Canthara looked out the castle window at the majestic twilight sky. The whole world soaked in hues of brown and orange exuding a caution of warmth tingled with the decoy of sublime cool breeze. A perfect evening what promised to be, was disturbed by a little figure trudging the drawbridge with a spring in his step.
Dismissive hope, she rued.
Looked on and mere advancing footsteps aggravated the hostility in her mind for every assuming person who imagined an act of barter could win her over. Judged by strangers who understood nothing but their own selfish desire to what they may have liked at attaining and hopefully her aspirations would coincide with.
The nearer Zaid got to the castle, the stauncher his imprints seared to ooze deep-seated hurt.
In a matter of perceived thoughtful flashes, the Emir sent an attendant with a parcel that marked another suitor.
As little shuddering hands and cold eyes unwrapped to witness this new advance at mockery, they softened, if only for a moment.
From emotion or newness one couldn’t tell.
But they stared alright. The crimson shrieked and her hands complied to pacify it with hesitation.
She commanded for her eyes to move away but they had grown a heart of their own. A daze of unrest followed with ears ablaze and a face that spoke of acquired celestial glow. As every sense fought a battle with the other, she ordered the hideous scarf be taken away.
In a fleeting moment, she reeled to get one last look at the gleaming magic fabric and before any of the confusion could make sense, the object was out of sight.
An impact of sheer brilliance naively dismissed as freefalling imagination.
What could have been felt was merely touched, and that made all the difference.
A sad piece of cloth now, examined by the wrong hands; hands that were raised to evoke submission, but never to kindle dying flames; consequential hands; hands that clutched the giver to unveil his lustrous secret.
Refused to believe the magic couldn't be recreated. Refused to gauge it's impossibility.
Adamant at bringing rolling a fortune from hunting like savages for a mere moth.
Never mind, it never was intended that way!
And when the pious word was parted, sworn in secrecy was a man who merely wondered of setting a heart to flip and twirl, locked and thrashed in a dungeon forever to be.
No, not the end, as every time in shadows of nothingness when two lone souls would spare each other a grazing thought of what could have been, it would all end at the point where a lanky figure walked under the twilight sky and a face unknown housed a pining heart misunderstood.
The point where two roads that briefly met, diverged forever on a course of indifference.
The point that defined a listless journey from start to finish.