Just because you're soft doesn't mean you are not a force. Honey and wildfire are both the color gold.

— Victoria Erickson

He keeps staring at the boy who's poking the chocolate pastry. He's small and chubby, with his belly protruding and his pants barely holding his sweater in to keep it hidden. He licks his fingers, and Burq smiles to himself.

This is entertaining.

The morning is early and the air in the café is warm and cozy. He's glad to be sitting beside a window where he can cut time gazing at the world outside and watching this kid while he waits for her.

Leyla is late. Again.

The child starts whining over something and his mother tries to shush him. He's probably asking for more food, Burq thinks. This would explain his belly which is actually bigger for his age. Whining children can be annoying. He shifts his attention from the boy to outside the window. These hours of the morning are always beautiful.

"Can I get you something, sir?"

He looks up to the young waitress smiling at him. She has asked him twice already for his order, and both times he had told her he was waiting for someone. He feels being pestered.

"No," he replies sternly, this time not even bothering to thank her.

He notices her smile falter before she steps closer and artfully slips a paper to him. But before she can walk away, Burq nimbly captures her wrist and tugs her back.

"What is this?" he asks straightforwardly.

Her eyes flick around, making sure no one is regarding them. "My number, sir."

"What for?"

"If you're interested, I find you a handsome man."

He raises an incredulous eyebrow. The lie is too unconvincing to even pretend to believe it. "Even with a broken leg?"

She giggles absurdly at his question. He cannot understand what she finds funny about it. At least sitting in a wheelchair is no fun for him.

"What's a broken leg? It'll heal. I'm sure you've much more to offer." She winks at him, appearing devious.

Much more as in money? Did she gather so from his dressing, or conduct?

He takes a moment to study her. Beauty hasn't ever been a factor to appeal to him, but only as much as it can to a man. Although it has always been something more that hits his heart— something nameless. But something he certainly doesn't find in this woman, neither is he interested.

He smirks, placing the paper back on her palm and releases her wrist. "Your flattery is flat on me, lady. Don't waste your time."

Her expression instantly changes from cheerful and flirty to embarrassed and angry. She gives him a mean glare, a little too long to bore him enough that he turns his eyes back out of the window, and she storms off.

He hates waiting, and Leyla is taking too long.

Just when his patience starts running thin, someone settles down on the chair opposite to him.

Burq meets her dark orbs and she holds her earlobes apologetically. "I'm sorry, I'm late."

"Again," he adds, displeased.

"I had to return books to the library, and then the cab broke down."

He waves it off dismissively. "I hate late breakfasts."

"I know."

"Could've peacefully eaten at home."

"I thought you were bored at home, that's why I suggested to go out. Don't be grumpy now."

He frowns. "I'm not grumpy."

"Sure." She grins. "Did you order?"

"No."

"Were you waiting for me?"

He narrows his eyes at her. Every time she asks him this question, it unsettles him. Not because it's irritating, but because he actually finds himself waiting for her. And deep down, he knows Leyla knows the answer to her question; it's bothersome to him.

So like always, he refrains from replying, and she smiles her knowing smile.

"Let's just order," she suggests and he nods eagerly.

"Please."

When they do so, she focuses back on him. "Where's Waleed?"

Waleed. Of course. He's a handicap and cannot go around without his assistance. His tongue suddenly tastes sour.

"In the car."

"In the car?" Leyla repeats questioningly, sounding confused. "But why?"

"What do you mean why?"

"Did he have breakfast at home before driving you here?"

"No."

"Then?"

"Then?"

"Then shouldn't he eat with us?"

Burq knits his brows, assessing her in disbelief, as if any moment she'll say she's joking. But she doesn't.

"He's a servant, Leyla."

Leyla matches his expression, but it's mingled with shock. "So he can't have breakfast?"

"So he can't sit at the same table with us," he tells her as if it's a known fact she's unaware of. But it only discolors her features more, the way they always do whenever she doesn't agree with him.

"And what do you know of me, Burq?" She stares into his eyes daringly. "What if I'm not an elite as you? Will you not eat with me anymore then, my lord?"

An unexplainable rage boils the blood in his vein. He fists his hands and fixes his jaw, so as not to say something to escalate the already disturbed atmosphere. Why does every situation with her have to end up in an argument?

"What about Waleed concerns you so much, habibi?" he speaks sarcastically.

She exhales slowly, and Burq is sure she's trying to release her own fury in each breath. The calm facade she's trying to put up does little to hide the look in her eyes. The black in them is frighteningly mad.

"I'll tell you a story," she says instead.

"Answer my question first," he demands .

"Your answer is in this story," she insists stubbornly.

Burq knows it's her way of reprimanding him. Instead of using a direct method, Leyla has a tendency to crook things for him, so he must see what she wants him to see.

He decides to listen to this story, but only because he's more interested in knowing her response to his question.

"Okay," he nods, "tell me this story."

Leyla sits straighter in her chair, suddenly much complying. "During the time when Umar ibn Al Khattab was the Caliph, under his rule the Muslim armies that were led by Khalid ibn Al Waleed, the general who never lost a battle, and other generals besieged Jerusalem," she starts off. "The keys to the city were held by Patriarch Saphronius, the then in charge of Jerusalem, who was a respectable representative of the Christian community. In order to avoid bloodshed, because Jerusalem was a sacred city to both the parties, its leaders put forth a condition for giving up its keys." Leyla lowers her voice dramatically, "They demanded the Khalifa (Caliph) must himself come to them to receive the keys."

"Did he?" Burq asks, already lost in the narration.

"He did."

"But what if it was a plot?"

"It wasn't. In fact, Heraclius, the Byzantine Emperor, arranged for the Caliph a red carpet ceremony." She smiles. "Anyways, when Khalifa Umar received the news, he took with himself a camel and a servant and left for Jerusalem from Madina, since that was where the Caliphs used to stay at that time, as per tradition. Now you must know what was the title of the said Caliph, don't you?"

"Al Farooq," he replies right away, having learnt the knowledge of his history growing up, though he remembers only the basics now. "The one who distinguishes between the right and wrong."

"Correct. And he was given this title because he was known for his justice," Leyla says appreciatively, and Burq doesn't miss the gleam in her irises. "So when he left Madina with his servant," she continues, "and they've only this one camel with them, the Khalifa decides that they'd take turns riding the camel, because it was a long way to go. And so when they eventually reached Jerusalem, it was the turn of his servant to ride the camel, and the Khalifa was the one pulling it."

"But why did they take with them only one camel if they were two people?" Burq interrupts.

"Ah, but you see, Khalifa Umar led a very simple life," she clarifies. "He never took anything from the public treasury, would forbid for himself whatever the poor in his empire couldn't afford to eat, and spent his earnings in the way of God. So you can't expect him to take a camel for himself from the public treasury, given that it didn't belong to him."

Burq nods for her to continue.

"So when they reached the city, his servant is the one riding the camel. He asked the Khalifa to switch positions, knowing that at the gates of the city, everyone including the nobles were waiting for them to welcome the Caliph. But Umar refused, saying it was still the turn of his servant and he couldn't be unjust to him."

Leyla pauses when their food arrives, and Burq shifts in his wheelchair restlessly. He impatiently waits for the waiter to leave so she can begin again.

When they're alone once more, he leans towards her curiously, and she smiles fleetingly.

"At the gates of Jerusalem, to everyone's amazement, the Khalifa arrives with his servant who's riding upon the camel, while he's pulling its rope. Can you imagine that, Burq?" She holds his eyes meaningfully, "The Ameer Al Momineen, the rulers of the Muslims, making such an entrance among the elites of that time, only for the fear of God not to be unjust to a mere servant by riding the camel while it was still his turn?" Now she smiles openly, ironically. "But for Umar, pleasing God was a greater priority than pleasing people. For he knew the heaven is forbidden for the arrogant, and thus he chose to remain humble so as not to earn God's wrath. He knew he would be questioned about his people, including a servant."

Burq remains silent while Leyla lifts her cup to her lips. He doesn't tear away his gaze from her. He cannot.

"So the Khalifa receives the keys from Heraclius, and the bishop of Jerusalem gives him a tour of the church of nativity and of the city. And Umar gave everyone the right to practice their faiths and live in peace. There was no discrimination," she concludes. "Status is but a human invention. God considers piety and goodwill, not the wealth that He Himself has distributed among us. And surely He can turn the tables anytime."

Her words sting him, because they're true— because he finds himself at the receiving end of them.

"Now do you still want me to answer your question, or have I already answered it, Burq?"

He traces the delicate movements of her dainty fingers with his eyes as they put her cup down. His gaze collides with hers again, and the faded shades of her irises are a sharp contrast to the bright sun outside. The way she speaks always promises him another side of the picture— a side he's blind to, because she has kept it well hidden so far.

Leyla can tame his every insatiable whim, yet is a conundrum herself that has him tangled; the more he tries to solves her, the more intricate she becomes. He's afraid he might lose himself to her in his desire to know more of her.

Why must she offer him this thrill? Why must she make him chase her?

"You've answered my question well enough, habibi," he replies. "But you've left me with many more questions instead."

Her smile causes him great unease once more. What a labyrinth the inside of her mind must be.

"All in due time," she says.

"I'd like to believe this due time you talk about isn't after our deaths."

She laughs, looking so naive to him, shaking her head. He has to blink to not go into a reverie.

"Your belief pleases me. I'd like so too," she comments.

"Would you like to know what more I believe in?"

"What?"

He extends his palm to her and she places her hand into his without hesitation. The gesture is so natural that it only confirms his doubts. He interlocks their fingers and her eyes take another hue— a hue that once upon a time his eyes would take when Doha would show him similar affection.

"I believe you're a woman of many secrets, one of them being about our relationship." His thumb grazes over hers. "Don't you think the lie has been going on for long now, my love?"

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