“Betrothed!”

Lounging against the cool marble, you opened your eyes just in time to see Hazi come barreling past your guards, past your maids.  The clouds of steam obscured his face, but you could tell that he had been crying, and lifted a hand to stay the servants.  Turning over, you moved to face him, crossing your arms over the lip of the heated pool.  “What is wrong, beloved?”

“She’s dead!” he hiccuped, stumbling into the pool and reaching for you.  

You gathered him into your arms as best you could--clothes and all--and allowed him to bury his face into the side of your neck.  “Who’s dead, lamb?”

“Mother!” he choked, sobbing as he tried to curl his body into yours.  Side paddling, you moved to the underwater steps and rested on them, pulling Hazi into your lap, and flicking water toward the twins who were silently cutting through the pool towards him.  “Oh, dear…  What happened?”

“I don’t know!  No one will tell me anything else!  Shemush said that he’s returning to Eridu, but then he pushed me and wouldn’t speak to me anymore.  I just wanted to know what I should do!”

“Shemush…your mother’s vizier?”  Hazi nodded, his dampening curls brushing your jawline.  A sharp look and quick hand signal directed toward the nearest guard was all that was necessary.  

Shemush, and whatever retinue he had with him, wouldn’t leave the palace alive.

“What am I going to do?  What should I do?!  I don’t know how to be king!”  Hazi was crying so hard that he sounded like he was going to hyperventilate.  

Gently patting anything you could reach, you gently shushed him.  “Do you want me to take care of it?”

Sniffling, he raised his head, eyes red, and nodded.  

“Alright, darling,” you said, pulling him back to rest in the crook of your neck.  “I’ll take care of it, for you.”

***

Having sent Hazi’s bastard brother, Mendallah, back to Eridu to connect with his father and raise support even before you had sent Baëkhyun to murder Hazi’s mother, you were gratified to hear that the bastard’s coup was largely bloodless.  Though a cunning queen, Puabi had ruled with a staff of iron, and very few tears were shed upon the news of her demise.

As for Hazi, upon finding that he had a brother, he was endlessly fascinated, asking thousands of questions, and having even more tablets dispatched to Eridu with questions like, “Do you like puppies?”  “Which do you like best, dates, or lemon-cakes?”  “How are the gardens?  Do the roses miss me?”  Finally, after days of him following you around, asking you to help him think of ever more questions to ask his brother, you gently broached the idea of him returning to Eridu to meet the man.  

Though this had been the plan all along, you were still a bit hurt when, after a sloppy kiss in the general vicinity of your cheek, Hazi was running to his room to tell his servants to pack.

He even took the puppies.  

***

Days turned to weeks, which changed into months, and Baëkhyun did not return.  

You were unsure whether to be grateful…or disappointed.  

***

Leaning into Dagrim’s side, you closed your eyes as she ran the curved buffalo horn comb through your hair.  Finally, after she had oiled, plaited, and pulled it over one shoulder, she tapped your arm to let you know that she had finished, and signing your thanks, you dismissed her for the night.  Walking to the bed, you paused to let your robe glide from your shoulders, slide off your arms to pool in a pile of blush silk.  As you raised a hand to pull back the bed curtains, a sound on the balcony made you freeze.  Pausing, you strained your ears to listen.  After several moments, with no repetition, you pulled back the curtain, only to stop again when you heard another sound.

A wise queen would leave.

A wise queen would call her guards.

You did neither.

Reaching toward the bedside table, you silently unsheathed the ceremonial dagger worn on occasions of state, and contemplated waking the twins who slept, entangled, on one of the pillows, but decided against it, not wanting their hisses to alert the possible intruder.

The azure linen curtains billowed in the spring breeze, mildly obscuring your view of the balcony, but even so, you could tell that nothing was there.  Silently creeping through the diaphanous fabric, you saw moonlight streaming onto the marble of your balcony, but naught else.  Stepping onto the cool flagstones, you scanned the area, but still saw nothing amiss.  Looking down, however, you noted a white peacock strutting through the garden maze, probably in search of one of the chubby peahens.  You were smiling down at him when a sudden shift of air at your back made you freeze.  All of the hairs on your nape prickled but, refusing to panic, you unhurriedly turned, just in time to see Baëkhyun slowly rising from where he had been crouched behind you.

Like before, his eyes were lined in kohl, but unlike before, now he was dressed like no one that you had ever seen, in another black split garment that hugged his legs, but seemed to be woven from strips of leather.  Behind the woven leather covering his legs was something like a cape, flowing from the waist, that billowed slightly in the gentle breeze.  A belt of beaten bronze sat low on his hips, and on his forearms were bracers made of pure gold.  Wide golden cuffs clasped the rounded muscles of his biceps, but his chest was bare, and as he rose to his full height, that--despite your brain trying to force your head upward--was where your eyes stopped, captivated by the twin feathered braids--longer now--that lightly danced in the warm wind.

The slight click of his face-chain as it swung in the breeze finally drew your attention upward, to where you were immediately arrested by his sharp gaze.  A slow, satisfied smirk tilted his mouth as he leaned over ever so slightly.  “Did you miss me?”  

Ignoring the way your stomach flipped, you turned to rest your palms on the marble balustrade, blindly staring into the warm, dark night.  When you spoke, however, your voice was level.  “I suppose the time has come for me to uphold my part of the bargain, though it has been so long I had begun to think that you had forgotten.  I suppose, however, that half a kingdom is too dear a prize to disregard.”

Slim golden hands, graceful as doves, slid between your arms and body onto the balustrade, and though Baëkhyun did not touch you, the warmth from his arms caressed your sides.  “Did I return for that?”  His words trailed across the exposed side of your neck as heat from his body seeped through the thin silk of your sleeping shift.  

Swallowing hard, you fixed your gaze on the strutting peacock below as you struggled to keep your voice even.  “That was our bargain, was it not?”

He drew even closer.  “It was not,” he murmured, voice low, and husky as it drifted on the night breeze.  “You were my bargain, little queen…and I’ve come to collect.”

Motion on the balcony caught your eye--the repetitive movement of his index and middle finger in slow, tight circles just to the side of your right hand.  “I…see,” you finally managed after realizing that no little time had passed. “Well, then I must…think of a way to convince the court that you would make a suitable match.”

“That won’t be a problem,” he said firmly, fingers now slowly back and forth.  Back and forth.  “Why do you think I was away so long?”

Fighting the urge to continue staring at the hypnotic motion of his hand, you instead raised your face to the sky, tried to calm your increasingly disjointed thoughts by concentrating on the cold silver glimmer of the stars.  “Making good on your title, I suppose.”

He chuckled softly.  “No, little lamb.  Do you really think that I would hold out my hand to a queen without a gift?”

“A gift?” you echoed.

Silence.

A light breeze ruffled the silk on your back, and you hazarded a glance over your shoulder.

Baëkhyun was gone.

***

The weight of your gold-embroidered ceremonial robes chafed, nevertheless you sat ramrod straight on your throne, impassively staring at the two men below.  Specifically at one of them, a merchant somewhat generous in years, sleek and gleaming with new oil.  Shifting your gaze to the young farmer, you held out the ceremonial staff.  “Speak.”

“I sold him a well--” the merchant began.

Cutting your eyes to him, you didn’t even have to say anything for his voice to falter, fall silent.  Still smiling lubriciously, he bowed, raising his palms in a show of deference, golden bracelets clinking along the muscular length of his forearms.  Slowly turning your attention back to the farmer, you raised an expectant eyebrow.  Though the farmer was almost painfully shy, twisting his shawl in his hands and stuttering, soon enough the tale was told.  This clever merchant had sold his well to the young farmer, and the next day, when the farmer went to fetch water, the merchant said that he had only sold the well and not its water. 

Turning implacable eyes toward the merchant, you waited for his response.  The man made the same statement – he had sold his well, not the water in it, which was no crime -- before standing straight, hands clasped behind his back, looking positively gleeful, as if he were confident that he had outwitted, not only his neighbour, but the court as well.

Silence reigned, courtiers staring expectantly as you looked inward, considering the problem.  After a few moments, you raised your gaze to the proud merchant, smiling.  “Noble citizen, I understand perfectly.  You sold him the well, not the water.  What can be done?  An expensive lesson for a young farmer.”

The merchant clapped his hands in vindication, as the farmer’s shoulders slumped, his eyes fixed on your small feet in their golden sandals.    

“And yet…and yet…”  The merchant paused as you appeared to continue thinking.  “Now we come to another problem.  This farmer now has a well into which he cannot place his own water, which is the entire purpose of a well.  This will not do.  Your water is now being stored in the farmer’s property, at no cost.  Restitution must be made for his generous act.  Thus, noble citizen, you have two choices.  You can either remove your water from his well, or pay a rent--set by the farmer--for this water of yours that occupies his well,”  you paused, your voice growing softer, even as your gaze grew sharper on the wilting merchant, “as well as a storage tax to the crown.”

The merchant, whey-faced, swallowed hard, looking sideways at the farmer who now stood straight, a repressed smile playing about his lips as he continued to stare at your feet.  The merchant cleared his throat.  “As a--” his voice broke, and he once more cleared his throat, “as a gesture of beneficence, I will…sign over possession of the water to my neighbour.”

“How magnanimous,” you murmured coolly, giving them a gesture of dismissal.  As they left--walking backwards, continuously bowing--you leaned toward Sagar, who lowered her head to hear.  “Have the clerks audit the merchant to ensure that he hasn’t allowed cleverness to overcome his good sense with anyone else.”  

Sagar nodded, but as you were straightening, a loud fanfare blew, and the great bronze doors of the throne room opened.  Beautifully dark girls with elaborate braids entered, reaching into woven baskets for handfuls of flower petals, which they tossed at the feet of a bare chested man clothed in gold and purple who stalked toward the throne, ignoring the audience’s gasps at the sight of his moonlight hair.  

Upon reaching your throne, the girls tossed their baskets before prostrating themselves on the steps of your dais, and calling out oaths of fealty.  

You lifted a hand to stay the guards who surrounded the court, arrows nocked.

Ignoring the girls, the man continued, sauntering up the steps to your throne to kneel on one knee, his eyes never leaving your face.  “O, Great Queen,” he murmured, just loud enough for you to hear, “Live forever.”  At that, he finally bowed his head, exposing his nape to either the grace of your staff, or the blade sheathed within.  

Raising your staff, you resisted the temptation to run it lightly over the tempting line of his neck, instead holding it out to indicate your acceptance of his presence.  

Lifting his head, he pinned you with the sharp blue of his eyes, a huskily murmured, “Thank you,” dancing across your ears as he leaned forward to kiss your staff.  Rising, he stood beside you, facing the court.  “Great Queen, I bring you the Minon of Ethiopia, the greatest warriors of The Horn.  But that is not all.”  Reaching down to one of the women, who now lounged upon the stairs leading to your throne in various attitudes of deadly languor, like so many resting jaguars, he accepted a small stone tablet.  “Here is a full count of my tribute.”  

Drumbeats echoed through the chamber as people of various hues and rich modes of dress entered, each laden with treasures from far away lands--gold, silver, lapis lazuli, turquoise, jade, silk, spices, linen--each coming before you to bow and display their wares before turning to stand at attention in two neat lines that spanned the length of your court.

“I am sending down the Tigris twelve full barges of such wealth as you see here.  Logs of ebony, and trees of myrrh… All for you, Great Queen,” he said, handing the tablet of account to Sagar.

“How generous an offering,” you said, amused.  

“Not merely an offering.”

“No?”

“An offering with a pledge.  Accept it, Greatest of Queens, and greatest of women.  Accept me…as your consort.”