Meri Pehchan

•the prince of Persia•

"Why do you keep saying it's a prince?" Samra frowned.

Her hands that had been busy plucking the green grapes stilled in their action. With a frown she observed Fadahunsi's face. His usually calm eyes were shrouded in a cold look – steely to the point they cut through her bone.

"Because I know," he smiled.

"That doesn't make sense Fadahunsi". She poked her tongue at him.

"Humdum there is plenty in this world that does not make sense," he tapped her head.

"For instance?" She raised her brow — except it were a peculiar sight for she raised both at the same time, failing to only ever raise one.

"The sun rising. The tides changing each day. The infinite depth of my love for you," he kissed her cheek.

They had filled up with a delightful fluffiness over the past nine months. Her body had filled out, the lithe figure turned plump all because of the excessive food he kept feeding her. Throughout winter she had enjoyed Fadahunsi's entire attention. He only left to train in physical combat with his soldiers in the morning and then in the afternoon's he would spend time with his sister at the palace. All of them were still recovering from the way Faheel had betrayed them, and the affects showed.

Fadahunsi's chiseled face had turned even more slender. His cheeks sunk in, the dark eye-bags had found a permanent home on his otherwise clear skin. Faheel's intentions had been clear, the hot blooded male in him had failed to come to terms with the fact that his father would make his daughter a Queen. Originally he thought he would have more time to convince their father but the war had forced him to take the throne by force. He had been hung the next morning, treason his crime.

Samra knew that while she shivered with discomfort from the heaviness that pushed against the walls of her bladder, Fadahunsi too stayed awake — guilt filled his pores. He was suffering. He could not hate his brother even after his death, that was not how General of the Persian army was built. When he prayed and sunk his head, he asked for his brother's forgiveness, he shed tears for the loss that had made home in their lives. He could hide his pain from her but she sensed it from his actions.

"That doesn't make sense! What if it were a princess? What then?" She pinched his cheek.

"Then I'd turn into a poet," he smiled, imagining holding a small girl in his hands.

"Kyun? Dukhtar honay keh gham mein?" Tears filled her vision.

[Why? In the pain of having a daughter?]

"Us ki mohabbat mein," he kissed her eyes.

[In her love.]

Samra sobbed at that. Her heart turned tender at his words, they had the power to heal the wounds of her childhood. She had grown up, being told that one day, when God will resurrect them all, each body part would speak on it's own. She had never known, they would do so in this life too. Her eyes showed him that which she feared to show. Her lips murmured words that were unknown to her even. Her skin glowed and painted a picture of everything. Her small ears kissed his with their soft cries, and he answered every-time.

"It's going to be a prince, that I'm sure of," he kissed her hand.

Fadahunsi helped her lay in their bed. The pillows had been fluffed and the thick curtains drawn shut. March had arrived, the petals of spring just unfolding. Mornings were full of heavy fog, spilling into the tiny streets. Afternoons were bright, with the sun baking the bricks within matter of hours. And the evenings, oh the evenings were nothing short of perfection. The gentle blues that descended over the horizon with the natural hues of land spilling on to them painted a blank canvas for the emerald trees and clear rivers. Life was uncurling it's toes, gently grazing the edges, skimming before it tore into a full speed run.