He couldn’t think about what she would have looked like on her wedding day; would she
have smiled as she walked down the aisle? Was she nervous? Excited? Was she truly happy?
He couldn’t think about what would happen after. Man and wife, the life they’d lead. He couldn’t think about her being kissed by another man, touched by him. He couldn’t think about any of it.
He’d made his decision, and even as he’d told her to leave he’d known he would regret it. He’d expected this. He owed it to both of them to hold the course.
This was for the best.
‘Did they ever tell you how they met?’
Amir frowned, lifting his gaze from the wedding portrait of his parents, a decoration that had sat on his desk for so long he barely looked at it any more, focussing on Ahmed. The older man had been leaving, their meeting concluded. In fact, Amir had thought he had already left.
‘No.’ Amir shook his head. ‘They didn’t.’
‘I’m not surprised.’ Ahmed’s smile showed affection, but something else—strain. His eyes swept over Amir.
‘I was only twelve when they died. It wasn’t something we’d discussed.’
‘It was the night your father’s engagement was supposed to be announced.’
Amir frowned. ‘They hadn’t met before?’
‘No.’ Ahmed moved to the photo, picking it up off the desk and looking at it thoughtfully. ‘She was a guest at the party, the cousin of a diplomat. Your father bumped into her—spilled a drink on her skirt, if I remember correctly—and the rest was history.’
‘You’re saying he was supposed to marry someone else until that night?’
‘I’m saying within half an hour of meeting your mother he insisted the engagement agreement be set aside. They were inseparable.’ Ahmed sighed.
Amir held his hand out, and Ahmed put the photo in it. The happiness in his parents’ eyes was palpable. Through the veil of time he could feel the joy that had been captured in this moment.
‘I know how happy they were,’ Amir agreed.
‘Yes. They were happy.’ Ahmed frowned, sighed heavily once more, so Amir looked towards the older man with a frown, wondering what was on his mind. ‘I often think about that. Would they have changed anything if they’d known what would happen?’
Amir stiffened in his seat, replacing the photo on the edge of his desk with care. ‘It’s impossible to know.’
‘No.’ Ahmed’s smile was wistful. ‘It’s not. I believe that even if they’d been told on their wedding day what fate awaited them, they would not have shied away from it. Not when it brought you, and the time they had together.’
Amir’s chest felt tight.
‘I’m sorry, Your Majesty. At my age, the brain tends to become reflective.’
Ahmed moved towards the door. Before he could open it, Amir said, ‘My mother paid a high price for that happiness.’
Ahmed frowned. ‘I think if she was here she’d say it was worth it.’
Amir often dreamed of his parents. That they were drowning, or on fire, or falling from a cliff, and in every dream he reached for them, his fingertips brushing the cotton of his mother’s clothes, or the ends of her hair, grabbing without holding, so close but ultimately ineffectual.
He knew what was at the root of the dreams: a disbelief that he hadn’t been able to save them. A desire to go back to that night and do something, anything, that would change the twist of fate that had taken them from him.
His powerlessness had sat about his shoulders for a long time, and he’d never really accepted it.
This dream was different. Johara, in a maze. Not like the maze in Taquul, this had white walls, and as she ran through it the corridors became narrower and narrower, so that he could never reach her. Whenever he got close, she’d slip away again, disappearing no matter how hard he looked.
He woke with a start, his breath rushed, his forehead covered in perspiration.
She’s getting married.