The air was cold, sending shivers down her spine as she entered the kitchens, her hood covered in specks of red blood, the scent of iron filling her nostrils. Sleep-deprived red eyes turned to look at her, glaring at the unknown, masked girl who enters every once in a while through the kitchen doors, covering the clean floor tiles with caked mud from her boots and blood dripping off her hood. Some looked at her with fear in their eyes whenever they saw the blood-lust on her own, and so they kept her secret. Kept the memories of her blood drenched clothes and red baths in their mind, not to be spoken off. They knew not to bow down to her. She was nothing. A murderer at best but usually nothing.
With all the stealth she could muster, the murderer made her way out of the kitchen, entering a large room with curtains of royal green chiffon, tumbling down from the high, broken roof that was shadowed with leaves from large olive trees. It gave the room a nice aesthetic, a wild feeling that she loved. That was what the Qalea was most known for in all of the realm. This country was known for the peoples green thumbs in vegetation and agriculture. The love of plants in this realm was seriously insane, but she was one of those people that loved plants, and so she didn’t mind them. Not at all. She admired the beauty of the moonlight filtering through the green leaves, the dark green blending into the black night sky.
The murderer made her way down the dhahabi castle, her feet quick and yet silent on the squeaky tiles. With her head bent down and hood shadowing her face she took out a long thin metal with a curved end of different types of shapes for different locks. Her fingers made quick work, securing the pick and twisting. She relished the click that came right after.
Hiding her pick once more in her pant pockets, she pushed the door open, carefully and quietly, making sure that the wooden door embossed with beautiful roses would not creak. Swiftly, she closed the door, looking at the wide expanse of the chamber that belonged to the Princess of Alkutban. The Heir. Her eyes took in the gold arm chair sitting in the corner, a bookshelf filled with books of many sizes and colors filled her vision, and she smiled as the musty smell of qahwa and old paper filled her nose. She knew that smell, savored it, loved it more than the smell of blood.
Her fingers brushed off the hood on her head, her eyes squinting at the bright candle lights surrounding the room. Oh how she hated the candlelights.
Slowly she made her way to the book shelf, a squeaky sound making her squirm. She jumped at the appearance of a silver turkish cat that jumped onto the golden arm chair, staring at the murderer with wonder in its eyes. The cat’s body brushed against the bookshelf, begging for some attention.
With small, feeble hands, she brushed the turkish cat, rubbing its stomach before making her way to the washroom. A girl with bright, red hair stepped before her, taking in the murderer’s appearance. “I’ve been waiting for you.”
“Why are you up so late?” The murderer questioned the girl whose eyes glinted in the dim lights, a dimple forming on her cheeks. The girl was beautiful. Her hair tumbling in soft curls on her revealed collarbone. She had a nightgown of white silk cascading down her frail, weak form.
“I would ask you the same thing.” Her eyebrows rose, framing her face in perfection.
The murderer sighed. She turned to look at the cat that was glaring at her the moment she stopped petting it. “You know what I did, princess.”
“You know I don’t like being called that. Especially by you.”
The murderer rose from her armchair, staring at the girl who was only inches shorter than her. Oh how she had grown fast. “Jamela, you’re not supposed to be awake at this time.”
Guilt shadowed Jamela’s hazel eyes as she stared at the murderer. “I’m sorry, but I was just worried about you.”
“You don’t need to be.” The older girl sighed.
“But I am! You are my big sister. I do not want anything to happen to you.”
“Are you really underestimating your sister’s skills?” The murderer smiled, her eyes warm and comforting although blood still coated her black leather gloves. She took one off, revealing calloused skin. The murderer touched her sister’s pale olive skin, her eyes searching for her sisters.
“No. You know I can never do that. You’re just too good. But I don’t want anything bad to happen to you.” The child sighed. “You are to be queen Aisha. This country needs you. Our family needs you-” Tears filled Jamela’s eyes, “I need you.” Before her sister’s tears could fall and coil on her cheeks, Aisha brushed them away.
With care, she laid her head on her sisters. “I will be fine. I won’t let anything happen to me, to this country, to mama and baba, or to you, my ukht” She whispered silently to her sister in the ear, then she took her sister’s cold hand into her leather grip, and walked back into the halfway and took her sister to her own room. A sort of comfort and familiarity filled her senses as she saw the files upon files on Jamela’s desk. Jamela liked to research on topics that she had interest in and Aisha certainly did not.
Homework lines Jamela’s desk as well, ink spilled on the papers. “Now what happened there.” Aisha said to her sister, looking at her sternly as she helped Jamela settle into the bed, pulling the covers away so her shivering sister could settle comfortably.
“I was stressed.”
“Don’t overwork yourself.”
“You do. Everyday. Why can’t I?” Jamela replied, her voice rough.
“Don’t be like me. Oh I beg of you, please don’t be.” Aisha said, smiling at her sister, except her smile was not sincere. She did not want her sister to be like her, guilt gnawing at her heart, pain and blood coating her leather covered hands. She did not want Jamela to be like her. Jamela was Jamela. Beautiful.
She was kind and full of humor, unlike her, a cold-hearted beast. Jamela was courageous and hard working, setting targets for herself. She was generous, and love filled her heart.
She was everything that Aisha was not.
And that is exactly how Aisha wanted her to be.
She tickled her sister playfully till giggles filled the air, calming the tense atmosphere, then her serious face came back and she tucked her sister in comfortably under her bed covers, tidying the mess on her desk, then she bid her ukhtgoodnight, kissing her forehead and leaving her peaceful sister behind.
She was about to have her own peace now. The only peace she could muster, and so when she went into her room, she peeled off the bloodied tunic and the peasantry clothes that she wore all night, turning on her own bath of hot water without her maid Tahira to help her. Then she settled into the water, scrubbing at her skin until the itch went away and her skin was left raw and red. Sometimes she scrubbed her skin so hard, trying to forget about the blood that crusted her forearm, blood that wasn’t hers, to the point that she had a big round, purple bruise and a gash slicing down her forearm.
She tried to wash away the memories of the white corpse at her feet - a corpse of a man that she had killed since he had imposed serious danger on her family, a man that she didn’t regret - by dunking her head, scrubbing her hair and nails clean with her sandalwood shampoo.
Then she slipped into some comfortable wool slippers, her nightgown tight on her curves, and settled back into her golden arm chair, the cat snoring in its own sort of peace. She took back her book, opening to the most recent page she had stopped at, and petted the cat, reading till the last of the candle flame dulled into nothing.
Darkness. The same thing in her soul.
ns 15.158.61.12da2
