Abyad hadn’t visited me in over three weeks, and I was growing tired of Bròn’s company. Any time I asked him about my friend, a glimmer of amusement filled his eyes and he refused to answer my questions. I was agonizingly tired of the immortal teaching me Mahsulah, as kind a gesture as it was. My tongue naturally fell back into the rhythm quicker than I was expecting, and whenever my mother visited she was surprised to carry conversations with me again. Mother always looked so disheartened, when she laid eyes upon me. I’d tried to eat as much as I could; tried to get back to walking, and moving in natural ways, but my body was petulant—arguing my every command. At the very least, I’d been able to sit at my vanity again. I was able to control my appearance, to preen my features and keep myself from looking so damn sickly. Mahsul seemed to be home to different herbs and flora capable of cosmetic miracles, and my mother was more than happy to bring different things for me to try when she stopped by. Facial salves for plumping, priming, tightening; she brought them all.


    “I’ve just been gifted this face cream, I think you’d like it. It came from the far end of Mahsul. I asked Fatiha’s father to import more for the other noble women to try.” Mother smiled as she offered me a small jar of apricot-colored cream. I took the jar from her hands gently, offering a smile in return. Her new way of bonding—skin care.


    “Thank you.” I replied.


    “Darling, please try to eat…” she said, her eyes lingering on my face. “You’ve always been on the smaller side, but you still look…”


    “I know, Mother. I’m trying.” I interjected, my voice soft and cautious.


    She wrung her hands together, before bringing me in for a hug. She always smelled of strong floral perfume, when the smell of frankincense didn’t drown out the notes of vanilla and lavender. Her hugs were so gentle, maybe because she was scared she’d break me if she hugged too tightly.


    “I’ll have Zaima bring bone broth for you soon.” She murmured before pulling away. She was so elegant; almost floating to the exit. How I wished I looked like that when I moved.


    Just as she turned the lever to my door, I spoke up again. “Mother,”


    She turned around.


    “Have you seen Abyad?”


    “He’s been in the palace, Dear.” She reassured me. “He’s a busy man, but I’ll see to it that he can come see you soon.”


    My smile grew wider as I nodded, and she replied with a smile of her own before vanishing behind the door. I turned to look back at myself in the vanity mirror, assessing my features. My cheeks were nowhere close to as sunken as when I’d first returned home, but I was still quite gaunt. Having naturally high cheekbones was helpful when I carried more weight in the winter months, during my younger years; but going even a pound below a healthy weight could make me look skeletal in the face. I wished I could have my figure back, the one I had before those six years. I was so proud, so excited, to have gotten such a bodice. But each time food travelled down my esophagus, it wanted to come back up. I had to eat at such a painfully slow pace that by the time I was halfway done with any dish, it had already gone cold. My stomach would cramp so badly, I thought I’d swallowed acid sometimes. Food felt more like poison, than sustenance. There were days I wished there were a pill that could do all the things food did; supply me with energy, and clear my mind of the fog that hunger induced. Offer me the strength to move and speak clearly, with purpose. Quell my temper.


    I hated food, to put it lightly. Just as my stomach gurgled in agreement, that familiar dialect of broken Mahsulah spoke from behind me.


    “It ain’t like she’s askin’ ya to eat a five-course meal, Lass.”


    My head whipped around to find Bròn in Abyad’s armchair, looking at me with a neutral expression. “It’d serve ya well to keep tryin’ to eat.”


    “I am trying.” I replied, using the common dialect. “Will you ever speak proper Mahsulah?”


    “I do speak proper Mahsulah.” He grinned, crossing his arms. “Yer language is just a culmination ‘o Strolgian and Broldish.”


    “Broldish?” I asked.


    “Dead language. Dead people.” He replied, his smile growing wider.


    He would be considered an off-putting man, if he weren’t attractive. The immortal was older than any Kingdom of the modern time, save for Zarvan, but didn’t look a day over thirty. Attire aside, the only tells of his age were a pair of fine lines that sat like parenthesis around his mouth; and a single, short wrinkle that sat dead center in the upper-quarter of his forehead. I was astounded by how he always looked fit for a Social, clean-shaven with his shoulder blade-length hair flowing in freed russet waves.


    “You’re an odd man, Bròn.” I said as I turned my focus back on my reflection.


    “And yer rather vain.” He japed.


    A scowl painted my face as I looked at him in the reflection, his straight teeth flashing as he smiled. He truly was a King without a crown, his shoulders never leaving their squared position.


    “I don’t know why you bother spending so much time here. Don’t you have land to haunt?”The author''s narrative has been misappropriated; report any instances of this story on Amazon.


    “I do as I please, Lass. I ain’t about to be bossed around by a wee Princess.” He retorted.


    “What you please? It seems that doing what you please is rather irksome.”


    “Aye. And I’d have it no other way.”


    “Why do you choose to spend time here?” I asked. “In my room?”


    “Yer a beacon.” He replied simply. “A restin’ spot where I ain’t gotta use me powers.”


    “What’s that supposed to mean?”


    “It means yer a sorry little shite who’s full of sorrow. And you ain’t even bothered to address the loathing in you.”


    His words stung, like the wounds in my back. As harsh as they were, he was right. I grimaced as I looked myself in the eyes; they were still hollow, nearly devoid of all life.


    “And?” I asked, waiting for his full explanation. “Why does that make me worth staying around?”


    “Because so much sorrow in a person is nigh impossible. I wanna see how all’o this plays out, is all. Powers That Be have shown a few different paths.”


    He was speaking in riddles, and I hated it. He would mention ‘Powers That Be’ whenever I asked certain questions—like his origins, and why he was able to utilize shadows as a means of transportation. He’d never tell me what the Powers That Be looked like; or if there was a singular person in charge of it all. The most I understood was that these Powers were the ones who strung fate together, like the blankets made in our textile district. Bròn said that they wove fate together in a breath’s time, immediately after a person made a major decision—and ‘major decisions’ to the Powers That Be weren’t always major decisions to the person who’d made them. Bròn let out a gravely chuckle, as if reading my mind.


    “Yer friend’s made a decision that The Powers are rather intrigued by, it seems.” He said.


    I raised an eyebrow.


    “It’s the reason he hasn’t visited.”


    I was perplexed by his cryptic statements, but had to shrug them off. He was something my mind couldn’t comprehend, and I was trying my hardest to be okay with that. Listening to him was sometimes like listening to the ramblings of a senile old man, speaking gibberish with little preface or context. I sighed internally, and stood from the vanity. My back had grown stiff, begging me to do something more than sit and eye my features. I crept towards the balcony doors, my right foot never going as high as I’d willed it.


    “I wonder…” Bròn murmured to himself, his words lingering in the air. I didn’t want to hear his philosophizing. My hand met the door’s lever, and I felt the warmth from the daylight as it spilled onto my hand. Inching out, I closed the door behind me and hobbled to the railing, leaning into it as the smell of Mahsul’s air filled my lungs.


    Floral notes, and fish brine. That was the smell of home. I pulled at the sleeves of my robe, allowing the sun to hit my forearms. The fine hair that sat on them weeks ago was growing in thicker, a good sign. I was no longer fuzzy as a newly hatched chick, I was becoming more than the hollowed husk of myself I once was. Even the emotions I felt, as chilling as they could be, were clearer—my mind less of a garbled mess. Bròn had a point, it was time to address the deep-seeded loathing and sadness that lay beneath me.


    But how? A small voice in the back of my mind asked.


    ————


    I was happy to see Bròn had left once I returned to my room. The sunlight had done me justice, scaring the shadow creature away. I limped to my bed, my bum flopping to it once I’d reached its edge, and forced myself to slide up to the window. I was pleasantly surprised to see a hare, sniffing the leaf of a budding herb. I watched the rabbit with keen interest, as its whiskers twitched and its ears fell flat to its head. I studied it for so long that I hadn’t even noticed that someone else now claimed a presence in my room, peering over my shoulder as they knelt into the bed with heightened amusement.


    “What has you so excited?” Asked a silky, caramel-like voice in Otlank.


    I didn’t move my eyes from the hare, now sitting in place like a statue, but the way my entire body flooded with relief and affection as Abyad spoke to me almost made me shiver.


    “That hare…” I said, a small smile pulling at my lips, replying in the same language. “Isn’t it cute?”


    “It is.” He confirmed. “Your mother told me you’d asked about me. Are you that lonely in here, Themaz?” He asked.


    My eyes flickered to his, a small flash of heat simmering beneath the skin of my cheeks.


    “You haven’t seen me in a long time.” I said, my voice quieter than I’d wanted. I kept my eyes on the hare, as if not looking at him would help me find my courage. “Bròn isn’t what I’d consider to be favorable company.”


    “I’m a busy man.” He said. I could hear him smiling. “I’m sorry.”


    My shoulder grew heavier, warmer, as he pulled me in for a side hug. How he was capable of sending my mind humming was beyond me. Bròn’s words echoed in my mind, making me wonder what decision Abyad made to intrigue the omnipotent.


    “Abyad…” I murmured. “Where were you?”


    His arm tightened around my shoulder. “Making sure things go according to plan.” He replied, his volume matching mine.


    I wished he’d tell me about these plans he’d mentioned in passing over the last month. It seemed like something bothered him, with how he was gripping me


    “You can talk to me about it, you know.” I said, my words filling with conviction. “Whatever it is that’s bothering you.”


    “And risk you seeing me as a hound dog?” He chuckled. “I’d rather not.”


    I raised an eyebrow, forcing myself to look at him. The hare was long gone by now, scared off by the sound of our voices. “Abyad,” I chided softly. “What have you been doing?”


    “I don’t kiss and tell.” He winked.


    My eyes widened. Had he been…?


    “Idris.” I said, my voice low and full of scorn. He bristled at the name, but his smile still remained.


    “Don’t worry about it.” He said casually, a breath of laughter escaping his lips.


    Don’t worry about it? I thought. I wanted to use every string of curse words I knew, insult him with every vocabulary word I’d been learning with Bròn, but I kept my newfound learnings secret. As odd as it was, I didn’t want Abyad knowing I was back to being proficient in Mahsulah. Bròn swore he’d keep our lessons a secret, and Mother was rather quiet as it was. When I told her not to tell Abyad I could speak the language, she merely smiled and nodded. I wanted to surprise him, to show him I wasn’t as hopeless as I seemed.


    “You’ve become a sleaze.” I insulted in Otlank. My voice was cold and bitter, biting at him with vexation.


    “Me? Never.” He rebutted.


    I turned my attention back to the window, watching the fluffy white clouds as they glided by. There was something pulling at my chest as I eyed a particular cloud: jealousy.