Log :: Complete :: Part One

[ishiah.livejournal.com]

When; July 12 (night)
Rating; PG
Characters; Robin Goodfellow tehpuck, Ishiah ishiah
Summary; Cursed, a harem boy is sent to see his sultan...
PART ONE OF TWO.
Log;



The desert wasn't barren by any stretch of the imagination; besides even the occasional oasis, it teemed with life. Robin reminds himself of that whenever he wonders, idly, if Ishiah misses those gardens.

It isn't as if he's given him nothing, he thinks, sprawled out in his grand(er) bedroom (as he owns several, this is just his favorite), this foreign prince hardly had the right to justify his demands. Holding out like this, he should be punished severely for even daring to think himself Robin's equal, deserving such tribute.

And yet...

Whenever the thought crossed Robin's mind, he dismissed it. It wouldn't do to be so... obvious. His methods of teaching could be more subtle. He could be more subtle. He'd just have to think of how. Give him a minute, he'll get to it, he's a very busy Sultan, alright?

Because he wasn't submitting to this foreign prince-- Ishiah's-- demands. He'd just been busy. He'd lost interest in a few of his later pursuits, some of them were getting a tad boring. Really, that was it. He was busy and bored... and pensive and alone. That wouldn't do, he'd have to find someone to occupy his time if this continued any longer.



Someone is being hurried to the Sultan's room, though what purpose the slaves thought it would serve to rush him, Ishiah doesn't know. The result would be the same, as it had been the same every night since he had arrived at the palace, signed over to the Puck's possession like a parcel of land, or a prized sheep.

He had let the palace staff imagine he was becoming more accommodating. Tonight he'd let them dress his hair and anoint him with oils before he was presented for his master's pleasure. Far be it for Ishiah to keep others from fulfilling the promises of their position simply because he has no intent to keep his.

So it’s jewelled and fragrant that he is announced, "Ishiah ben Issa, of the line of Suliamen ben Daoud, King of the Hebrews." and shooed in through heavy gilded doors. Where he stands, and waits as they close behind him.

The Sultan sprawls on the bed - Ishiah thinking him lewd and expectant in the display. Far too presumptuous. "My Lord, the sun shine upon your rising; let your deeds be exalted from the highest king to the lowliest camel. May I say no now and save us both the trouble of an argument?"



Robin... well, he chortles. He'd expected this, really, it’s hardly a let down. Ishiah had done the same thing, every night, and far be it from Robin to expect a change without any proper reason. But this one, at least, was witty. He rarely pitched a fit or threw things (expensive things), and he was witty and honest about it. And he could speak in an honest manner, educated and eloquent.

He wasn't afraid of Robin. Robin liked that.

But all the circles of heaven forbid him from showing it. Robin flops on the bed like the dramatic thing that he is, sighing heavily, "If it so pleases you. One of us may as well leave sated, tonight."



And Ishiah smiles briefly and sweeps low in the wide bow he should have affected before he spoke. Somehow he never remembered this courtesy unless he felt he had been paid one in return, nor did he ever recall that meeting the Sultan's eyes without permission was punishable in all manner of unpleasant ways. He'd never heard of such punishments being carried out at the palace before his arrival, no matter how much others of the harem suggested there was a first time for everything.

"Then no, my Lord, blessed be the fruit of your loins and blessed be all those you take into your house and your exalted company. I will not lie with you tonight, nor will I warm my sheets for you to join me between them. Nor will we couple in any of the other places you have suggested during my time here. I thank you for your flattery and refuse it."

He watches the Sultan with eyes shamefully raised as he speaks, then turns to sweep out of the doors and be sighed at by the deflated expectations of servants on the other side. Palm pressed to wood and filigree, he glances back over his shoulder.

"I have no doubt you will find some other of your... performing troupe... to sate your needs, thus I leave you with no concern as to your welfare."

And therein lies the issue.



See? Witty. This Ishiah of the Hebrews or whatever certainly knew how to speak, how to hold Robin's attention. It was interesting, and with all things Robin enjoyed, he wanted more.

But to deal with the present:

"I'm sure the performing troupe in question would take issue with being called as such to their faces, Ishiah," The first time Robin had taken the time to call him by his name, and not his title or his cost. Robin notes it, too, as a slip of the tongue, but he lets it slide, unpeturbed, "I'd caution you to watch your manners around them. You've already bitten enough feeding hands, now, haven't you?"

Sitting up on the bed, that smug, amused smile still firmly in place, Robin clicks his tongue, inviting Ishiah onto the bed. "If you aren't going to warm me, you may as well keep me entertained in other ways, hmm? Talk to me, Ishiah ben Issa, of the line of Suliamen ben Daoud, King of the Hebrews. I'm sure your tongue can do some very interesting things, but you might as well waste its talents to make words, if you aren't going to do anything else with your time."



His name catches and holds him at the door. It’s a long time since he’s heard it spoken so carelessly, unadorned of titles. In his own lands it would have been grossly familiar to address him so. Here it was curiously intimate - the one thing he was refusing to be. He turns, arms stiffly folded, and eyes the hand patting the bed.

"If I cannot be trained not to bite, perhaps you will have me sent home. There my father will have me put to death to spare his house the disgrace and save you the cost of a funeral."

The words are thrown back casually to disguise the faintest trace of fear in them. In his house they are not so lenient on the shameful, the promise breakers. He comes from a line of strong moralities, though their morals were different to his. It was why he had been sent to the Sultan. Out of sight and out of mind, the saying went. In another's palace, he was no longer a burden to his Father.

He does not want to go home. So he finds himself walking to the foot of the bed and kneeling there, staring up at Robin.

"Does the Sultan wish for stories? I might recall some that were told me by my nurses in my youth, the better to send him to sleep."



Robin... pouts. He's a sultan, though, so it’s a dignified pout. Still patting the bed, and trying to look warm and inviting... trying to look kind, Robin assures his pet. Because, surely, that is all their relationship is. An unruly animal disobeying its master. "Now, I wouldn't do that. Even if you are an impossible, headache-inducing insult of a thing, you're a pretty little impossibility." He reaches out to touch his prince, his prize. He expects to be snapped at, or pushed away, but he simply cannot keep himself from trying. "An interesting, entrancing little spectacle. I simply had to have you."

And then he did. Robin will admit, he's wanted this prince in more ways than can be named for a while. It's only fitting now that he does, he really... doesn't. The gods continue to mock him. As he has everything else one could desire on earth, why not this deny him?

Stories, Robin has. He knows enough to keep Ishiah up for hours, and he will happily resort to storytelling if needed; he gets the impression quite often that those he tells stories to are commonly only listening out of fear for his power, not true entrancement. Robin knows, somehow, in his gut, that Ishiah would not gift him thus.

But Robin doesn't want stories. "I promise not to put you to death in the morning, Ishiah, no need to keep me so shamelessly entertained. I will admit that you remain a mystery of your own, if you won't let me figure you out in a more mutually satisfying fashion, at least let me try. I'll gift it to be on your terms-- never let it be said I'm ungenerous-- if you'll just grace my bed with your presence. And, no, I don't expect you to do anything of real interest on it. Just talk to me."



Ishiah catches Robin's wrist, midway toward him, and sets it back firmly on the bedsheets. His own hand does not linger on the Sultan's in any meaningful way. He is no pretty little anything to be subjected to cosseting and pets.

The Sultan was famed for the many tricks of his seduction. Wicked words to undo the object of his desires without so much as touching a clasp or a lace. Strange oils the scents of which are heady and intoxicating. Never take food or drink with him unless you'd give up all your will. The rumours are many and varied, and Ishiah is rarely given to belief without evidence, but he glances round suspiciously at the second invitation onto (into) the vast and satin draped bed.

"Why shouldn't you join me on the floor? You think me a mystery and expect me to join the procession of those who have laid themselves open for you on those same sheets. If I obeyed I would be less of an enigma already."

Nerves lace through the refusal, disguised by the weight of Ishiah's stubborn will. He has stayed in the bedchamber, and this is enough of a concession. To join Robin in the bed would be one pace too far into indignity.

"Those are my terms, and then you can ask me your questions. Remember I am younger than you, and sheltered; my life - lacking in scandal - may disappoint in the telling."



Robin takes his hand, again, pouting in a dignified and sultanly manner, and sighs, inspecting. Did this creature bruise him? So abrasive.

And though he doesn't concede to Ishiah's point, he'll do it, if only for the amusement inherent in the act. It's a change, and Robin likes interesting variety. Though he hasn't seen much of anything interesting or varied, lately. Sigh.

He nods, "If it would make the prince more comfortable in this strange land." The words are dripping with conceit. "Call the servants in, tell them to set up some cushions on the floor, if you'd be so kind, my darling." Fawning nicknames. Better than calling him unadorned by title, again. "I, in the meanwhile, will be changing into something more comfortable."

Better known as something a little more difficult to remove. In an attempt to be not only optimistic, but accommodating, Robin's robes are especially loose, tonight. Again, never let it be said he is without generosity for those who serve him... or are supposed to, anyway.



Ishiah mutters a rebuttal at the pet name only under his breath. He has pushed the boundaries farther than he should, tonight, and knows that it is only luck and the Sultan's endless capacity to be persistent that have kept him safe through it. He bows his head in a nod and murmurs, "As you wish it." as though the words are not already defunct through their bargain.

Wondering somewhat how it is possible for clothes to be more comfortable than the silken nothing in which the Sultan chooses to greet his night time guests, Ishiah summons in the servants and watches their expressions change from relieved to confused as he informs them he will be spending time with the Sultan that night, and what is expected of them.

By the time the Sultan returns he is alone again, sitting somewhat stiffly amid such a rich heap of brocaded cushions that the Prophet himself would not shirk from sleeping on them. The only manner in which the Sultan will be lowering himself tonight is in his proximity to the floor.



Yes, because form-fitting can be comfortable. Dressed in immodest silk, a shirt and billowing leggings, he is more snug than the other clothes. There's a breeze usually countered by the warmth the other body-- or bodies-- around Robin. Tonight, not so.

Thinking on that, Robin sighs before lowering himself to those cushions and blankets, sprawling out in front of Ishiah. His smile is lazy and content, unlike the slyer, weighing thing he usually wears. Robin's eyes are focused; it's as if Ishiah is the only thing in his world.

With a slow pause, Robin goes in for the blunt edge, "Now that we're settled, and do make yourself comfortable, Ishiah, I insist," Because they may as well, they're on the floor, "tell me, why do you seem to hate me so?" His voice is cool and crisp, distracting from the fact that this information actually matters to him. Robin has been hated before, by concubine, ally and foe alike, but few ever act as to go so oddly about it.

It's... entrancing, to say the least.



If Ishiah is uncomfortable being the focus of such a gaze, he doesn't show it in expression or demeanour. With cushions steeped all around him like jewel coloured hills, he sits as upright as if he were in a stiff-backed chair. Never let it be said that he had lain with the Sultan this night.

The question, when it comes, surprises him into a frown. He learns forward earnestly, giving the smallest shake of his head. Braided into long fair hair, tiny bells ring with the movement. "I don't hate you. Is this your opinion of all who don't go willingly to your bed, or has something else in my manner possessed you of the idea?"

He juts his chin up, as though he were the one in a position to pass judgement. "I cannot hate a man I know only by reputation. I disapprove of you, my Lord, may your enemies be struck down where they stand. That is all."



Robin almost scoffs, but stops himself. Ishiah would take offence at that, wouldn't he? But then again, why does Robin care? He scoffs anyway, possibly with more spite than was needed, simply to prove this point to himself.

But continues, "Oh, please, spare me that inexperienced logic. My bed has very little to do with love, much less hate. I often go to bed with those I do surely hate, though not recently, and surely they feel the same. I speak more of your general manner towards me," Thinking on those bells, Robin's hand reaches up to touch, "Why won't you let me touch you? Habits in bed, and their non-existence, notwithstanding."

"Though maybe my purpose of exploration would be better served if you were to inform me of from whence this spring of disapproval trickles forth from to begin with. But if I am to allow you to do this, you must disperse of these titles. They grow wearing to my ears," Which is a terrible, terrible lie; Robin loves his titles, but hearing them from this-- his-- Ishiah seems odd, somehow. "Call me Robin. It's been too long since anyone has."



Ishiah finds himself pouting at the Sultan's reaction, quickly correcting his expression from sullen to disinterested upon the discovery. He turns his head swiftly away, hair whipping against reaching fingers and just as quickly sweeping out of their grasp.

"I will not deny my..." he stumbles over the next words and repeats himself, refusing to be ashamed, "my inexperience. It is one of the reasons I was considered as an addition to your collection, was it not? But I think you misunderstand the reasons for lovemaking if you would do it with those you hate."

He pushes his hair, bells and all, back behind his ears and risks a glance in Robin's direction. "I do not wish to be touched because I am aware that it leads where I do not wish to be lead, my-- Robin." his eyes widen as he forces the familiarity from his lips. It's easier to be distant with the almost mocking obeisance of Araby formality between them. "I do not wish to be lead there because... might I ask you a question as my answer? Which shines brighter, a single diamond, or a string of pearls? Which, too, has more value?"



"But if you don't know anything of-" But, oh, gods, this conversation is becoming circular. Robin cuts himself off, drawing his hand back, pouting in earnest. And then smiling. Ishiah turning away, Ishiah trying to frown to keep himself from smiling, or being embarrassed. It's adorable and infectious. None of the others that Robin knows, intimately or no, do this,or do it so well.

No wonder he's lost interest. Robin idly wonders when the rumours will start, and if they have, when they'll reach him, before he shrugs, saying instead not his thoughts, but continuing the conversation, "And what would you say the purpose of the act is? I'm honestly curious, you have me enthralled."

And now a rare, silent moment as he considers the answer he'll give. "A diamond." He speaks of it as if it were nothing-- which it is. He has many diamonds... is this what Ishiah wants? Robin is almost disappointed. Almost. "They're more difficult to cultivate. I hear they take thousands of years to reach maturity, or something of that like. Beautiful."



Though the blue of Ishiah's eyes is most often compared to warm summer skies, there is something distinctly cool about the look he gives Robin, doubting that it is possible for the Sultan to be enthralled by anything for long, much less by the arts of conversation. He is the younger by some degrees, but he does not intend to be had for a fool.

"I would say the act's purpose is given clearly in the name. You are making love or you are mocking love, and I will not take part in a mockery." The stubborn, wilful uptilt of his chin again shows that he has had this argument before, and not been reasoned with. Robin has a smile that could lure a lamb toward a wolf, but it is the honest consideration he gives his question that makes Ishiah pause in his own judgement for a moment, before continuing.

"I know the excuses, the act goes by many names. But to call making love by a name that means something less is only to cheapen it, and you would cheapen me by stringing me with the rest of your pearls. Attractive enough in their polished state, but each with a speck of dirt at the core."



Robin's laugh is a deep rumble in his throat. "You compare yourself to a diamond? I assure you, there are many diamonds in my palace, and they are all far less wilful." Another laugh as Robin stretches out, hands knitting behind his head in a playful, amused manner, "And the poets and gossipers call me the egoist. Everyone is dirty at their core. Even you, Ishiah." He wants to reach out and touch his pet once more, but knowing the act will be in vain, he stops himself, turning away. "Even me."

He looks pensive for a moment, off in something deeper and darker than any blue sky eyes. His own have been compared to emeralds, forests and gardens before. Robin has always found the comparison charming, but lacking in anything real behind the edges and pretty words. He knows something of what Ishiah speaks.

"Alright," He pulls himself back, hoping to pull Ishiah back along with him. The smile is affixed in place moments later... perfect. "I'll play your game. The rumours will fly, of course, and you'll be either hated or respected amongst the rest of the... acting troupe. Maybe both, who knows. But I've heard the poems, I'll play your game. How long do you want?" Robin's already pulling this same trick, anyway, he may as well use it to his advantage. That's what he does, anyway, right?



"Then they are too weak to be true adamant." Others have considered Ishiah's will to be the flaw in him but, to continue the analogy, it is by the flaws that the purity of a stone may be marked. He has other faults, of course, most notably the streak of silver scoring through milk-pale skin at his jaw. When he first sliced his face apart in a training spar his opponent was put to death for marring a prince's beauty forever. It was only as it healed that the true quality of it became apparent, not disfiguring his face but marking him out as unique among a hundred other, equally or more fair of face than he.

Ishiah studies Robin's face as it runs through shades of light and dark, not finding the forest comparison so inaccurate. Forests have dark places, too. Traps and pits and things that want only to devour.

When the Sultan's smile fixes back in place, Ishiah greets it with one of his own - small and bemused. "You have read poems about love, and from these you come to believe it is a game with a timer set to establish who wins and loses?" Disbelief mingles with amusement. He sits back and folds his arms. "Very well. I ask only for three score years and ten. That is what they consider to be the lifetime of a man, is it not?"

Forever. He's asking forever.



"You want me to wait for you for that long? I hope you plan to join me in some of that time, or I should become terribly lonely."

Not that he isn't terribly lonely now, as it stands. But at least he's distracted. It's only noticing that scar, that radiant flaw, that keeps Robin from sharing the fact of his loneliness with Ishiah. If he's lonely amongst ten, twenty, thirty, a different one every night, he will without doubt feel the same with just one, and the same one, every night. But that is Robin's place, he knows. He has resigned himself to it, deserving. To have everything and everyone feel cold.



"Of course, as I expected, y-"

As Ishiah's mind catches up with the stock response he's already giving, suddenly it seems no longer quite to fit. Robin was not supposed to say yes.

And hasn't, perhaps, but neither has he laughed, or blankly refused, selecting one of the myriad ways he could humiliate Ishiah for his presumptuousness. Ishiah stares at him, uncertain, and wonders if he sees more than danger between the trees. The forest of Robin's eyes is a lure, he can't deny it. The olive smoothness of his skin (so overdisplayed) a temptation. The sharp corners of his smile are as alluring as they threaten to cut.

Ishiah is good at resisting such things. He never expected he might be given cause to accept. "Do you understand my intent? I don't want to be one among many, there would be no performing troupe. Just me, and my intent to make you happy for as long as out lives last. I wouldn't let you be lonely."



And then it was Robin's turn to be confused. So this is what Ishiah intends? Robin's confused expression is shook off in favor of a sigh, his hands massage his temples for a moment, thinking. When he does speak, it's a tone of seriousness, distant and vague.

"It's a nice thought, I'll admit, Ishiah," The smile is back, but it's amused, not joking or applauding. It's kind. Ishiah has bestowed him with a gift, the thought that such things are possible. That he's capable of this. It's a complement, however unknowing, and it calms Robin, for the moment. "But it's just a fantasy. You will grow bored of me and leave. I will do the same to you, maybe at a different time, before or after you leave. I will, in the long run, end up tremendously unsatisfied, and you'll probably end up dead. That is simply the way of this place." He shrugs, still distant, "I don't know how things work in your native lands, but here? No, that doesn't work."

"But it's a nice thought," He reaches up once more to touch, smiling while this calm mood lasts, "And I thank you for it."



Finally Ishiah stills enough to allow himself to be touched. Robin's fingers are as smooth as befits a Sultan, free from the roughness of a single day's work. His own hands, calloused from practice with the sword, curl into fists at his side - what Sultan would wish their touch upon his exalted body?

"The Talmud permits forty eight wives." he begins, quietly, "In my native lands there are many who make use of this. Suliamen, who I am from, kept the daughters of Pharaohs among his treasures like the objects they were to him. If I am to be purchased like a slave then I will doubtless become bored, as slaves do, with my work. If I were to make my own choice to stay where my heart lead me, how could I grow weary of that?"

He pulls away, crawling across the cushions and standing up, though it is a crime to stand higher than the Sultan unless are a slave and thus more object than human. "Are you not bored already?"



Ishiah's skin, Robin decides, is as beautiful as his hair, as his eyes, as his scar. He is perfect, truly... a diamond.

But Robin clicks his tongue, looking up at Ishiah, not so calm anymore. "Hearts are especially fickle." He knows this from experience-- from his own heart, "It's the nature of such things. A pleasing story and a pretty idea, but you are young and you don't know." His hands, smooth, reach out to touch Ishiah's ankles, near to him. They're beautiful, too. Elegant.

"I am not bored. But I will be."



"No my Lord, whose might is as a thousand suns. You will not be bored with me." Graceful feet step just out of Robin's reach, Ishiah now daring to look down upon the Sultan. "You cannot become bored with what you do not have."

He walks away as if in demonstration, to the door where the evening began. His mysteries thus unravelled, he expects the Sultan to declare that he is already tired of his newest pet, and will take whatever comes of such a proclamation. "I am young, but I know myself. I will not give all of me to someone unwilling to make the same return. I would not deny you your right to entertain yourself among the faceless crowd, if it is what please you. All I can deny you is myself. May I leave now?"



From a fence of pillows, Robin raises a brow. Oh, really, now?

"No," Righting himself into a sitting position, Robin beckons his pet, "No, you may not yet leave. Come back here, I'm hardly done." Turning his head to reflect a distracted smile upon the nearest window, he looks at the sky outside, "The night is yet young, like you yourself, and I am hardly yet spent."

"Come back." The words are an order, but his voice makes them a silent, whispered plea. Don't forget the power behind them, but that power has been laid aside for now. There is something else on his mind. "I have another question for you."



Ishiah is not so much younger than the Sultan himself. Enough to be remarked upon, but Robin carries no grey at his temple, no line on his face to betray his advancing years. Sultans rarely show age as the hawkers and pedlars of the bazaars do, every line of their face a story. Why, then, can he make Ishiah feel like a child in comparison?

Why does Robin sometimes seem so old.

Reticent, but not so brazen as to walk out of the Sultan's presence without permission, he half drifts back across the room, crouching a few steps away from the opulence of the cushioned bed. "Ask it."



Robin reclines, watching the perfection of Ishiah's step, the choice in his movements, the way his hair sways with his shoulders to mark out the tempo of his movements. Robin studies Ishiah. He still has mysteries yet, and Robin would do anything to unravel them.

And then he's here, and Robin moves himself forward, wanting to be close. He doesn't know why, he just... he needs to be close.

"You said, if you do not recall, you would not give all of yourself to one who would not give all of themselves." His smile is pointed, joking and laughing at Ishiah's words where he himself does not. But that smile drops, and Robin seems hesitant, for a moment, before conceding. In hushed tones, speaking as if, and indeed because, he is almost ashamed of what he says, he whispers, "And would you give all of yourself if I did the same? Do you think I can..." Why the hesitation? He can just have this man executed if he offends, can he not? Robin presses on, "Would you think myself capable of such a feat, as you doubtlessly think yourself so?"

There, he said it. Robin awaits on the tide of his own breathing, almost... nervous. Hanging, waiting for his reply with an anxiousness not befitting a sultan.



Ishiah isn't sure whether Robin's tone is soft to draw him closer, or if the Sultan truly speaks of things shameful and secret, here in his own chambers, to a harem-boy that should matter as little to him as one calf from the herd. He finds himself leaning closer despite the distance he promised to keep, dropping from a crouch onto one knee.

"My Lord, your deeds are spoken of in lands far beyond my own. I believe a man who claims such titles as yours is capable of whatever he sets himself to. Moreover, there is little I do not believe the heart capable of, if allowed to rule independently of the desires of greed and ego. You have been patient, where you did not need to be patient. Lenient where there was no cause. In the short time I have been here, I have seen you do many things to surprise your court. I do not doubt you capable of more."

He bows his head, perhaps surprising himself with the confession. Before he began visiting the sultan, had he not believed every ill word spoken about him? And most of all they spoke of his lies, that every third word from his lips was an untruth, and every second a deception. Ishiah does not like to consider himself a fool. He cannot ignore the good in a man so ill-reputed.

"You have not abused me, I believe you would not wilfully abuse my trust and use that as means to hurt me. Therefore if you asked me to trust to your word in this, I-I would. I would give myself to you."



And a different shade falls over that forest, the green in Robin's eyes tilts heavenward, thinking. Pensive. He reclines again, the look on his face the only invitation Ishiah receives to join him, back on the pillows on the floor. But it's an insistent invitation.

"You speak of it as if... no, you mean to imply..." He trails off, seemingly caught in his own words. A fantasy, all this boy speaks of is a fantasy, and yet... It is a falsehood Robin would enjoy, "You speak as if you believe my concession into this plan of yours is not a weakness, but a skill, Ishiah. I hope you are aware that many do not share this view."

And for all Robin attempts to blaze his own trail, he does care for their opinions. To be cowed by one of his harem, and one only? What would they say?

"And you trust... You trust my word." Robin's smile is earnest. His heart is in the sentiment, and if he doesn't say it out loud, he fears it will disappear completely, or Ishiah will deny ever having said it.



"You speak of men who would judge you by your acquisitions rather than by your loyalty and faith. How much merit would you give such opinions? No king chooses a general by how many gold buttons fasten his jerkin, why should kings be measured otherwise?"

Ishiah crawls forward onto the cushions as if pulled there, remaining on hands and knees to keep his eyeline equal with Robin's. He's not so naive as to be unaware that sultans and kings are judged in exactly the way he says they shouldn't be, but his opinion will hold that until one person changes, nobody will. If the first to change happened to be the brightest and most beautiful star of the firmament, who wouldn't follow?

And when Robin smiles, who can deny that he is the most beautiful? Ishiah feels his face prickle with heat and hopes futilely he hasn't been caught in a blush. "Tell me I can, and I will trust you."



"Because that is how kings are measured," Robin nods, wishing to reach out again and touch his prince. His hands twitch with that longing, but stay put. He could make it work, though. He knows he could. Get the poets to write of this prince, his prince's beauty, their love, and the rumours would be under his thumb. Respect could only grow for him. But he must remain sceptical, or he'll never get to the bottom of this, "That is how all under the stars are measured. Tell me it is not so."

He riddles the concept out a bit more before speaking, "And you say I am lenient." The smile becomes an ironic sneer on the side of his face. What has this prince seen to think Robin's policy lenient? "And patient." Whatever he's seen, it must be truly horrific by comparison-- the urge to hold Ishiah grows.

And the ironic, subtle smile grows into something more earnest, blossoming into complete happiness. Robin, not well-versed in the art of self-restraint, cannot hold his hands idle at his sides for any longer, and they reach out to pull Ishiah closer to him. Anything to erase the distance between them. That blush, and how the color rises to such pale, perfect skin, being ignored by the marker-scar on his cheek, is far more beautiful than anything he's seen yet before. It would not be such a loss to keep this and only this. Robin could be... happy. Providing Ishiah could be.

...could he be? "You trust me. I-... I thank you, Ishiah ben Issa, of the Suliamen ben Daoud line, that King of Hebrews. Very few do that besides you yourself. And as this conversation has doubtlessly been interesting for me, and hopefully us both, I have one more question for you, now, return."



"It is so, among the courts of the rich and the noble." Ishiah pushes his hands back through hair that has been washed in water infused with lime and rose petals to keep it golden as the desert sun under which it is not wise to walk unshaded. "But that does not mean it is how it has to remain. You have no equal among the Araby kings, you do not have to hold your conduct identical to them. There are better ways to measure a man."

Of course, he lays out his values like wares on a pedlars blanket to have them held up for mockery before being kicked aside. It has happened before, in the palace of his father, where thick vines trailed the walls and made the throne room like a garden. Why should things be different in a place where even the flowers are imported beauties, forced to bloom against their nature for the pleasures of men who cannot be happy with what they have, though it is plentiful.

He will be laughed at, he can feel it rising behind the sneer that sprawls lazily across Robin's face, and yet can't help himself but to continue. To trust. "You have been lenient as I displeased you. You have been patient each night that I have come to you and left your arms empty and your sheets cool. I have heard much in rumour since my arrival, but I choose to believe in only what I have seen with my own-- oh!"

If he had not been certain of blushing before, he can be now. Heat flushes through him from collarbone to the tips of his ears as he's pulled closer to the Sultan. Close enough to smell the oils with which they bathe his skin and count each eyelash dusking the olive skin of his cheek. Too close, Ishiah thinks, hoping that Robin can't feel his heart beating like a trapped bird against his chest. He doesn't pull away - doesn't think of it - only because he is not being held tight, only close. Escape would be a fallacy while he remains uncaged.

"One more question." he echoes, arms twining, unbidden, around Robin's waist. As he looks down he can tell where each of their bodies begins only by the contrast of skin, light to dark. Feeling heady and unwise, he remembers again the tales of oils and musks favoured by the Sultan to trick the senses. But he trusts. "I would not deny you that."



"So you want me to change the world." Robin smiles. This is an interesting concept, and Robin will forever be entranced by the new, "At least you acknowledge potential when you see it. And, yes, I'll do the same. Your idea has that, potential, in droves. It's something to ponder, and I will."

Not wanting to cage or trap, Robin just smiles at Ishiah, so close.

"I would be happy, I think, if the world changed as thus you've described it. And you would be, too, because it was your idea, and you should be exalted for such. But... would you be happy for reasons besides that?"

And Robin curses the fact that he has to look away from that blush, and Ishiah's perfection. He can't meet the other's eye when he asks, it would be too much, and he lacks the nerve for such bold-faced honesty. He is unpractised in the art.



Ishiah laughs softly and looks down. It should not be the Sultan who is forced to avert his eyes. "You mistake me, I do not want to be exalted. I want to be happy, and happiness is not a lonely state."

He frowns in the saying of it, twisting uncertainly in Robin's arms. "It is a selfish wish. Perhaps as selfish to want one person who did not want me as it would be to want several who could be used and discarded at leisure. As much as I would not be happy alone, I would not want to be alone in my happiness. I-" turned shy, he loosens his grip. He has no right to hold something that is not his. "I would want to make you happy, foremost."

In any way that lets him keep both his morals and his pride. It is a selfish wish.



Robin, better accustomed to the ins and outs of selfishness, cannot understand how this is selfish. His arms untangle from Ishiah's sides to hold his head attempting to run idle fingers through golden hair. Anything to distract from the potential shame of the moment. Eyes wide at the thought, humbled by the request, still can't meet Ishiah's blues. Robin's breathing is sparse.

"But would that make you happy?" And, thinking further, Robin realises he's blushing. It's so, too, embarrassing, he may as well completely cross the threshold of his ideals. Maybe he can meet this boy's ideals on the other end, and learn the source of his new theories and entrancing thoughts.

Anything to unravel the mystery.

Gathering the courage, he says in a voice unbefitting of a sultan, words that don't match up with the aura he usually keeps, "Would you love me?"



If this is all for sport then it is a crueller torture than Ishiah has ever seen devised, and Robin a better actor than any mask clad storyteller in the market. Love, minutes ago denounced as a game poets toy with and Sultans win, now said with such strange cadence on a tongue used to fine, rich words.

Ishiah isn't sure he understands, or can be right in his understanding, but he'll try as best he can to get this right. Head cradled in Robin's hands, he can't look away. "If you'd let me." He nods, as much as movement will allow. "Yes, I would love you. Yes, it would make me happy."

He isn't sure how he knows, or why it's so easy to say. Love is such a heavy word. Somehow he feels as though it's weighed on him forever.



"I'd... I'd let you." Robin's mouth is suddenly, inexplicably dry. "I'd love to let you. Yes. Yes, to your proposal, yes, when can we start?" His smile is nervous, but willing.

But Robin's mouth remains dry, he needs to wet his palate. The lovely oils Robin has his concubines perfumed in are sweet to the taste, too, and Robin, then, can see no reason not to taste that sweetness, to kill that thirst with it. He has further no answer but the kisses he's placing on Ishiah's temple, then, and his jaw, eventually reaching his mouth in passion he hopes is shared.

Love. The release is almost too much, as if he was waiting on this for far longer than when the thought struck him. Love. He could be loved.



Strange how quickly closeness can go from being something uncomfortable to something only lacking in there being no such thing as close enough. Ishiah presses the gaps between them, presses back against Robin as fingers knot in his hair. Smiles against his lips with words that don't quite make sense, but feel right. "I love you. I've always--"

Suddenly it's colder than a desert night. He's not clad in silks, or perfumes, and they're kneeling on the hard floor.

He hasn't quite pulled away.