[ WATTYS '18 LONG-LISTED ]
❝ I have slit throats far more beautiful than yours.❞
In which a thousand brides have fallen, and she is the last, so she spins a tale as old as time to live the dawn.
| an arabian nights x beauty and the beast crossover...
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SHAHRAZAD HAS AWOKEN UNDER the light of the sun caressing her skin, but this time she is stirring within arms of the infinite universe clinging to the stars in her bones. And it is a feeling that seeps through her pores, burning brighter than the blazing heat.
She invariably, for the briefest of moments, imagines the possibility of them. Merely a King and his Queen, without being decked in ruin and complexities in a raging battle. She moves, shifting away, and her bangles rattle in a soft melancholy.
"Not so soon, love," Shahryar mutters, fingers lightly clamping around her wrist.
She turns, gauging his reaction, studying each harsh angle of his face, noting every ruthless feature glinting in dark gold. "It is almost noon."
Running his hand through his midnight speckled hair, Shahryar wearily roves his eyes across the room, gaze falling on the notorious dagger. "I presume you wanted me dead more than defending yourself the first night."
There is no point in denying what he has already discovered, but she bites back heatedly, "You were almost going to slit my throat."
"I was," he chuckles lowly, the sound reverberating his chest, ebbing into her skin. "But I couldn't then, and I can't now."
Before she has time to recollect his words, he stands, blocking the streaming vermillion light, brushing her knuckles with the pad of his thumb. "You like to read, I assume, given your interest in storytelling?"
Shahrazad blinks, eyes refusing to flutter from her clasped hand. "I do enjoy it. Would you have me read some older Arabic works?"
His lips curve into a hauntingly beautiful smile, cracking at the seams like the blushing light of the crescent moon. "I was actually hoping if you would read me some Farsi tales, anything relating to your culture."
The storyteller commands her heart to still, softening its beat but not shushing it. "Of course, Shahryar."
And when he turns away, striding past the doors to regain his administrative affairs, she hears his soft whisper linger like the ending notes of a sigh, "She said Shahryar."
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