Collaterals

In Time.

If there was one thing Leila preferred in Aradia, it was the Banquets.

It was not in the grand hall of the Palace that they dined. Mother had decided the weather was too pleasant. No, they'd been seated on the roof of the main building, in a hall that was no hall at all. In the center was an elevated ground, above which was a wide dome, held up by pillars. It was here that the royal family, their imperial guest, and those of the highest rankings sat. Outside the dome, beyond the three steps to the main tables was an arrangement of seating areas, furnished with the lavish cushions and couches that only a king could afford.

Even now, having been at the table for perhaps three hours, Leila could not help but look to the infrastructure. The pillars stood tall, so tall, in fact, that Leila wondered how the artisans had managed to carve the holy script into the span of their length, the stone painted with a type of gold that caught the torchlight so that the words glimmered. Naturally, the marble columns were not only for aesthetic, but rather they served to hold up the dome, decorated with geometric designs that folded into themselves so symmetrically that one's eyes may not know where, exactly, to settle.

By all means, it was an architectural feat, one born of a collaboration among three of the greatest engineers the Aradian realm had ever seen. This was back when Aradian resources remained Aradian resources, and Aradian minds were set to work in Aradia instead of whisked off to serve in Tainish land. This was back before the first of Tainish Emperors had decided all that shone surely shone for him, and raped the realm of its advancement, so that Aradia was left with structures such as this one: ancient, with roots so deep it stood the tests of foreign theft, foreign greed.

Tonight, though— Leila thought as a gentle breeze strolled through the pillars and danced through folds of her skin— tonight one could imagine just how it was back then. Tonight one may follow the dance of an oriental performer, or listen to the thrum of oud below the stringing of practiced hands.

"I hear he might extend his stay," Zarqa leaned in, "For Ali's naming."

"Hmm?" Leila's head snapped to the side. She leaned closer, head budding as she tried to move past Haitham, closer to her sister.

"The Prince, Leila. The Imperial Prince. I mean, it's entirely feasible, what with Ali being named in only two months."

Leila made a face, "Don't be silly, Zarqa, he cannot stay for two months—"

"He's stayed for longer before!" Zarqa exclaimed as she put a hand on Haitham's shoulder, leaning closer. "I do so hope he'd stay! Perhaps we could take him to see the flowers?! Oh...I think he visited them all those years ago but surely he does not remember—"

They were seated by order of birth, which left Haitham very bitterly in between Leila and Zarqa. To say the arrangement bothered the Young Prince was, perhaps, an understatement, for he reached for his drink, leaning closer enough to the table that Zarqa was made to remove her hand as he momentarily cut off their discussion. They waited for him to lean back, again, patiently.

Only he frowned, looking between them, "Oh, I'm so very sorry. I'll make sure to screw myself in place."

Zarqa rolled her eyes, "Oh do calm. Where else would you be?"

Haitham glanced to the side, where Captain stood several paces away, "I think I'd rather stand guard with your dear Captain, Leila."

It was not the first time Haitham had tried to talk to her. Still, whenever she looked to him she could not help but recall the child's hand, limp as he was collected in a rush to remove him from the sickroom, the air heavy with the smell of vomitus— Leila looked away, glancing to her side.