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The scent of jasmine wafted through the humid air of the midday. Scar wasn’t known for his punctuality, but it didn’t seem right to be late for the last day before he died. He wondered if it was considered a sin to be late - so close to death, who wouldn’t count their sins? He glanced outside, trying to gauge if the sun had moved since he entered this room. No one really gave him a clear guide of what exactly was going to happen, they let him in when he volunteered for marriage, and basically dumped him here.
It was - when all was said and done - a death wish to marry the boy-king. Anyone, noble or common, was allowed to marry the king. The catch was that for some inexplicable reason, every single spouse had been executed the morning after. For a while, it seemed that people just kept trying their luck, volunteer after volunteer. It slowly dwindled over a year ago, when people realized it would be luckier to throw themselves off a cliff than marry him. And now, a year later, Scar, riddled with many debts and even more enemies, decided to try his own luck.
It wasn’t like he had anything to lose, anyways.
The sun must have moved at this point. The door groaned open and shadows of movement swam across. Scar straightened his back and smiled easily; a good impression never hurt anyone.
Alone, came a figure.
He was short but held himself high, shoulders back. He took careful steps towards the room, staring at Scar brazenly. Scar opened his mouth to say something - a greeting, at least, but couldn’t shape any words.
He was beautiful, in the way vast deserts were beautiful - terrifyingly so. His hair shone gold under the light of the nearby balcony, dotted with circlets of riches on his curls and ears. They had put him in layers of sumac colored fabrics and shawls draped over shoulders and waist, making him look like he was almost floating over the ground.
He frowned, and Scar felt like he had done something wrong, a tinge of fear creeping up throat.
“You’re early,” he told him. Scar took in a slow breath, steeling his nerves.
“I’m sorry, your Highness.”
His jaw clenched.
“Don’t call me that,” and when Scar flinched he added, “we’re married now - just Grian is fine.”
“Scar.”
“Yes, I know, the fool who has come to ask for my hand.”
Scar could feel a witty response of how he had already gotten his hand but he held his tongue. He didn’t need to set a record for the fastest execution. Grian was stock still, and for a moment, Scar wondered if he was hesitating.
“You can ask anything of me - anything you’d want,” Grian’s eyes glinted with the implication of something amorous. The room felt inexplicably warmer, Grian floating towards him. If Scar had looked any closer, he would’ve been able to see the cloying sway of his hips, beckoning.
Scar stood. A tremble in Grian’s hands betrayed his act. He glanced at those hands, the fear in his throat melting away.
He gave another smile, trying to ease out any comfort. “How about you show me around? I’ve never been in a castle.”
This startled him, and he blinked at Scar. An odd request.
“Are you sure? You can have anything you want, you can have…” Grian trailed off, the innuendo lingering in the air. Scar blushed at the implication.
“It’s what I want, Grian.” The use of Grian’s name seemed to cause him to brighten for a sliver of a second.
Some calculations ran through Grian’s mind, like an abacus shifting again and again. Finally, his shoulders relaxed - though his posture remained taut - the gold hung on his ears swaying with the movement.
“Very well, it’s your last day, not mine.”
He turned around sharply, strutting out of the room. Scar stumbled to follow him, out the large golden doors and through the maze-like castle.
--
Grian was speeding ahead, a smooth gait that let the silk he was wearing trail behind him like ghostly wings. Though Scar was easily taller, the king seemed to be faster, forcing him to an almost-jog. A few thoughts were circling his head; first, this tour was terrible as Grian did not seem to understand the value of explaining, and secondly (and frankly, more importantly) was he still on route to be executed come morning?
Scar wasn’t sure if asking about his execution would be a social faux pas, but surely if it was a matter concerning himself, he’d ought to know, right? They were making a right turn, about to enter the bathing pool (if he had remembered correctly from when he was brought in), when Scar decided to bite the bullet and ask.
“Grian, may I ask something?”
Grian flinched, almost forgetting Scar had been behind him this entire time, and froze. At his upped speed, Scar came crashing into Grian, making them both hit the column.
“Oh my gosh, I am so sorry, your high- er- Grian!”
Scar hoped his debts couldn’t follow him to the afterlife.
Grian flashed him an irritated glare, fiery eyes looking into his soul. His eyebrows furrowed, and he looked ready to lash out with some sharp remark. Scar waved his hands to apologize again when Grian’s face suddenly thawed into mirth. A shadow of a smile ghosted his face, as if they shared an inside joke.
After a moment, Grian explained himself, hand up to his cheek:
“I haven’t been mad at anyone for over a year. I think I miss it.”
Scar could only look at him dumbly. Grian remembered where they were, who they were, and backed away, expression cooling again.
“You could stand to apologize again, though,” he said with a flourish of his silk, leaving the room.
----
Scar caught up to Grian after almost taking two wrong turns, and found him sitting in the middle of a hall. It was not exactly a hall, but more of a large, open room with sky-high windows. The stained glass windows dyed everything a vibrant blue-green. His head was tucked into a book, hands clutching at the leather. Though he seemed so skittish before, he looked content now. It felt wrong to interrupt this intimate moment, so he stood from afar, waiting.
Now that he looked around, he realized that the entire room was full of books, a number probably in the thousands. He ran his hand over the spine of one, pulling it out. It was lovingly worn out, and he remembered what he said. It must have been a year since Grian talked to anyone.
He looked out to the shelves again - if he was cut off contact for a year, he would probably turn to stories, too. Scar opened the book experimentally, flipping through the pages - full of diagrams of army formations. Must be a lame story. Putting it back, he pulled out the next book - and just more diagrams, though this one was probably something about plants. He checked the rest of the shelf, not a single story, just pages and pages of different knowledge.
A voice cut through his investigation, “Why are you still here?”
Grian had now shut the book tightly, lips pursed. His hand was covering the cover protectively, and Scar slowly put the book he was looking through back. Technically, they were supposed to tour the castle, and even if Scar wanted, he wasn’t confident he could make his way back to his new room.
“Have you read them all?” He instead asked.
Grian tensed for a moment, surprised that Scar responded at all. His hand flexed on the book as he thought.
“Not yet,” he offered, finally.
Scar carefully made his way to the table where Grian sat, casually pulling a chair next to him. He nodded towards the book, “What’s it about?”
At first, Scar was sure the choice to see the King was just a long-winded way to die (he hoped, at least less painful than his original situation); but now a scheme was cooking in his mind - a way to live a little bit longer. He knew how to be charming and likable, and now he was ready to see if he could bet his life on it. Kings couldn’t have debts, right?
Grian wasn’t used to this many conversations in one day, and this unfamiliarity let Scar steer the conversation.
He held up the book. “Poisons.” Violent. Scar could work with this. He leaned forward.
Scar started with a confident tone, detailing how he had encountered a man selling poisons disguised as meals, tricking the customers into eating them, and then forcing them to pay high costs for the antidotes. He had, heroically if he did say so himself, put a stop to this by tricking the man into eating his own poison. He did leave out the part where he stole the money for himself afterwards, though (heros couldn’t live off gratitude!).
Grian listened intently, head tilting as if to hear better. He rested on his palm, hand running through his hair a few times. Scar was starting to run out of things to say, which he previously thought was physically impossible.
He tried for a polite smile.
“It’s getting dark, should we head back?”
----
The room was bathed in the soft glow of the setting sun. Grian turned, calling for a servant to bring them an early dinner. He led the way, sitting on a pillow in front of a low table. Grian stared ahead, unsure of what to do next. Scar stayed silent, too, watching.
Grian had sunk into the pillows, toying with a shimmering earring. The furrow in his brow had finally smoothed out, settling into a quiet calmness after all those mood swings. It seemed that the skittishness had worn off, thankfully, but Scar wasn’t sure this was enough to keep his head. The bustling outside the door alluded to servants waiting.
“You may enter,” Scar called out, and interestingly, they complied. Platters of thinly sliced vegetables, still-warm bread, and meat - more meat on the table than he had ever seen in his life. He snuck a glance at Grian, only to find him staring back. They both looked away, more embarrassed than shocked.
Scar adjusted in his seat, waiting for Grian to make the first move. Grian, impatient, just turned to eat. The food was abundant with dizzying spices that would’ve cost Scar his arm. He watched silently as Grian dug in - watching him eat made seem almost human. Almost. His posture was still taut, probably uncomfortable as they had to lean over the table. Was he waiting for Scar to make a mistake - to get rid of him? Or was it already over before it began? Scar grabbed some bread and began casually, “So, you like reading, Grian?”
Grian paused, raising an eyebrow as if Scar asked a stupid question. Arguably, it was a stupid question. Why would someone read that many books if they hated reading?
“I like learning,” he answered, amused.
“Seemed like an intense topic. Do you like learning or do you like killing?” Scar chewed. The bread was good, but maybe not to die for. He hoped Grian wasn’t reading that book for him.
Grian smiled, a little too sharply for his liking, “Knowledge is more powerful than any weapon.”
“Especially knowledge about a weapon.”
Scar handed him the small glass decanter for olive oil. Grian accepted, their hands brushing briefly. His hand was surprisingly warm. Grian tensed, but didn’t say anything.
Halfway through, Grian seemed sated, leaning back. Apparently it was his turn to stare. Scar continued - it was too good a meal. Grian pushed a plate of salted cucumbers towards him.
“Eat.”
Scar looked back. Grian was now curled over the table, observing how one would observe a limping prey.
“Why?”
Grian simply tilted his head the other way. Was this a test? Would Grian kill him if he failed? He would die if he passed. Not very good odds, in his own humble opinion.
“Are they poisoned?” He tried again.
Grian grinned.
Scar wasn’t sure what to do. He happened to be allergic to poison. This was karma for poisoning that clerk. He took one cucumber, biting. It wasn’t bad, the salt melting on his tongue. A hint of lime - probably from the lime gardens he saw outside the castle. A good cucumber, maybe, but a bad way to go.
Sharp eyes followed as he finished the slice, squinting with delight. Grian leaned back, satisfied.
“Are they good?” Grian asked while Scar waited to start choking.
Scar gives him a look - a kind of what-do-you-think look.
“I grew them myself,” he continued, stretching like a cat.
“You’re going to kill me now?” Scar was waiting for the other shoe to drop - it seemed a little winding to go through all this trouble to kill him.
“I didn’t make you take it.”
“That’s not-”
“What? It’s not fair?”
Grian turned sharply, too close. He grabbed onto Scar, arms crossed behind his neck. Scar could feel his warm breath on his cheek. A curling scent of jasmine and amber flooded his system. Leaning over him, the setting sun cast his gold hair a blazing fire. Scar wanted to beg for his life, and yet drag Grian down with him.
“Would you prefer if I took the poison too? I could kiss it off your lips,” he whispered against Scar. “It would work,” Grian moved even closer. Scar could feel his lips tingle, hopefully with the poison rather than anticipation.
Scar wanted to kiss him.
Grian searched his face, looking into those green eyes for a reaction - something.
“But there is no poison,” Grian sighed at last, flopping back to his seat. The moment dissipated, like sugar dissolving in tea, except less sweet. Scar felt an absence of warmth. He expected relief, but a sliver of disappointment ran through him. Grian watched his expression curiously from the corner of his eye.
No one could blame Scar if he lost his appetite after that. The meal was taken away, two delicate cups filled with a fragrant red tea sat in front of them. Scar was still a little hesitant, however. It felt mean to try to make him consume anything else, he thought. It seemed that Grian was as cruel as he was beautiful.
“Are you not going to drink?”
Scar gave him a deadpan stare. Grian rolled his eyes, as if Scar was being dramatic about the whole maybe-I-poisoned-you thing. He grabbed Scar’s cup, making a show of sipping then set it down again. He was still unsure.
“There’s no poison in the tea. I wouldn’t ruin good tea like that, Scar.” The way Grian said his name, voice lilting and curling around it - it made him dizzy.
Scar took a tentative sip.
He frowned. Grian raised an eyebrow. “What? Did you poison it yourself this time?”
“It’s bitter.” It felt silly to complain about taste after the almost-poisoning, but it was bitter. He frowned. “Don’t you have any milk?”
Grian burst into laughter.
“Milk? What are you, a child?”
“I’m older than you,” Scar sputtered, “And anyways, it would taste better.”
He shrugged, “I can’t agree, unfortunately my taste palette has evolved past the age of ten.”
“I’ll make you try it, next time-” He bit his tongue. There wasn’t going to be a next time, was there?
Grian looked away, hiding whatever expression he had. The cup was set down with a soft clatter, glass against glass. He couldn’t leave already, not like this. Grian put his hands on the table to stand, and Scar grabbed a wrist.
Grian looked at him in shock, and he stared back as if he was also surprised by what he did.
“Let me go.”
“Wait! Can I tell you a story?”
“What? It’s late.”
“Grian, please.”
“I’m leaving.”
Grian started to rise. Not like this.
Scar pulled his wrist down sharply. Grian, unbalanced, fell to the floor, back hitting the pillowed ground. His golden hair fanned around his head, a sort of halo he had seen in medieval artworks. He looked more disorientated than angry. Scar kneeled over him, and from this close, he didn’t look so otherworldly. Little freckles scattered on his cheeks, as if kissed by the sun. Scar wondered if it was when he attended to his lime trees. His eyes darted across Scar’s face nervously. A small ring of gold shone around his dilated pupils. Scar could imagine himself leaning down to him, but he eased away, apologizing quickly.
“I’m going to tell you a story.” His voice felt like it came from somewhere outside of him.
He was still close enough to feel the warmth of his body, shimmering layers of silk being the only thing between them. Grian nodded mutely, settled back into his seat.
He sighed, defeated, “Very well, let’s hear your story.”
“This is the story of Ali Baba,” Scar began. He glanced at Grian to see if he recognized the story. He was betting on his isolation stopping him from knowing it - it was only transferred by word of mouth. Grian looked indifferent, “Go on.”
This could work.
“Ali Baba and his brother were born to a merchant, who died when they were young. His brother went on to marry a rich woman, and he takes on their father’s business. On the other hand, Ali Baba married a poor woman, for love, and became a woodcutter.”
Grian had now curled into his seat, leaning on the pillow.
“One day, Ali Baba was in the forest - cutting wood - when he happened to hear forty thieves. He heard as they visited a huge stone wall, and when they said the words, ‘open sesame’, the wall opened to be a looming cave, full of their stolen treasures. Thousands of coins, gold, and jewels. He watched, as they deposited their treasures, and with the words, ‘close sesame’, they closed the cave and left.”
Grian leaned in.
“After they had left, Ali Baba entered the cave, and carefully stole one bag of coins. Ali Baba told his wife of his discovery, and they asked his wealthy brother for a scale, to weigh the coins.”
He frowned, as if he disapproved of Ali Baba’s decision.
“His brother’s wife,” Scar continued, “Let them borrow the scale, but left wax on the bottom, so it would catch whatever they were weighing. And what did she find?”
“A coin?”
“A coin,” Scar nodded. “She tells her husband, who in turn, questions Ali Baba. He confesses how he found the cave, and his brother goes to get his own treasure. He brings a donkey to carry as much gold as he can. He enters with the words, ‘Open sesame’, and sees the sea of gold. But in his greed and excitement, he forgot the words to leave the cave-”
“How could he forget the words? They’re basically identical!” Grian interrupted.
Scar paused, and Grian realized his sudden outburst. He subsided, a tinge of pink on his cheeks.
“Greed often blinds,” Scar offered. Grian’s eyes darkened, but he didn’t add anything else.
“The forty thieves find his brother, and kill him. Ali Baba waited for his brother, but when he didn’t come back, he went to the cave. The body was cut into four, each piece right inside the cave - serving as a threat to any intruders. Ali Baba took the body home, and told his servant, from his brother’s household, to make the death look natural.”
Grian’s breath hitched, as if he was about to say something else but he stayed silent. Scar waited.
“What was the servant’s name?”
“Murjana. First, she goes to the apothecary, buying medicines and telling the clerk that the brother is very sick. Then she finds a tailor, and blindfolds him.” Scar paused, repeating what he said in his mind. “She finds a tailor, pays him, then blindfolds him,” he corrected.
“She brings the tailor to the house, and he stitches the body together. This way, the brother looks as if he died a natural death, and they can bury him without suspicion.”
“The thieves return to their cave, and find that the body is gone.”
“They know that someone else knows their secret,” Grian followed.
Scar nodded, but before he could continue, there was a knock at the door. A servant came in, a little surprised to see that Grian was still there. He bowed hastily.
“May I take the tea, your Majesty?”
Grian blinked at him. He waved at the servant as if to say, go on, but trained his eyes back on Scar. Scar paused, waiting for the scuffle of the tea to be taken away before returning to the story. Grian seemed a little impatient now.
An idea sparked in his head.
Scar settled back into a silence. Grian’s brows furrowed, “What happened next? The story can’t just end there.”
“It’s late, Grian,” Scar shrugged.
Grian pouted, which was not an expression he expected to see on the face of his mighty king.
“You can’t be serious.”
“I will continue tomorrow, I am tired of talking.”
Scar expected Grian to leave then, with the story half done and just reappear the next day, but Grian only went to sit on his bed. From where he lay, he waved Scar over. Obediently, Scar sat next to him uneasily. This wasn’t really how Scar imagined the night going. Grian looked over Scar’s rigid form, “My back hurts from sitting.”
“So,” Grian drawled, “Will you continue the story now?”
Scar shook his head. “Can’t. Tomorrow, Grian.”
Grian stretched out on the bed, yawning like a cat. “Fine. How about I ask you questions about the story?”
It seemed he was still trying to coax the story out of him. Scar was about to argue when an idea struck him, “For every question you ask, I can ask you one in return.”
His mouth twitched, but he nodded.
“Why the phrase open sesame?”
Scar froze - he hadn’t really thought of why before, he had heard the story a multitude of times and that wasn’t something he questioned. He racked his brain for a response that seemed acceptable, although maybe not truthful.
“Sesame… Sesame oil is used in a lot of spells - so the word is also used for incantations.”
This seemed a satisfying answer, and Grian waited for his question. Perhaps it would be too intense compared to Grian’s.
“Why did you kill all the others?”
Grian flinched.
Though there was the risk of angering him, knowing his situation was more important if he wanted to win.
Grian looked away. His voice was clinical and distant, as if reading from one of his many books.
“The first tried to kill me. So he was executed. And the next wanted my power. So he was gone. And then I realized one by one that it was either me or them. It was an easy decision.” He did not look regretful. His eyes searched Scar’s challengingly for any hesitation. Scar didn’t know what to say. Grian leaned back, somehow satisfied with whatever reaction or lack of reaction.
“It must be hard to have someone betray your trust like that”, Scar tried slowly.
Grian snapped his head back to look at Scar, fury burning in his eyes. “I don’t need your pity,” he hissed. He stood hastily from where he was sitting, making Scar stumble backwards.
And like he was never there, the room was empty again.
Scar kicked himself mentally, he could almost imagine Grian going to look for the executioner as he sat in the stupid, comfortable bed.
He laid back down in defeat - it wasn’t like he was even going to try fighting off the guards. One last nap, he supposed, closing his eyes. If he were to wake up exactly eight minutes later, he would see Grian sneak back in, watch him with curious eyes, then leave, embarrassed. But, he only woke up approximately seven hours later to a cat kneading his stomach.