And when wind and winter harden
All the loveless land,
It will whisper of the garden,
You will understand.

— Oscar Wilde

November, 951
Al Mariyya, Al Andalus
(Almeria, Andalusia)

"HAVE YOU EVER been to a brothel?"

One can wrap sin into silk. One can adorn skin with gold. Let the glitter blind the eyes. Or one can run away from the life of a lie. What is more beautiful?

What is more destructive than a sin glorified?

It has been an almost decade since he last stepped into a brothel. In twenty eight years of his life, the place has seen him only thrice. Then three times proved enough, he learnt his lesson and never turned back. But it wasn't a repentance— a giving up of a sin. He doesn't think his heart is capable of something so holy after being friends with the devil all his life.

"I know you have been. You're not a saint."

"I haven't in a long time."

Kanan laughs at his reply.

"Pity. I forgot the ocean doesn't have brothels."

"But it still has women."

"How long since you lied down with one?"

He doesn't answer the query. Kanan doesn't press for it.

"I've paid a generous sum for the night," his friend reminds him. "I'm not about to let my money go wasted."

"I had only asked you for a place to stay."

"And I found one of comfort."

"For yourself."

The streets of Almeria are lit with lanterns hanging outside every house. The sound of their boots echoes off the cobblestone pathway and mingle with the soft cries of the sea in the distance. Though twilight has only slipped into night, it is quiet as the two cloaked men make their way to what Kanan thinks to be heaven

The years they have spent away from each other have been longer than his journey to Al Andalus. And even if the sea is his home, he has spent his life as a corsair, but it has worn him out and he would rather rest to recover than indulge in celebration of their reunion. Kanan might still have the heart of a careless, adolescent boy he once was. But he has changed. A lot.

"You go there often?" he asks his friend.

"Where?"

"Brothel."

"Not often."

"When did you start going?"

Kanan only shrugs dismissively.

"You weren't a bastard when I left," he adds.

"I was too young to be one."

"Or you were too obsessed with a certain someone," he remarks, sly and straightforward. "You aren't anymore?"

Kanan throws him a warning glance that does nothing to intimidate him.

"What changed?" he digs. "She didn't entertain your fancy?"

"You haven't found someone of your own?" his friend diverts the topic.

"It isn't for men like me."

"True. Why wreck the life of an innocent by the likes of you."

"True indeed," he agree with his lighthearted jest. "As I would say for you."

Kanan laughs again. Even in the darkness of the night and the shadow of his hood, he can see the wicked gleam of his eyes.

"Too late for that."

"I've forgotten her name," he says.

"Whose?"

"Your betrothed. The caliph's sister."

"Ah." Kanan replies with disinterest, "Rahaf."

Such irony, he wonders. To be committed to your enemy in a bond so sacred. To be bound to someone with no love. But what has love got to do with men like them? Them who have hearts made of iron can only be softened by the fire. Their heart are not to be paired with hearts of clay. But then they have burnt many times yet the hearts have not changed. Either a tragedy or blessing to feel so little, he does not know.

"Rahaf." He chuckles, deep in his throat, thoughtless and teasing. "That was the name of one of Rouzbeh's lovers. He mentioned her to me in a letter. For a second I had thought that your beloved had an affair with my brother."

"Furat."

Furat bites his lip to contain his smirk and turns away. Ruthless, he can be that sometimes. But he cannot help it. Empathy hasn't ever been his strongest fort.

"Do not joke about her with me," Kanan forbids grimly. "No matter what, she's to be my wife soon— my honor."

His friend is such a hypocrite, he thinks. Speaking of honor of which he has none. As if their feet aren't just carrying them to a brothel. But who is he too judge? As Kanan has worded it— he's not a saint himself.

"It was a different woman," he responds, his tone void of any guilt. "My apologies for the false assumption."

"Of course it was a different woman. Rahaf is not like that."

"Like you?"

Kanan scoffs in reply. "Like the ones who lie down with you."

"I often lie down alone. Unlike you."

"Must be your average looks and useless mouth."

This makes him laugh, low, gentle, but hearty as the crisp autumn air carries it with itself into the quiet. Kanan doesn't sound offended, but rather irritated with him for bringing up his betrothed.

"Why, I didn't know the brothel pays you to bless them a visit." Furat loads his statement with sarcasm. "The vizier of the caliph busy behind his back with the unholy? He will have your head if he finds out."

They hear the sound of hooves coming behind them. Both the men stop walking and turn around. A rider comes to a halt closely. A palace guard. He gathers right away from his uniform.

"My messenger," Kanan tells him.

Furat steps into the shadows as his friend goes to receive the message. They speak in hushed tone. He cannot hear them. But he can see Kanan's stiff posture and displeased expression.

After a good few minutes, he dismisses the man before returning to him.

"What is the matter?"

"Wallahi, you're a devil." Kanan sighs and looks up at the sky. "You just cursed the night for me. You mentioned the caliph and I receive news of his return to the palace."

Furat arches a surprised eyebrow. "I had thought he busy out of the capital with military affairs?"

Kanan looks back at him. "I must go back to the palace before his arrival. He entrusted things to me and will be enraged if he finds me gone—"

"Indulged in forbidden amusement," he interjects.

"Furat." Kanan looks at him pointedly. "You can come with me—"

"I'm too tired to travel," he turns him down instantly. "Besides, I've a few places to be at before coming to Qurtuba. I'll join you later."

"Suit yourself." Kanan nods in the direction they were going in. "The brothel is at the corner. Tell them you're a guest they were expecting. But do not tell them your name. I've already spoken to them and paid for the night."

"Very well."

"Tell them I'll return for my woman another night."

With this, he goes into the opposite direction. Furat doesn't wait and continues towards his destination alone.

Such an eerie part of town he has wandered into. Ten years ago, he had told himself he would never step into a brothel again. But it wasn't a vow. Not that vows cannot be broken. He has broken too many. But now he cannot step into one without his mind unleashing upon him all the memories. Though blunted, they're still no less than a weapon.

His home has long stopped being a home to him. His memories of this place have become stagnant. Very early in time it took his innocence from him.

He knocks at the door of the brothel.

Someone receives him. He gives them the introduction Kanan has taught him. They recognize him and welcome him inside. A servant shows him to his room.

"Your friend will not be coming, sayyidi (sir)?"

"No," he informs. "Tell the woman prepared for him that she can sleep in peace."

The servant tips his head. "Shall I send your lady to you or will you freshen up first?"

"Send her."

The servant leaves.

He looks around the room. A fair size, but lit with too many candles for his liking. Too bright for his eyes. One by one he starts burning them out. When he reaches a table at other end of the room, a candelabra and a pitcher atop it, he hears the door to the room open again.

Slow steps advance towards him. Careful, but not hesitant. He hears the tinkling of the anklets. Then she stops and so does the tinkling. He doesn't turn to face her.

"Tell me your name, woman," he demands.

Only one candle burns before him on the table. But the room still has many other lit. The wine in the pitcher appears to glow in their light.

"Tell me yours." The response comes from her.

There is a command in her voice. There's no shiver. It stuns him. It compels him to turn around— to see the woman before him. To meet the eyes daring to meet his. And eyes are all he can see in her face veil. But they are enough. The fire in them is enough. And so is the loathing. It reminds him of what he has been spending this last decade trying to forget.

"Tell me yours, and I'll tell you mine," Furat offers.

The cloak is still around his body. The hood of it still covers his head. He doesn't attempt to take it off nor step towards her.

"Then don't tell me yours, and I'll keep mine. Our names have no business between us," she retorts.

Her voice is bitter— cutting. It comes to him like a knife. But he disregards it.

"They forced you to come to me?"

He can almost see her smiling in mockery to his question. In the simple red dress and gold jewelry, those honey colored orbs are more brilliant than anything else in the room.

"You're not at your home, sayyidi. I haven't come to you out of my love and desire for you."

"You've a sharp tongue." Furat smirks, strangely impressed by her courage. "Your master did not train you to entertain his clients like this, did he?"

"He failed to train me well."

"Clearly. But I've no complaints."

He reaches for his belt where two pouches full of gold coins are hooked. Taking them in his hand, he tosses them at her feet. She glances down at them.

"Take these," he says, turning his back on her. "This should be enough to buy you your freedom from your master."

There is silence. She doesn't speak anymore. Maybe this time it is him to have stunned her speechless. This probably wasn't what she expected of him.

"You can leave, woman. And take the pitcher of wine with you too. Tell a servant to bring me water. And tell everyone not to disturb me for the rest of the night."

He begins to take off his cloak.

"Why are you here?" This time she asks with bewilderment.

"To sleep," he answers simply, honestly, though not understanding why he even needs to engage her in a conversation. Why he needs to explain himself. His cloak falls to a floor. "I needed a place to stay."

"Any noble man would've slept on the street than come to a brothel."

His lips pull upwards. He might have been to a brothel only thrice before now, but he has met plenty women. How she runs her tongue before him in her position is beyond him. He turns back to her.

"Did I say that I was noble?"

Now he finds her studying him. Without his cloak, the barrier to conceal him is gone. But he does not care. He does not mind her gaze roaming his face, as if trying to commit it to remembrance. She has the right to remember the man who has saved her. Though he does not mind either if she forgets. So long as his hands do not reach out towards her, he will be alright— he will forget her. Her eyes will not haunt him as the eyes ten years before her.

"Only a noble man would do what you're trying to do, sayyidi." She gestures towards the gold coins, referring to him freeing her from this prison. "But I do not need these."

She steps back from the pouches and lifts her hands to her neck. Her necklace falls to the floor as she unclasps it. Her earrings follow. Then the chain on her head. The bangles on her wrists. And lastly her anklets. Furat watches patiently, with interest, as she adds to the pile before her.

She then says, "Take these, and free someone who needs to be freed."

His eyes sharpen to battle hers. And how she battles him. Bold. So devastatingly enrapturing. As if meaning to demolish everything against her. For a moment she makes him forget where he is.

"Tell me your name," he asks her again.

Now she stands before him without any gold on her. Yet strangely more brilliant than before. He doesn't know if the hue of her orbs has soften but she doesn't look at him with contempt anymore.

"Our names have no business between us." The same reply comes from her.

A crooked smile graces his lips.

But she doesn't stay to hear his response. As if knowing none of them will be sharing this secret. And let her name remain hidden from his knowledge. Furat doesn't try to stop her.

She opens the door. A man is standing there and she directs to him.

"Take the wine and bring him water."

The man tips his head and the door closes.

His eyes flick to the jewelry on the floor she has taken off. For a few seconds he only stares at it, unable to fully belief what has just happened. Was she who Kanan paid for? This woman didn't seem to belong here.

Then exhaustion weighs upon his mind once more and the thoughts drift away. He goes towards the bed and sits down. When the morning comes, maybe this will seem like a dream. If not, maybe then he will try to unravel the meaning of this encounter.

The door opens again as this time the man brings him water. He puts the vessel on the table and fills for him a glass. Furat thank him as he hands it to him and drinks it down in two gulps.

"Do you want me to refill it for you, sayyidi?"

"No."

The man goes to take the wine pitcher with him before heading towards the exit.

"Listen." Furat stops him. "Who was the woman?"

His vision starts becoming hazy. He blinks, trying to see clear, but everything before him blurs only more as his head grows heavy. He attempts to get up but his feet cannot support him. Fury bubbles within him as he realizes what has just happened.

"What was in the water?!"

"Something to help you sleep in peace, since that is why you're here."

It's the voice of the same woman again. But by now his eyes have betrayed him and he can no longer make out her form. His eyelids fall shut and he falls back on the bed. Despite his attempt, he can no longer stay awake— he drifts far away.

"Sleep, for when you wake up in the morning, you will wake up on the street. For you've tried to save me, so I'll save you from your demise, sayyidi."

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