the window, but it made the brick buildings blush.

Sara sipped her mocha and glanced at her watch. She had to leave soon for her class.

“Consider life as a spark of consciousness. In Islamic cosmology the jinn’s intrinsic nature is that of wind and fire. Adam’s—read, man’s—nature is water and clay, which are more resistant than fire to cold and dryness. As the universe changes, so do the requirements for life’s vehicle. Now it needs creatures more resistant and better adapted. Therefore, from the needs of sentient matter rose the invention that is us.”

I clenched my hand into a fist. “This interpretation is pretty fucking genius. I mean, is it possible Gramps was doing real academic work? For example, had he discovered something in those textbooks that could potentially produce a whole new ideology of creation? Why, it could be the scholarly discovery of the century.”

“Yes, it’s great.” She rapped her spoon against the edge of the table. Glanced at me, looked away.

“What?”

“Nothing. Listen, I gotta run, okay?” She gave me a quick peck on the cheek and slid out of her seat. At the door she hesitated, turned, and stood tapping her shoes, a waiting look in her eyes.

I dabbed pastry crumbs off my lips with a napkin. “Are you okay?”

Annoyance flashed in her face and vanished. “Never better.” She pulled her jacket’s hood over her head, yanked the door open, and strode out into the rain.

It wasn’t until later that evening, when I was finalizing the spring calendar for my freshman class, that I realized I had forgotten our first-date anniversary.

Sara hadn’t. There was a heart-shaped box with a pink bow sitting on the bed when I returned home. Inside was a note laying atop a box of Godiva Chocolates:

Happy Anniversary. May our next one be like your grandfather’s fairy tales.

My eyes burned with lack of sleep. It was one in the morning and I’d had a long day at the university. Also, the hour-long apology to Sara had drained me. She had shaken her head and tried to laugh it off, but I took my time, deeming it a wise investment for the future.

I went to the kitchen and poured myself a glass of ice water. Kicked off my slippers, returned to the desk, and continued reading.

I hadn’t lied to Sara. The implications of this new jinn mythology were tremendous. A new origin myth, a bastardized version of the Abrahamic creationist lore.  Trouble was these conclusions were tenuous. Gramps had speculated more than logically derived them. Arabi himself had touched on these themes in an abstract manner. To produce a viable theory of this alternate history of the universe, I needed more details, more sources.

Suppose there were other papers, hidden manuscripts. Was it possible that the treasure Gramps had found under the eucalyptus stump was truly ‘the map to the memory of heaven’? Ancient papers of cosmological importance never discovered?

“Shit, Gramps. Where’d you hide them?” I murmured.

His journal said he’d spent quite a bit of time in different places: Mansehra, Iran. Turkey, where he spent four years in a rug shop. The papers could really be anywhere.

My eyes were drawn to the phrase again: the Courtesan of the Mughals. I admired how beautiful the form and composition of the calligraphy was. Gramps had shaped the Urdu alphabet carefully into a flat design so that the conjoined words Mughal and Courtesanturned into an ornate rug. A calligram. The curves of the meem and ghain letters became the tassels and borders of the rug, the laam’s seductive curvature its rippling belly.

Such artistry. One shape discloses another. A secret, symbolic relationship.

There, I thought. The secret hides in the city. The clues to the riddle of the eucalyptus treasure are in Lahore.

I spent the next few days sorting out my finances. Once I was satisfied that the trip was feasible, I began to make arrangements.

Sara stared at me when I told her. “Lahore? You’re going to Lahore?”

“Yes.”

“To look for something your grandpa may or may not have left there fifty-some years ago?”

“Yes.”

“You’re crazy. I mean it’s one thing to talk about a journal.”

“I know. I still need to go.”

“So you’re telling me, not asking. Why? Why are you so fixed on this? You know that country isn’t safe these days. What if something happens?” She crossed her arms, lifted her feet off the floor, and tucked them under her on the couch. She was shivering a little.

“Nothing’s gonna happen. Look, whatever he left in Lahore, he wanted me to see it. Why else write about it and leave it in his journal which he knew would be found one day? Don’t you see? He was really writing to me.”

“Well, that sounds self-important. Why not your dad? Also, why drop hints then? Why not just tell you straight up what it is?”

“I don’t know.” I shrugged. “Maybe he didn’t want other people to find out.”

“Or maybe he was senile. Look, I’m sorry, but this is crazy. You can’t just fly off to the end of the world on a whim to look for a relic.” She rubbed her legs. “It could take you weeks. Months. How much vacation time do you have left?”

“I’ll take unpaid leave if I have to. Don’t you see? I need to do this.”

She opened her mouth, closed it. “Is this something you plan to keep doing?” she said quietly. “Run off each time anything bothers you.”

“What?” I quirked my eyebrows. “Nothing’s bothering me.”

“No?” She jumped up from the couch and glared at me. “You’ve met my mother and Fanny, but I’ve never met your parents. You didn’t take me to your grandfather’s funeral. And since your return you don’t seem interested in what we have, or once had. Are you trying to avoid talking about us? Are we still in love, Sal, or are we just getting by? Are we really together?”

“Of course we’re together. Don’t be ridiculous,” I mumbled, but there was a constriction in my stomach. It wouldn’t let me meet her eyes.

“Don’t patronize me. You’re obsessed with your own little world. Look, I have no problem with you giving time to your folks. Or your gramps’s work. But we’ve been together for three years and you still find excuses to steer me away from your family. This cultural thing that you claim to resent, you seem almost proud of it. Do you see what I mean?”

“No.” I was beginning to get a bit angry. “And I’m not sure you do either.”

“You’re lying. You know what I’m talking about.”

“Do I? Okay, lemme try to explain what my problem is. Look at me, Sara. What do you see?”

She stared at me, shook her head. “I see a man who doesn’t know he’s lost.”

“Wrong. You see a twenty-eight-year-old brown man living in a shitty apartment, doing a shitty job that doesn’t pay much and has no hope of tenure. You see a man who can’t fend for himself, let alone a wife and kids—”

“No one’s asking you to—”

“—if he doesn’t do something better with his life. But you go on believing all will be well if we trade families? Open your damn eyes.” I leaned against the TV cabinet, suddenly tired. “All my life I was prudent. I planned and planned and gave up one thing for another. Moved here. Never looked back. Did whatever I could to be what I thought I needed to be. The archetypal fucking immigrant in the land of opportunities. But after Gramps died . . .” I closed my eyes, breathed, opened them. “I realize some things are worth more than that. Some things are worth going after.”

“Some things, huh?” Sara half smiled, a trembling flicker that took me aback more than her words did. “Didn’t your grandfather give up everything—his life, his family, his country—for love? And you’re giving up . . . love for  . . . what exactly? Shame? Guilt? Identity? A fucking manventure in a foreign land?”

“You’re wrong,” I said. “I’m not—”

But she wasn’t listening. Her chest hitched. Sara turned, walked into the bedroom, and gently closed the door, leaving me standing alone.

I stomped down Highland Avenue. It was mid-October and the oaks and silver maples were burning with fall. They blazed yellow and crimson. They made me feel sadder and angrier and more confused.

Had our life together always been this fragile? I wondered if I had missed clues that Sara felt this way. She always was more aware of bumps in our relationship. I recalled watching her seated at the desk marking student papers once, her beautiful, freckled face scrunched in a frown, and thinking she would never really be welcome in my parents’ house. Mama would smile nervously if I brought her home and retreat into the kitchen. Baba wouldn’t say a word and somehow that would be worse than an outraged rejection. And what would Gramps have done? I didn’t know. My head was messed up. It had been since his death.

It was dusk when I returned home, the lights in our neighborhood floating dreamily like gold sequins in black velvet.

Sara wasn’t there.

The bed was made, the empty hangers in the closet pushed neatly together. On the coffee table in the living room under a Valentine mug was yet another note. She had become adept at writing me love letters.

I made myself a sandwich, sat in the dark, and picked at the bread. When I had mustered enough courage, I retrieved the note and began to read:

Salman,

I wrote tried to write this several times and each time my hand shook and made me write things I didn’t want to. It sucks that we’re such damn weaklings, the both of us. I’m stuck in love with you and you are with me. At least I hope so. At least that’s the way I feel read you. But then I think about my mother and my heart begins racing.

You’ve met my family. Mom likes you. Fanny too. They think you’re good for me. But you’ve never met my dad. You don’t know why we never don’t talk about him anymore.

He left Mom when Fanny and I were young. I don’t remember him, although sometimes I think I can. When I close my eyes, I see this big, bulky shadow overwhelm the doorway of my room. There’s this bittersweet smell, gin and sweat and tobacco. I remember not feeling afraid of him, for which I’m grateful.

But Dad left us Mom and he broke her. In especially bitter moments she would say it was another woman, but I don’t think so. At least I never saw any proof of that in my mother’s eyes when she talked about him. (In the beginning she talked a LOT about him.) I think he left her because he wanted more from life and Mom didn’t understand pick that up. I think she didn’t read his unhappiness in time. That’s the vibe I get.

Does that excuse what he did? I don’t think so. My mother’s spent all her life trying to put us back together and she’s done okay, but there are pieces of herself she wasn’t able to find. In either me, or Fanny, or in anyone else.

I don’t want that to happen to me.I don’t want to end up like my mother. That’s pretty much it. If you didn’t love me, I’d understand. I’d be hurt, but I could live with it. But living with this uncertainty, never knowing when you might get that wanderlust I’ve seen in your eyes lately, is impossible for me. There’s so much I want to say to you. Things you need to know if we’re to have a future together. But the last thing I want to do is force you.

So I’m leaving. I’m going to stay at Fanny’s. Think things through. It will be good for both of us. It will help me get my head straight and will let you do whatever you want to get your fucking demons out. So fly free. Go to Pakistan. Follow your goddamn heart or whatever. Just remember I won’t wait all my life.

You know where to find me.

Love,

Sara

I put down the letter and stared out the window. Night rain drummed on the glass. I tapped my finger to its tune, fascinated by how difficult it was to keep time with it. A weight had settled on my chest and I couldn’t push it off.

If an asshole weeps in the forest and no one is around to witness, is he still an asshole?

Nobody was there to answer.

For most of the fifteen-hour flight from New York to Lahore I was out. I hadn’t realized how tired I was until I slumped into the economy seat and woke up half-dazed when the flight attendant gently shook my shoulder.

“Lahore, sir.”  She smiled when I continued to stare at her. The lipstick smudge on her teeth glistened. “Allama Iqbal International Airport.”

“Yes,” I said, struggling up and out. The plane was empty, the seats gaping. “How’s the weather?”

“Cold. Bit misty. Fog bank’s coming, they said. Early this year.”

That didn’t sound promising. I thanked her and hurried out, my carry-on clattering against the aisle armrests.

I exited the airport into the arms of a mid-November day and the air was fresh but full of teeth. The pale sea-glass sky seemed to wrap around the airport. I hailed a cab and asked for Bhati Gate. As we sped out of the terminal, whiteness seethed on the runway and blanketed the horizon. The flight attendant was right. Fog was on the way.

At a busy traffic signal the cabbie took a right. Past army barracks, the redbrick Aitchison College, and colonial-era Jinnah Gardens we went, until the roads narrowed and we hiccuped through a sea of motorbikes, rickshaws, cars, and pedestrians. TERRORISTS ARE ENEMIES OF PEACE, said a large black placard on a wall that jutted out left of a fifty-foot high stone gate. The looming structure had a massive central arch with eight small arches above it. It had a painting of the Kaaba on the right and Prophet Muhammad’s shrine on the left with vermilion roses embossed in the middle. Another sign hung near it: WELCOME TO OLD LAHORE BY THE GRACE OF ALLAH.

We were at Bhati Gate.

The cab rolled to a stop in front of Kashi Manzil. A tall, narrow historical-home-turned-hotel with a facade made of ochre and azure faience tiles. A wide terrace ran around the second floor and a small black copper pot hung from a nail on the edge of the doorway awning.

I recognized the superstition. Black to ward off black. Protection against the evil eye.

Welcome to Gramps’s world, I thought.

I looked down the street. Roadside bakeries, paan-and-cigarette shops, pirated DVD stalls, a girls’ school with peeling walls, and dust, dust everywhere; but my gaze of course went to Bhati and its double row of arches.

This was the place my grandfather had once gazed at, lived by, walked through. Somewhere around here used to be a tea stall run by a Mughal princess. Someplace close had been a eucalyptus from which a kid had fallen and gashed his head. A secret that had traveled the globe had come here with Gramps and awaited me in some dingy old alcove.

That stupid wanderlust in your eyes.

Sara’s voice in my brain was a gentle rebuke.

Later, I thought fiercely. Later.

The next day I began my search.

I had planned to start with the tea stalls. Places like this have long memories. Old Lahore was more or less the city’s ancient downtown and people here wouldn’t forget much. Least of all a Mughal princess who ran a tea shop. Gramps’s journal didn’t much touch on his life in the walled city. I certainly couldn’t discern any clues about the location of the eucalyptus treasure.

Where did you hide it, old man? Your shack? A friend’s place? Under that fucking tree stump?

If Gramps was correct and the tree had fallen half a century ago, that landmark was probably irretrievable. Gramps’s house seemed the next logical place. Trouble was I didn’t know where Gramps had lived. Before I left, I’d called Baba and asked him. He wasn’t helpful.

“It’s been a long time, son. Fifty years. Don’t tax an old man’s memory. You’ll make me senile.”

When I pressed, he reluctantly gave me the street where they used to live and his childhood friend Habib’s last name.

“I don’t remember our address, but I remember the street. Ask anyone in Hakiman Bazaar for Khajoor Gali. They’ll know it.”

Encircled by a wall raised by Akbar the Great, Old Lahore was bustling and dense. Two hundred thousand people lived in an area less than one square mile. Breezes drunk with the odor of cardamom, grease, and tobacco. The place boggled my mind as I strolled around taking in the niche pharmacies, foundries, rug shops, kite shops, and baked mud eateries.

I talked to everyone I encountered. The tea stall owner who poured Peshawari kahva in my clay cup. The fruit seller who handed me sliced oranges and guavas and frowned when I mentioned the pauper princess. Rug merchants, cigarette vendors, knife sellers. No one had heard of Zeenat Begum. Nobody knew of a young man named Sharif or his father who ran a calligraphy-and-design stall.

“Not around my shop, sahib.” They shook their heads and turned away.

I located Khajoor Gali—a winding narrow alley once dotted by palm trees (or so the locals claimed) now home to dusty ramshackle buildings hunched behind open manholes—and went door to door, asking. No luck. An aged man with henna-dyed hair and a shishamwood cane stared at me when I mentioned Baba’s friend Habib Ataywala, and said, “Habib. Ah, he and his family moved to Karachi several years ago. No one knows where.”

“How about a eucalyptus tree?” I asked. “An ancient eucalyptus that used to stand next to Bhati Gate?”

Nope.

Listlessly I wandered, gazing at the mist lifting off the edges of the streets and billowing toward me. On the third day it was like slicing through a hundred rippling white shrouds. As night fell and fairy lights blinked on the minarets of Lahore’s patron saint Data Sahib’s shrine across the road from Bhati, I felt displaced. Depersonalized. I was a mote drifting in a slat of light surrounded by endless dark. Gramps was correct. Old Lahore had betrayed him. It was as if the city had deliberately rescinded all memory or trace of his family and the princess’s. Sara was right. Coming here was a mistake. My life since Gramps’s death was a mistake. Seeing this world as it was rather than through the fabular lens of Gramps’s stories was fucking enlightening.

In this fog, the city’s fresh anemia, I thought of things I hadn’t thought about in years. The time Gramps taught me to perform the salat. The first time he brought my palms together to form the supplicant’s cup. Be the beggar at Allah’s door, he told me gently. He loves humility. It’s in the mendicant’s bowl that the secrets of Self are revealed. In the tashahuud position Gramps’s index finger would shoot from a clenched fist and flutter up and down.

“This is how we beat the devil on the head,” he said.

But what devil was I trying to beat? I’d been following a ghost and hoping for recognition from the living.

By the fifth day I’d made up my mind. I sat shivering on a wooden bench and watched my breath flute its way across Khajoor Gali as my finger tapped my cell phone and thousands of miles away Sara’s phone rang.

She picked up almost immediately. Her voice was wary. “Sal?”

“Hey.”

“Are you all right?”

“Yes.”

A pause. “You didn’t call before you left.”

“I thought you didn’t want me to.”

“I was worried sick. One call after you landed would’ve been nice.”

I was surprised but pleased. After so much disappointment, her concern was welcome. “Sorry.”

“Jesus. I was . . .” She trailed off, her breath harsh and rapid in my ear. “Find the magic treasure yet?”

“No.”

“Pity.” She seemed distracted now. In the background water was running. “How long will you stay there?”

“I honest to God don’t know, but I’ll tell you this. I’m fucking exhausted.”

“I’m sorry.” She didn’t sound sorry. I smiled a little.

“Must be around five in the morning there. Why’re you up?” I said.

“I was . . . worried, I guess. Couldn’t sleep. Bad dreams.” She sighed. I imagined her rubbing her neck, her long fingers curling around the muscles, kneading them, and I wanted to touch her.

“I miss you,” I said.

Pause. “Yeah. Me too. It’s a mystery how much I’m used to you being around. And now that . . .” She stopped and exhaled. “Never mind.”

“What?”

“Nothing.” She grunted. “This damn weather. I think I’m coming down with something. Been headachy all day.”

“Are you okay?”

“Yeah. It’ll go away. Listen, I’m gonna go take a shower. You have fun.”

Was that reproach? “Yeah, you too. Be safe.”

“Sure.” She sounded as if she were pondering. “Hey, I discovered something. Been meaning to tell you, but . . . you know.”

“I’m all ears.”

“Remember what your gramps said in the story. Lightning trees?”

“Yes.”

“Well, lemme text it to you. I mentioned the term to a friend at school and turned out he recognized it too. From a lecture we both attended at MIT years ago about fractal similarities and diffusion-limited aggregation.”

“Fractal what?” My phone beeped. I removed it from my ear and looked at the screen. A high-definition picture of a man with what looked like a tree-shaped henna tattoo on his left shoulder branching all the way down his arm. Pretty.

I put her on speakerphone. “Why’re you sending me pictures of henna tattoos?”

She was quiet, then started laughing. “That didn’t even occur to me, but, yeah, it does look like henna art.”

“It isn’t?”

“Nope. What you’re seeing is a Lichtenberg figure created when branching electrical charges run through insulating material. Glass, resin, human skin—you name it. This man was hit by lightning and survived with this stamped on his flesh.”

“What?”

“Yup. It can be created in any modern lab using nonconducting plates. Called electric treeing. Or lightning trees.”

The lightning trees are dying.

“Holy shit,” I said softly.

“Yup.”

I tapped the touch screen to zoom in for a closer look. “How could Gramps know about this? If he made up the stories, how the fuck would he know something like this?”

“No idea. Maybe he knew someone who had this happen to them.”

“But what does it mean?”

“The heck should I know. Anyways, I gotta go. Figured it might help you with whatever you’re looking for.”

“Thanks.”

She hung up. I stared at the pattern on the man’s arm. It was reddish, fernlike, and quite detailed. The illusion was so perfect I could even see buds and leaves. A breathtaking electric foliage. A map of lightning.

A memory of heaven.

I went to sleep early that night.

At five in the morning the Fajar call to prayer woke me up. I lay in bed watching fog drift through the skylight window, listening to the mullah’s sonorous azaan, and suddenly I jolted upright.

The mosque of Ghulam Rasool, the Master of Cats.

Wasn’t that what Gramps had told me a million years ago? That there was a mosque near Bhati Gate that faced his house?

I hadn’t seen any mosques around.

I slipped on clothes and ran outside.

The morning smelled like burnished metal. The light was soft, the shape of early risers gentle in the mist-draped streets. A rooster crowed in the next alley. It had drizzled the night before and the ground was muddy. I half slipped, half leapt my way toward the mullah’s voice rising and falling like an ocean heard in one’s dream.

Wisps of white drifted around me like twilit angels. The azaan had stopped. I stared at the narrow doorway next to a rug merchant’s shop ten feet away. Its entrance nearly hidden by an apple tree growing in the middle of the sidewalk, the place was tucked well away from traffic. Green light spilled from it. Tiny replicas of the Prophet’s Mosque in Medina and Rumi’s shrine in Turkey were painted above the door.

Who would put Rumi here when Data Sahib’s shrine was just across the road?

I took off my shoes and entered the mosque.

A tiny room with a low ceiling set with zero-watt green bulbs. On reed mats the congregation stood shoulder to shoulder in two rows behind a smallish man in shalwar kameez and a turban. The Imam sahib clicked the mute button on the standing microphone in front, touched his earlobes, and Fajar began.

Feeling oddly guilty, I sat down in a corner. Looked around the room. Ninety-nine names of Allah and Muhammad, prayers and Quranic verses belching from the corners, twisting and pirouetting across the walls. Calligrams in the shape of a mynah bird, a charging lion, a man prostrate in sajdah, his hands out before him shaping a beggar’s bowl filled with alphabet vapors. Gorgeous work.

Salat was over. The namazis began to leave. Imam sahib turned. In his hands he held a tally counter for tasbih. Click click! Murmuring prayers, he rose and hobbled toward me.

“Assalam-o-alaikum. May I help you, son?” he said in Urdu.

“Wa Laikum Assalam. Yes,” I said. “Is this Masjid Ghulam Rasool?”

He shook his head. He was in his seventies at least, long noorani beard, white hair sticking out of his ears. His paunch bulged through the striped-flannel kameez flowing past his ankles. “No. That mosque was closed and martyred in the nineties. Sectarian attacks. Left a dozen men dead. Shia mosque, you know. Used to stand in Khajoor Gali, I believe.”

“Oh.” I told myself I’d been expecting this, but my voice was heavy with disappointment. “I’m sorry to bother you then. I’ll leave you to finish up.”

“You’re not local, son. Your salam has an accent,” he said. “Amreekan, I think. You look troubled. How can I help you?” He looked at me, took his turban off. He had a pale scar near his left temple shaped like a climbing vine.

I watched him. His hair was silver. His sharp eyes were blue, submerged in a sea of wrinkles. “I was looking for a house. My late grandfather’s. He lived close to the mosque, next door to a lady named Zeenat Begum. She used to run a tea stall.”

“Zeenat Begum.” His eyes narrowed, the blues receding into shadow. “And your grandfather’s name?” he asked, watching the last of the worshippers rise to his feet.

“Sharif. Muhammad Sharif.”

The oddest feeling, a sort of déjà vu, came over me. Something had changed in the air of the room. Even the last namazi felt it and glanced over his shoulder on his way out.

“Who did you say you were again?” Imam sahib said quietly.

“Salman Ali Zaidi.”

“I see. Yes, I do believe I can help you out. This way.”

He turned around, limping, and beckoned me to follow. We exited the mosque. He padlocked it, parted the bead curtain in the doorway of the rug shop next door, stepped in.

When I hesitated, he paused, the tasbih counter clicking in his hands. “Come in, son. My place is your place.”

I studied the rug shop. It was located between the mosque and a souvenir stall. The awning above the arched doorway was gray, the brick voussoirs and keystone of the arch faded and peeling. The plaque by the entrance said Karavan Kilim.

Kilim is a kind of Turkish carpet. What was a kilim shop doing in Old Lahore?

He led me through a narrow well-lit corridor into a hardwood-floored showroom. Mounds of neatly folded rugs sat next to walls covered in rectangles of rich tapestries, carpets, and pottery-filled shelves. Stunning illustrations and calligraphy swirled across the high wooden ceiling. Here an entranced dervish whirled in blue, one palm toward the sky and one to the ground. There a crowd haloed with golden light held out dozens of drinking goblets, an Urdu inscription spiraling into a vast cloud above their heads: They hear his hidden hand pour truth in the heavens.

A bald middle-aged man dressed in a checkered brown half-sleeve shirt sat behind a desk. Imam Sahib nodded at him. “My nephew Khalid.”

Khalid and I exchanged pleasantries. Imam sahib placed the tasbih counter and his turban on the desk. I gazed around me. “Imam sahib,” I said. “This is a Turkish carpet shop. You run an imported rug business in your spare time?”

“Turkish design, yes, but not imported. My apprentices make them right here in the walled city.” Without looking back, he began walking. “You can call me Bashir.”

We went to the back of the shop, weaving our way through rug piles into a storeroom lit by sunlight from a narrow window. Filled to the ceiling with mountains of fabric rolls and broken looms, the room smelled of damp, rotten wood, and tobacco. In a corner was a large box covered with a bedsheet. Bashir yanked the sheet away and a puff of dust bloomed and clouded the air.

“Sharif,” said the merchant Imam. “He’s dead, huh?”

“You knew him?”

“Of course. He was friends with the Mughal princess. The lady who used to give us tea.”

“How do you know that?” I stared at him. “Who are you?”

His eyes hung like sapphires in the dimness, gaze fixed on me, one hand resting atop the embossed six-foot-long metal trunk that had emerged. He tilted his head so the feeble light fell on his left temple. The twisted pale scar gleamed.

“The boy who fell from the eucalyptus tree,” I whispered. “He gashed his head and the princess bandaged it for him. You’re him.”

The old man smiled. “Who I am is not important, son. What’s important is this room where your grandfather worked for years.”

Speechless, I gaped at him. After days of frustration and disappointment, I was standing in the room Gramps had occupied decades ago, this dingy store with its decaying inhabitants. I looked around as if at any moment Gramps might step out from the shadows.

“He was the best teacher I ever had,” Bashir said. “We used to call him the Calligrapher Prince.”

He flashed a smile. It brightened Bashir the merchant’s tired, old face like a flame.

I watched this man with his wispy moonlight hair and that coiled scar who had kept my grandfather’s secret for half a century. We sat around a low circular table, dipping cake rusk into mugs of milk chai sweetened with brown sugar. It was eight in the morning.

Bashir gripped his cup with both hands and frowned into it.

“My father was an electrician,” he said. “By the time he was fifty he’d saved enough to buy a carpet shop. With lots of construction going on, he was able to get this shop dirt cheap.

“Rugs were an easy trade back in the seventies. You hired weavers, most of ’em immigrants from up north, and managed the product. We didn’t have good relations with neighboring countries, so high demand existed for local rugs and tapestries without us worrying about competition. After the dictator Zia came, all that changed. Our shop didn’t do well, what with rugs being imported cheap from the Middle East and Afghanistan. We began to get desperate.

“Right about then a stranger came to us.”

It began, Bashir said, the evening someone knocked on their door with a rosy-cheeked child by his side and told Bashir’s father he was looking for work. Bashir, then in his late teens, stood behind his baba, watching the visitor. Wary, the rug merchant asked where they hailed from. The man lifted his head and his face shone with the strangest light Bashir had seen on a human countenance.

“It swept across his cheeks, it flared in his eyes, it illuminated the cuts and angles of his bones,” said Bashir, mesmerized by memory. “It was as if he had been touched by an angel or a demon. I’ll never forget it.”

“From thousands of miles away,” said the man quietly. “From many years away.”

It was Gramps, of course.

Bashir’s father didn’t recognize him, but he knew the man’s family. Their only son, Muhammad Sharif, had been abroad for years, he’d heard. Lived in Iran, Turkey, Allah knew where else. Sharif’s aged father still lived on Khajoor Gali in Old Lahore, but he’d shut down his design stall in the Niche of Calligraphers years ago.

“Sharif had been back for a few months and he and his son were living with his father. Now they needed money to reopen their shop.” Bashir smiled. “Turned out your grandfather was an expert rug weaver. He said he learned it in Turkey near Maulana Rumi’s shrine. My father offered him a job and he accepted. He worked with us for three years while he taught kilim weaving to our apprentices.

“He was young, hardly a few years older than I, but when he showed me his notebook, I knew he was no ordinary artist. He had drawn mystical poetry in animal shapes. Taken the quill and created dazzling worlds. Later, when my father put him before the loom, Sharif produced wonders such as we’d never seen.”

Merchant Bashir got up and plodded to a pile of rugs. He grabbed a kilim and unrolled it across the floor. A mosaic of black, yellow, and maroon geometries glimmered.

“He taught me rug weaving. It’s a nomadic art, he said. Pattern making carries the past into the future.” Bashir pointed to a recurrent cross motif that ran down the kilim’s center. “The four corners of the cross are the four corners of the universe. The scorpion here”—he toed a many-legged symmetric creature woven in yellow—“represents freedom. Sharif taught me this and more. He was a natural at symbols. I asked him why he went to Turkey. He looked at me and said, ‘To learn to weave the best kilim in the world.’”

I cocked my head, rapt. I had believed it was grief that banished Gramps from Pakistan and love that bade him return. Now this man was telling me Gramps went to Turkey purposefully. How many other secrets had my grandfather left out?

“I didn’t know he was a rug weaver,” I said.

“Certainly was. One of the best we ever saw. He knew what silk on silk warping was. Don’t weave on a poor warp. Never work on a loom out of alignment. He knew all this. Yet, he didn’t consider himself a weaver. He learned the craft to carry out a duty, he said. His passion was calligraphy. All this you see”—Bashir waved a hand at the brilliant kilims and tapestries around us, at the twists and curlicues of the verses on the walls, the wondrous illustrations—“is his genius manifested. The Ottoman Turkish script, those calligrams in our mosque, the paintings. It’s all him and his obsession with the Turkish masters.”

“He ever say why he left Pakistan or why he returned?”

Bashir shrugged. “We never asked. As long as it wasn’t criminal, we didn’t care.”

“Why’d you call him the Calligrapher Prince?”

The old man laughed. “It was a nickname the apprentices gave him and it stuck. Seemed so fitting.” Bashir lifted his cup and swallowed the last mouthful of tea along with the grounds. I winced. “Sharif was courteous and diligent. Hardly went home before midnight and he helped the business run more smoothly than it had in years, but I knew he was waiting for something. His eyes were always restless. Inward.”

In the evenings when the shop had closed Sharif drew and carved keenly. For hours he engraved, his cotton swabs with lacquer thinner in one hand, his burin and flat gravers in the other. What he was making was no secret. Bashir watched the process and the product: a large brass trunk with a complex inlay in its lid. A labyrinthine repoussé network gouged into the metal, spiraling into itself. Such fine work it took one’s breath away.

“Never, never, never,” said Bashir, “have I seen such a thing of beauty evolve in a craftsman’s hand again.”

Sharif’s concentration was diabolical, his hands careful as nature’s might have been as it designed the ornate shells of certain mollusks or the divine geometry of certain leaves.

“What are you making and why?” Bashir had asked his master.

Sharif shrugged. “A nest for ages,” he said, and the rug merchant’s son had to be content with the baffling reply.

Two years passed. One evening Bashir’s father got drenched in a downpour and caught pneumonia, which turned aggressive. Despite rapid treatment, he passed away. Bashir took over the shop. In his father’s name, he turned their old house into a small Quran center (which would eventually become Bhati’s only mosque). He ran the rug shop honestly and with Sharif’s help was able to maintain business the way it had been.

At the end of his third year Sharif came to Bashir.

“My friend,” he said. “I came here for a purpose. Something precious was given to me that is not mine to keep. It must wait here in the protection of the tree, even as I go help my father reopen his calligraphy stall.”

The young rug merchant was not surprised. He had glimpsed his master’s departure in his face the night he arrived. But what was that about a tree?

Sharif saw his student’s face and smiled. “You don’t remember, do you? Where your shop is now the eucalyptus tree used to stand.”

Bashir was stunned. He had forgotten all about the tree and the incident with the jinn. It was as if a firm hand had descended and swept all memory of the incident from his brain, like a sand picture.

He waited for Sharif to go on, but the Calligrapher Prince rose, grasped Bashir’s hand, and thrust two heavy envelopes into it.

“The first one is for you. Enough money to rent space for my trunk.”

“You’re not taking it with you?” Bashir was dumbfounded. The trunk with its elaborate design was worth hundreds, maybe thousands of rupees.

“No. It must stay here.” Sharif looked his student in the eye. “And it must not be opened till a particular someone comes.”

“Who?” said Bashir, and wished he hadn’t. These were curious things and they made his spine tingle and his legs shake. A strange thought entered his head: A burden the mountains couldn’t bear settles on me tonight. It vanished quick as it had come.

Sharif’s voice was dry like swiftly turning thread when he said, “Look at the name on the second envelope.”

And his heart full of misgivings, fears, and wonder—most of all, wonder—Bashir did.

I give myself credit: I was calm. My hands were steady. I didn’t bat an eye when I took the yellowed envelope from Merchant Bashir’s hands.

“It is yours,” said Bashir. “The envelope, the secret, the burden.” He wiped his face with the hem of his kameez. “Fifty years I carried it. Allah be praised, today it’s passed on to you.”

A burden the mountains couldn’t bear settles on me tonight.

I shivered a little.

“It’s cold,” Bashir said. “I will turn the heat on and leave you to peruse the contents of the envelope alone. I’ll be in the tea stall two shops down. Take as long as you wish.”

“You kept your word,” I said softly. “You didn’t open the envelope.”

Bashir nodded. “I asked Sharif how in God’s name he could trust me with it when I didn’t trust myself. A secret is like a disease, I said. It begins with an itch in a corner of your flesh, then spreads like cancer, until you’re overcome and give in. He just smiled and said he knew I wouldn’t open it.” The rug weaver dabbed a kerchief at his grimy cheeks. “Maybe because he had such faith in me, it helped keep wicked desire at bay.”

Or maybe he knew you wouldn’t, I thought, holding the envelope, feeling my pulse beat in my fingertips. Just like he knew the name of the rightful owner decades before he was born.

My name.

Through the back window I watched Bashir tromp down the street. The mist had thickened and the alley was submerged in blue-white. A steady whine of wind and the occasional thump as pedestrians walked into trash cans and bicycle stands. A whorl of fog shimmered around the streetlight on the far corner.

I turned and went to the counter. Picked up the envelope. Sliced it open. Inside was a sheaf of blank papers. I pulled them out and a small object swept out and fell on the floor. I reached down and picked it up, its radiance casting a twitching halo on my palm.

It was a silver key with a grooved golden stud for a blade, dangling from a rusted hoop.

Impossible.

My gaze was riveted on the golden stud. It took a considerable amount of effort to force my eyes away, to pocket the key, rise, and shamble to the storeroom.

It was dark. Fog had weakened the daylight. Broken looms with their limp warp strings and tipping beams gaped. I crossed the room and stood in front of the brass trunk. The padlock was tarnished. Round keyhole. I retrieved the key and stared at it, this centuries-old gold stud—if one were to believe Gramps—fused to a silver handle.

The instruction was clear.

I brushed the dust away from the lid. A floral design was carved into it, wreathed with grime but still visible: a medallion motif in a gilt finish with a Quranic verse running through its heart like an artery.

“Those who believe in the Great Unseen,” I whispered. In my head Baba smiled and a row of pine trees cast a long shadow across Gramps’s tombstone where I had last read a similar epitaph.

I inserted the Mughal key into the padlock, turned it twice, and opened the trunk.

A rug. A rolled-up kilim, judging by its thinness.

I stared at it, at the lavish weave of its edges that shone from light within the rolled layers. Was there a flashlight inside? Ridiculous idea. I leaned in.

The kilim smelled of sunshine. Of leaves and earth and fresh rainfall. Scents that filled my nostrils and tapped my taste buds, flooded my mouth with a sweet tang, not unlike cardamom tea.

My palms were sweating despite the cold. I tugged at the fat end of the rug and it fell to the floor, unspooling. It was seven by five feet, its borders perfectly even, and as it raced across the room, the storeroom was inundated with colors: primrose yellow, iris white, smoke blue. A bright scarlet sparked in the air that reminded me of the sharbat Mama used to make during Ramadan.

I fell back. Awestruck, I watched this display of lights surging from the kilim. Thrashing and gusting and slamming into one another, spinning faster and faster until they became a dancing shadow with many rainbow arms, each pointing earthward to their source—the carpet.

The shadow pirouetted once more and began to sink. The myriad images in the carpet flashed as it dissolved into them, and within moments the room was dark. The only evidence of the specter’s presence was the afterglow on my retina.

I breathed. My knees were weak, the base of my spine thrummed with charge. A smell like burning refuse lingered in my nostrils.

What was that?

A miracle, Gramps spoke in my head softly.

I went to the carpet. It was gorgeous. Multitudes of figures ran in every shape around its edges. Flora and fauna. Grotesques and arabesques. They seethed over nomadic symbols. I traced my finger across the surface. Cabalistic squares, hexagrams, eight-pointed stars, a barb-tailed scorpion. A concoction of emblems swirled together by the artisan’s finger until it seemed the carpet crawled with arcana I’d seen in ancient texts used mostly for one purpose.

Traps, I thought. For what?

I peered closer. The central figures eddied to form the armature of a tower with four jagged limbs shot into the corners of the rug where they were pinned down with pieces of glass. Four curved symmetric pieces, clear with the slightest tinge of purple. Together these four quarter-circles stuck out from the corners of the kilim as if they had once belonged to a cup.

They shimmered.

“What are you,” I whispered. The carpet and the embedded glass said nothing. I hesitated, the soles of my feet tingling, then bent and looked inside the upper right shard.

A man looked back at me, his face expressionless, young, and not mine.

“Salam, beta,” Gramps said in Urdu, still smiling. “Welcome.”

The age of wonders shivered and died when the world changed.

In the summer of 1963, however, an eighteen-year-old boy named Sharif discovered a miracle as he panted and dug and heaved an earthen pot out from under a rotten eucalyptus stump.

It was night, there were no streetlamps, and, by all laws holy, the dark should have been supreme. Except a light emanated from the pot.

Sharif wiped his forehead and removed the pot’s lid. Inside was a purple glass chalice glowing with brightness he couldn’t look upon. He had to carry it home and put on dark shades before he could peer in.

The chalice was empty and the light came from the glass itself.

Trembling with excitement, the boy wrapped it in a blanket and hid it under the bed. The next day when his parents were gone, he poured water into it and watched the liquid’s meniscus bubble and seethe on the kitchen table. The water was the light and the light all liquid.

The fakir had warned the Mughal princess that the secret was not for human eyes, but since that fateful night when the boy had first glimpsed the eucalyptus jinn, saw his fetters stretch from sky to earth, his dreams had been transformed. He saw nightscapes that he shouldn’t see. Found himself in places that shouldn’t exist. And now here was an enchanted cup frothing with liquid light on his kitchen table.

The boy looked at the chalice again. The churning motion of its contents hypnotized him. He raised it, and drank the light.

Such was how unfortunate, young Sharif discovered the secrets of Jaam-e-Jam.

The Cup of Heaven.

Legends of the Jaam have been passed down for generations in the Islamic world. Jamshed, the Zoroastrian emperor of Persia, was said to have possessed a seven-ringed scrying cup that revealed the mysteries of heaven to him. Persian mythmakers ascribed the centuries-long success of the empire to the magic of the Cup of Heaven.

And now it was in Sharif’s hand.

The Mother of Revelations. It swept across the boy’s body like a fever. It seeped inside his skin, blanched the marrow of his bones, until every last bit of him understood. He knew what he had to do next, and if he could he would destroy the cup, but that wasn’t his choice anymore. The cup gave him much, including foreknowledge with all the knots that weave the future. Everything from that moment on he remembered already.

And now he needed to conceal it.

So Sharif left for the rest of his life. He went to Mansehra. Found the Mughal princess. Married her. He made her very happy for the rest of her brief life, and on a sunny Friday afternoon he took his goggling, squalling son with him to pray Juma in a mosque in the mountains, where he would stay the night for worship and meditation.

Even though he knew it was the day appointed for his wife’s death.

There was no thought, no coercion, no struggle. Just the wisdom of extinction, the doggedness of destiny that steered his way. He and his son would return to find their family incinerated. Sharif and the villagers would carry out their charred corpses and he would weep; he was allowed that much.

After, he took his son to Turkey.

For years he learned rug weaving at a master weaver’s atelier. His newfound knowledge demanded he rein in the Cup of Heaven’s contents till the time for their disclosure returned. For that he must learn to prepare a special trap.

It took his fingers time to learn the trick even if his brain knew it. Years of mistakes and practice. Eventually he mastered the most sublime ways of weaving. He could apply them to create a trap so elegant, so fast and wise that nothing would escape it.

Sharif had learned how to weave the fabric of light itself.

Now he could return to his hometown, seek out the shadow of the eucalyptus tree, and prepare the device for imprisoning the cup.

First, he designed a kilim with the holy names of reality woven into it. Carefully, with a diamond-tipped glasscutter, he took the Jaam-e-Jam apart into four pieces and set them into the kilim. Next, he snared waves of light that fell in through the workshop window. He looped the peaks and troughs and braided them into a net. He stretched the net over the glass shards and warped them into place. He constructed a brass trunk and etched binding symbols on its lid, then rolled up the kilim and placed it inside.

Last, a special key was prepared. This part took some sorting out—he had to fetch certain particles farther along in time—but he succeeded; and finally he had the key. It was designed to talk to the blood-light in one person only, one descended from Sharif’s line and the Mughal princess’s.

Me.

Incredulous, I gazed at my dead grandfather as he told me his last story.

His cheeks glowed with youth, his eyes sharp and filled with truth. His hair was black, parted on the left. Maybe the glass shone, or his eyes, but the effect was the same: an incredible halo of light, near holy in its alienness, surrounded him. When he shook his head, the halo wobbled. When he spoke, the carpet’s fringe threads stirred as if a breeze moved them, but the voice was sourceless and everywhere.

“Today is the sixteenth of November, 2013,” he had said before launching into narration like a machine. “You’re twenty-eight. The woman you love will be twenty-five in three months. As for me”—he smiled—“I’m dead.”

He was telling me the future. Prescience, it seemed, had been his forte.

And now I knew how. The Cup of Heaven.

“Is it really you?” I said when he was done, my voice full of awe.

Gramps nodded. “More a portion of my punishment than me.”

“What does that mean? What other secrets were in the cup? Tell me everything, Gramps,” I said, “before I go crazy.”

“All good stories leave questions. Isn’t that what I will say?” He watched me, serious. “You should understand that I’m sorry. For bringing you here. For passing this on to you. I wish I’d never dug under that tree. But it is the way it is. I was handed a responsibility. I suppose we all get our burdens.”

The air in the room was thick and musty. Our eyes were locked together. He lured me here, I thought. My hands were shaking and this time it was with anger. Rage at being manipulated. All those stories of princesses and paupers, those lies he told for years while all the time he knew exactly what he was doing and how he was preparing me for this burden, whatever it was.

Gramps’s spirit, or whoever he was in this current state, watched me with eyes that had no room for empathy or guilt. Didn’t he care at all?

“I do, son,” he said gently. He was reading my mind or already knew it—I wasn’t clear which—and that angered me more. “I haven’t gotten to the most important part of the story.”

“I don’t care,” I said in a low voice. “Just tell me what was in the cup.”

“You need to know this.” His tone was mechanical, not my gramps’s voice. The person I knew and loved was not here. “The Jaam gave me much. Visions, power, perfect knowledge, but it cost me too. Quite a bit. You can’t stare into the heart of the Unseen and not have it stare back at you.”

He swept a hand around himself. For the first time I noticed the halo wasn’t just hovering behind his head; it was a luminescent ring blooming from his shoulders, encircling his neck, wrapping around his body.

“It wasn’t for me to decide the cup’s fate, so I hid it away. But because the Unseen’s presence ran like a torrent from it I paid more than a man should ever have to pay for a mistake. I was told to dig up the secret and hide it, not to gaze at its wonders or partake of its mysteries. My punishment hence was remembering the future and being powerless to prevent it. I would lose everything I remembered about the love of my life. Starting from the moment I dug under the eucalyptus, I would forget ever having been with your grandmother. My lovely, luckless Zeenat.

“Once the task was complete and I handed over the trunk to Bashir, my memories began to go. With time, my mind confabulated details to fill in the gaps and I told myself and everyone who’d ask that I had married a woman who died during childbirth. By the time we moved to America, all I remembered was this nostalgia and longing to discover a secret I thought I’d never pursued: the pauper princess and her magical jinn.”

When he stopped, the outline of his face wavered. It was the halo blazing. “What you see before you”—with a manicured finger Gramps made a circle around his face—“is an impression of those lost years. My love’s memory wrenched from me.”

He closed his eyes, letting me study the absence of age on his face. If he were telling the truth, he was a figment of his own imagination, and I . . . I was crazy to believe any of this. This room was a delusion and I was complicit in it, solidifying it.

Maybe that was why he forgot. Maybe the human mind couldn’t marry such unrealities and live with them.

“What about the journal? If you forgot everything, how could you draw? How could you write down details of your life?”

Gramps, his apparition, opened his eyes. “Senility. When my organic memory dissolved, fragments of my other life came seeping back in dreams.”

So he wrote the journal entries like someone else’s story. He had visions and dreams, but didn’t know whose life was flooding his head, filling it with devastating images, maybe even ushering in his death earlier than it otherwise might have come.

I leaned back and watched the threads of the carpet twist. The woven tower shot into the sky with hundreds of creatures gathered around it, looking at its top disappear into the heavens.

“I want to see the cup.” My voice rose like a razor in the dark, cutting through the awkwardness between us. “I want to see the contents.”

“I know.” He nodded. “Even such a warning as you see before you wouldn’t deter you.”

“If the cup’s real, I will take it with me to the States, where historians and mythologists will validate its authenticity and . . .”

And what? Truly believe it was a magical cup and place it in the Smithsonian? The cup’s secret isn’t for human eyes, Gramps had said. But what else are secrets for if not discovery? That is their nature. Only time stands between a mystery and its rightful master.

Gramps’s fingers played with the halo, twisting strands of luminosity like hair between his fingers. “You will have the secret, but before you drink from it, I want you to do something for me.”

He snapped his fingers and threads of light sprang from the halo, brightening as they came apart. Quickly he noosed them until he had a complicated knot with a glowing center and a string dangling at the end.

He offered it to me. “Pull.”

Warily, I looked at the phosphorescent string. “Why?”

“Before you gaze inside the cup, you will have a taste of my memories. After that you decide your own demons.”

I reached out a hand to the glass shard, withdrew, extended it again. When my fingers touched it, I flinched. It was warm. Slowly, I pushed my hand into the glass. It was like forcing it through tangles of leaves hot from the sun.

The string reddened. Its end whipped back and forth. I pinched it, pulled, and the light string rocketed toward me, the brilliant corpuscle at its center thrashing and unraveling into reality.

I gasped. A fat worm of peacock colors was climbing my hand, wrapping itself around my wrist.

“Gramps! What is this?” I shouted, twisting my arm, but the creature was already squirming its way up my arm, its grooves hot against my flesh, leaving shadows of crimson, mauve, azure, muddy green, and yellow on my skin. I could smell its colors. Farm odors. Damp foliage. Herbal teas. Baba’s truck with its ancient vomit-stained upholstery and greasy wheel covers. My mother’s hair. Sara’s embrace.

I shuddered. The worm’s body was taut across the bridge of my nose, its two ends poised like metal filings in front of my eyes.

“These,” Gramps said, “are the stingers of memory.”

The worm’s barbs were like boulders in my vision. As I watched them, terrified, they vibrated once.

Then plunged into my eyes.

In the cup was everything, Gramps said. He meant it.

What the teenage boy saw went back all the way until he was destroyed and remade from the complete memory of the universe. From the moment of its birth until the end. Free of space, time, and their building blocks, the boy experienced all at once: a mausoleum of reality that wrapped around him, plunged into which he floated through the Unseen.

And I, a blinking, tumbling speck, followed.

Gramps watched the concussion of first particles reverberate through infinity. He watched instantaneous being bloom from one edge of existence to the other; watched the triumph of fire and ejective forces that shook creation in their fists. He observed these phenomena and knew all the realms of the hidden by heart.

Matter has always been conscious. That was the secret. Sentience is as much its property as gravity and it is always striving toward a new form with better accommodation.

From the needs of sentient matter rose the invention that humans are.

Gramps gripped the darkness of prebeing and billowed inside the cracks of matter. When I tried to go after him, an awful black defied me. To me belonged just a fraction of his immersion.

I sat on a molten petal of creation as it solidified, and watched serpentine fractals of revelation slither toward me. Jinns are carrier particles of sentience, they murmured. Of the universe’s memory of the Great Migration.

My prehuman flesh sang on hearing these words. Truths it had once known made music in my body, even if I didn’t quite remember them.

The Great Migration?

The first fires and winds created many primordials, the fractals said.

You mean jinns?

Beings unfettered by the young principles of matter and energy. As the world began to cool, new rules kicked in. The primordials became obsolete. Now the selfish sentience needed resistant clay-and-water creatures to thrive upon. For humans to exist, the primordials had to migrate.

They complied?

They dug tunnels into space-time and left our corner of existence so it could evolve on its own. Before they departed, however, they caged the memory of their being here, for if such a memory were unleashed upon the world, matter would rescind its newest form and return to the essence. Things as we know them would cease to exist.

So they made the cup, I said. To imprison the memories of a bygone age.

Before they passed into shadow, whispered the fractals, they made sure the old ways would be available. In case the new ones proved fleeting.

An image came to me then: a dazzling array of fantastical creatures—made of light, shadow, earth, inferno, metal, space, and time—traveling across a brimming gray land, their plethora of heads bowed. As they plodded, revolved, and flew, the dimensions of the universe changed around them to accommodate this pilgrimage of the phantastique. Matter erupted into iridescent light. Flames and flagella bloomed and dissolved. Their chiaroscuric anatomies shuttered as the primordials made their way into the breath of the unknown.

The flimsy speck that was I trembled. I was witnessing a colossal sacrifice. A mother of migrations. What should a vehicle of sentience do except bow before its ageless saviors?

In the distance, over the cusp of the planets, a primordial paused, its mammoth body shimmering itself into perception. As I watched it, a dreadful certainty gripped me: this was how Gramps was trapped. If I didn’t look away immediately, I would be punished too, for when have human eyes glimpsed divinity without forsaking every sight they hold dear?

But I was rooted, stilled by the primordial’s composition. Strange minerals gleamed in its haunches. From head to tail, it was decorated with black-and-white orbs like eyes. They twitched like muscles and revolved around its flesh until their center, a gush of flame riding bony gears, was visible to me. Mirages and reveries danced in it, constellations of knowledge ripe for the taking. Twisted ropes of fire shot outward, probing for surface, oscillating up and down.

My gaze went to a peculiar vision bubbling inside the fiery center. I watched it churn inside the primordial, and in the briefest of instants I knew what I knew.

As if sensing my study, the creature began to turn. Fear whipped me forward, a reverential awe goading me closer to these wonders undiluted by human genes, unpolluted by flesh, unmade by sentience.

Sentience is everything, sentience the mystery and the master, I sighed as I drifted closer.

But then came a shock wave that pulsed in my ears like a million crickets chirping. I rode the blast force, grief stricken by this separation, spinning and flickering through string-shaped fractures in reality, like gigantic cracks in the surface of a frozen lake. Somewhere matter bellowed like a swamp gator and the wave rushed at the sound. Tassels of light stirred in the emptiness, sputtering and branching like gargantuan towers—

Lightning trees, I thought.

—and suddenly I was veering toward them, pitched up, tossed down, slung across them until there was a whipping sound like the breaking of a sound barrier, and I was slipping, sliding, and falling through.

My eyes felt raw and swollen. I was choking.

I gagged and squirmed up from the carpet as the light worm crawled up my throat and out my left nostril. It rushed out, its segments instantly melting and fading to roseate vapors. The vapors wafted in the darkness like Chinese lanterns, lighting up discarded looms and moth-eaten rug rolls before dissipating into nothing.

I stared around, fell back, and lay spread-eagled on the carpet. The nostril through which the worm had exited was bleeding. A heavy weight had settled on my chest.

A memory came to me. Of being young and very small, standing at the classroom door, nose pressed against the glass, waiting for Mama. She was running late and the terror in me was so powerful, so huge, that all I could do was cry. Only it wasn’t just terror, it was feeling abandoned, feeling insignificant, and knowing there wasn’t a damn thing I could do about it.

Footsteps. I forced myself through the lethargy to turn on my side. Bashir the rug merchant stood outlined against the rectangle of light beyond the doorway. His face was in shadow. The blue of his eyes glinted.

“You all right, son?”

My heart pounded so violently I could feel it in every inch of my body. As if I were a leather-taut drum with a kid hammering inside and screaming.

“I don’t know.” I tottered upright, breathed, and glanced at the carpet. The light was gone and it was ordinary. Gramps was gone too. The cup’s pieces in the corners were dull and empty.

Just glass.

I looked at Bashir. “I saw my grandfather.”

“Yes.” The rug merchant’s shadow was long and alien on the carpet. “What will you do now that he’s gone?”

I stared at him. His bright sapphire eyes, not old but ancient, watched me. He was so still. Not a hair stirred on his head. I wiped my mouth and finally understood.

“You’re not the boy who fell,” I said quietly. “The eucalyptus jinn. That’s you.”

He said nothing but his gaze followed me as I stepped away from the carpet, from this magical rectangle woven a half century ago. How long had he guarded the secret? Not the carpet, but the cup? How long since Bashir the rug merchant had died and the eucalyptus jinn had taken his form?

“A very long time,” Bashir said in a voice that gave away nothing.

Our eyes met and at last I knew burden. Left behind by the primordial titans, here was a messenger of times past, the last of his kind, who had kept this unwanted vigil for millennia. Carrying the responsibility of the cup, silently waiting for the end of days. Was there place in this new world for him or that damned chalice? Could there be a fate worse than death?

I stood before the caged shards of the Jaam. Gramps might have traversed the seven layers of heaven, but during my brief visit into the Unseen I’d seen enough to understand the pricelessness of this vehicle. Whatever magic the cup was, it transcended human logic. Were it destroyed, the last vestige of cosmic memory would vanish from our world.

“Whatever you decide,” the jinn said, “remember what you saw in the ideograms of the Eternum.”

For a moment I didn’t understand, then the vision returned to me. The mammoth primordial with its flaming core and the glimpse of what churned between its bonelike gears. My heartbeat quickened.

If what I saw was true, I’d do anything to protect it, even if it meant destroying the most glorious artifact the world would ever know.

The jinn’s face was kind. He knew what I was thinking.

“What about the shop?” I asked, my eyes on the damaged looms, the dead insects, the obsolete designs no one needed.

“Will go to my assistant,” he said. “Bashir’s nephew.”

I looked at him. In his eyes, blue as the deepest ocean’s memory, was a lifetime of waiting. No, several lifetimes.

Oblivion. The eucalyptus jinn courted oblivion. And I would give it to him.

“Thank you,” he said, smiling, and his voice was so full of warmth I wanted to cry.

“You miss the princess. You protected their family?”

“I protected only the cup. The Mughal lineage just happened to be the secret’s bearer,” said the eucalyptus jinn, but he wouldn’t meet my eyes.

Which was why he couldn’t follow them when they left, until Gramps went after them with the cup. Which was also why he couldn’t save them from the fire that killed them. Gramps knew it too, but he couldn’t or wouldn’t do anything to change the future.

Was Gramps’s then the worst burden of all? It made my heart ache to think of it.

We looked at each other. I stepped toward the brass trunk and retrieved the key with the gold stud from the padlock. Without looking at the jinn, I nodded.

He bowed his head, and left to fetch me the instruments of his destruction.

The city breathed fog when I left the rug shop. Clouds of white heaved from the ground, silencing the traffic and the streets. Men and women plodded in the alleys, their shadows quivering on dirt roads. I raised my head and imagined stars pricking the night sky, their light so puny, so distant, it made one wistful. Was it my imagination or could I smell them?

The odd notion refused to dissipate even after I returned to the inn and packed for the airport. The colors of the world were flimsy. Things skittered in the corners of my eyes. They vanished in the murmuring fog when I looked at them. Whatever this new state was, it wasn’t disconcerting. I felt warmer than I had in years.

The plane bucked as it lifted, startling the passengers. They looked at one another and laughed. They’d been worried about being grounded because of weather. I stared at the ground falling away, away, the white layers of Lahore undulating atop one another, like a pile of rugs.

My chin was scratchy, my flesh crept, as I brought the hammer down and smashed the pieces of the cup.

I leaned against the plane window. My forehead was hot. Was I coming down with something? Bereavement, PTSD, post-party blues? But I had been through hell. I should expect strange, melancholic moods.

The flame twitched in my hand. The smell of gasoline strong in my nose. At my feet the carpet lay limp like a terrified animal.

“Coffee, sir?” said the stewardess. She was young and had an angular face like a chalice. She smiled at me, flashing teeth that would look wonderful dangling from a hemp string.

“No,” I said, horrified by the idea, and my voice was harsher than I’d intended. Startled, she stepped back. I tried to smile, but she turned and hurried away.

I wiped my sweaty face with a paper napkin and breathed. Weird images, but I felt more in control, and the feeling that the world was losing shape had diminished. I unzipped my carry-on and pulled out Gramps’s journal. So strange he’d left without saying goodbye.

That ghost in the glass was just a fragment of Gramps’s memories, I told myself. It wasn’t him.

Wasn’t it? We are our memories. This mist that falls so vast and brooding can erase so much, but not the man. Will I remember Gramps? Will I remember me and what befell me in this strange land midway between the Old World and the New?

That is a question more difficult to answer, for, you see, about ten hours ago, when I changed planes in Manchester, I realized I am beginning to forget. Bits and pieces, but they are disappearing irrevocably. I have already forgotten the name of the street where Gramps and the princess once lived. I’ve even forgotten what the rug shop looked like. What was its name?

Karavan Kilim! An appropriate name, that. The word is the etymologic root for caravan. A convoy, or a party of pilgrims.

At first, it was terrifying, losing memories like that. But as I pondered the phenomenon, it occurred to me that the erasure of my journey to Old Lahore is so important the rest of my life likely depends on it. I have come to believe that the colorlessness of the world, the canting of things, the jagged movements of shadows is the peeling of the onionskin which separates men from the worlds of jinn. An unfractured reality from the Great Unseen. If the osmosis persisted, it would drive me mad, see?

That was when I decided I would write my testament while I could. I have been writing in this notebook for hours now and my fingers are hurting. The process has been cathartic. I feel more anchored to our world. Soon, I will stop writing and put a reminder in the notebook telling myself to seal it in an envelope along with Gramps’s journal when I get home. I will place them in a deposit box at my bank. I will also prepare a set of instructions for my lawyer that, upon my death, the envelope and its contents be delivered to my grandson who should then read it and decide accordingly.

Decide what? You might say. There’s no more choice to make. Didn’t I destroy the carpet and the cup and the jinn with my own hands? Those are about the few memories left in my head from this experience. I remember destroying the rug and its contents. So vivid those memories, as if someone painted them inside my head. I remember my conversation with the jinn; he was delighted to be banished forever.

Wasn’t he?

This is making me think of the vision I had in—what did the jinn call it?—the Eternum.

The root J-N-N has so many derivatives. Jannah, paradise, is the hidden garden. Majnoon is a crazy person whose intellect has been hidden. My favorite, though, is janin.

The embryo hidden inside the mother.

The jinn are not gone from our world, you see. They’ve just donned new clothes.

My beloved Terry, I saw your face printed in a primordial’s flesh. I know you, my grandson, before you will know yourself. I also saw your father, my son, in his mother’s womb. He is so beautiful. Sara doesn’t know yet, but Neil will be tall and black-haired like me. Even now, his peanut-sized mass is drinking his mother’s fluids. She will get migraines throughout the pregnancy, but that’s him borrowing from his mom. He will return the kindness when he’s all grown up. Sara’s kidneys will fail and my fine boy will give his mother one, smiling and saying she’ll never be able to tell him to piss off again because her piss will be formed through his gift.

My Mughal children, my pauper princes, you and your mother are why I made my decision. The Old World is gone, let it rest. The primordials and other denizens of the Unseen are obsolete. If memory of their days threatens the world, if mere mention of it upsets the order of creation, it’s too dangerous to be left to chance. For another to find.

So I destroyed it.

The historian and the bookkeeper in me wept, but I’d do it a thousand times again if it means the survival of our species. Our children. No use mourning what’s passed. We need to preserve our future.

Soon, I will land in the US of A. I will embrace the love of my life, kiss her, take her to meet my family. They’re wary, but such is the nature of love. It protects us from what is unseen. I will teach my parents to love my wife. They will come to know what I already know. That the new world is not hostile, just different. My parents are afraid and that is okay. Someday I too will despise your girlfriends (and fear them), for that’s how the song goes, doesn’t it?

Meanwhile, I’m grateful. I was witness to the passing of the Great Unseen. I saw the anatomy of the phantastique. I saw the pilgrimage of the primordials. Some of their magic still lingers in the corners of our lives, wrapped in breathless shadow, and that is enough. We shall glimpse it in our dreams, taste it in the occasional startling vision, hear it in a night bird’s song. And we will believe for a moment, even if we dismiss these fancies in the morning.

We will believe. And, just like this timeless gold stud that will soon adorn my wife’s nose, the glamour of such belief will endure forever.

“The Pauper Prince and the Eucalyptus Jinn” copyright © 2015 by Usman T. Malik

Art copyright © 2015 by Victo Ngai