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Sekah
Star
- Joined
- Jul 25, 2021
- Location
- Your mom's house.
Karim had been raised in a world of politics; he had been hand-picked and hand-crafted to be a leader of men, a statesman in their great Empire. At a young age, he already commanded respect. For years, wife prospects for the famously handsome son of a Sultana and an important Arab nobleman poured in by the hour. He was the most eligible bachelor in all the Empire only a matter of weeks ago, and easily the most highly sought. His mother, meanwhile, had been a noble widow for many years, her desire to be solitary respected by his uncle.
But that had ended recently, and the court was in an uproar over how.
He was to become a crown prince, because his mother would be married to a king.
A strange request had come in, a European king, a Christian. Everyone thought he would laugh and throw it in the proverbial fire.
He didn't. The idea of a loyal relative on a foreign throne enticed him. The old king had many bastards but had stayed loyal to a barren wife too long. Any male children, in the marriage, would become his son and heir.
Karim, the jewel of his allies, was given the position.
But Karim wasn't thinking of that, or if he was, it was with rather the same sentiments a gaudy bird gave when hopping from perch to perch in its cage: following well-worked modes of thought and existence, so known they were terribly boring.
Rather than thinking of the conundrum of his mother's wedding, Karim was thinking of the fact that he'd be dancing tonight. It was a gesture from his uncle the Sultan, and a welcome one indeed. Everyone knew Karim liked to dance. Stories were still told in theaters around the Empire of the Sultan's handsome nephew sneaking off to dance with commoners.
It had happened. It had been a beautiful evening, on all five occasions he had done it.
It had been wildly improper, and Karim knew that a nephew who didn't have the Sultan's intimate favor would have been ruined by a scandal like that.
As it was, it was a widely-told joke in the court.
But tonight he'd be dancing, and that was what he wanted to focus on.
The water clocks and the movement of the court told him that it was time, and he eagerly blended with the köçeks, all the dancers male. Most were dressing up as women for the night's dance—women dancers only performed for audiences of women. Since Karim was the son of a Sultana, he did not join in such frippery, instead putting on trousers of airy silk and a conical hat. The köceks bowed to him, and he allowed his lithe muscles to be rubbed with palm oil until they shone.
They entered into the throne room, Karim feeling practically wicked to enter by a servant's door.
And then the dancing. Karim leapt and moved, his taut body performing the twists beautifully.
Karim was a fine dancer, and enjoyed the pantomimes. The dancing itself was brief—too short, almost a let down after the months of anticipation of when he'd next get to publicly dance—but made the muscles in his stomach burn. He looked beautiful.
For a brief time, he forgot he was the son of a Sultana entirely.
Karim was red-cheeked and flushed with victory, the men—dressed as both women and men—working their way wittily through the party.
Suddenly a herald burst in. He prostrated himself to the Sultan, and said in a touch more rushed way than usual, "The French royal procession are here, Your Majesty. They're clamoring to be let into your presence immediately."
Karim's heart skipped a beat. His to-be step-father was here? He was not dressed for this.
But surely they'd have time before the official greeting process was—
The doors to the outer entry opened behind the herald.
It seemed the barbarians had arrived.