Sikander, Don't Die

chapter six: thumb

When Roshanak reached her room, the Shah was already waiting.

He had not noticed her coming. Sikander was busy looking at the stars from the balcony, his hands crossed at the back. The blobs of light on the obsidian sky twinkled, much like his eyes from the day when they had first met. Roshanak saw him pointing to the stars and murmuring. Was he trying to count how many were there? It was a silly idea, but a good one for passing time.

She didn't want to speak first. She didn't even want to be here. Yet, she had to alert him of her presence. So, Roshanak decided to clank her feet harder on the tiles for the anklets to chime louder. It worked– the Shah turned back. A smile lit up his youthful face.

"Roshanak," he felt the name dance on his lips. "Roshanak."

She bowed to him. "Glory to the Shah."

His face darkened. Roshanak saw him clenching his fist. She stood frozen, waiting for his any command.

"Let us sit. It has been a long and tiring day. I don't really wake up so early unless it's war."

His words were like a thunderstorm to Roshanak's ears. In a way she was happy to know that kings loved to sleep late and relax. Again, she was worried if he considered this marriage a conquest. Maybe it was a conquest indeed.

Together, they sat on the bed. Silence was such a horrible thing to exist between a newly married couple. Roshanak dreaded it as much as rushed kisses. She had expected the Shah to be a little more friendlier.

"I am used to sleeping late too," she said. The words just came out her mouth, careless enough to tamper with a first impression.

But she had already projected hers in the garden back that day during twilight.

"Do you...know about Persia?" he asked.

"I do."

"It's a beautiful place. I wasn't born there. I am from Macedonia, actually. But I fell in love with Persia and now live there only."

There was a childish wonder in his eyes when he spoke of Persia. Roshanak had seen kings kill and eradicate, shout orders and snap heads. This Shah no doubt had that side, but it bewildered her to know he had another side too.

"There are nice gardens in Persia," he said. "Like the ones built by the great king of its history, Nebuchadnezzar. Back in Macedonia we don't have such wondrous things. Even here, in your kingdom, I find the land mostly dull, except the garden of yours, of course."

"My father made it for me."

"Oh, yes, yes. He seemed to be very protective of you."

Roshanak's skin burnt and sizzled. This was the same man speaking who had destroyed her life in a day. She would be scared to sleep late because of him. He was to be blamed for her new phobia.

The Shah must have sensed her quietened anger. He pursed his lips and his furrowed brows bent in a curve. "You are a warrior's daughter," he said, as if to remind her that she should have expected this to happen in her life. A warrior's life was filled with blood and gore, and as a child of one, hers was going to be equally gruesome.

She didn't know what to talk about. But again, he couldn't stretch the conversation on his own. At this point, Roshanak was wary of being suddenly pushed to the bed. As a woman she served no purpose of intelligent conversation or any entertainment, so maybe her body could be made to some use. He married her for her splendour and innocent allure. She was in his eyes an enchantress.

"I think, there's no need to beat around the bush. You seem uninterested in cooling the tension." The natural warmth of his eyes shot splinters of ice. "You are a beautiful woman, Roshanak, and as the Shah of Persia, I concluded it was best for me to own you. You are a woman and I am a man, and someday I had to marry someone, so I chose you."