One Thousand and One
for isumiilde

Note: Free! Iwatobi Swim Club (c) Kyo-Ani.

Four summers ago, Makoto left home with his father's caravan and traveled east along the Silk Route. Ideally, it was so that he may one day return experienced and enlightened enough to rightfully carry on the family merchant business.

But in reality, he just wanted to see the world.

Everything in Iwatobi is as he remembers it—the guards outside of the palace gates and throughout the city still wear those ridiculous feathered hats and rotate at sunrise and sundown. The tree in his mother's impressive garden still bears massive figs. And Ran and Ren still love him dearly.

"Brother! Big brother is here!"

He's in the atrium of their home when he hears the heavy thumps of their feet on sand-swept floors approaching. He expects two small children. Instead, he gets a young man and a young woman nearly matching him in height. The surprise would have knocked him over if the weight of their tackling hugs didn't already.

"Brother, how was your journey?"

"Did you see any elephants, big brother?"

"Did you bring us any gifts?"

"I hope you got me the silk I asked for!"

"Silly Ran. He has to sell and trade silk! He can't bring any back!"

"Says you. Big brother promised!"

Though their growth spurts—and Ren's voice change—are going to take some getting used to, Ren and Ran are still little darlings.

It's good to know that things haven't changed too much.

Except things have changed in his absence.

It's his father who updates him on the changes The good and the bad. Why the Hazuki sisters have gone. Why the bazaar, once lively and bustling, has dwindled to small sullen crowds and hushed curses. Why Ran, despite blossoming into a beauty and just days before she can marry, is unable to sleep.

The Sultan has been executing his consorts. Rumors as to why float like smoke over the towns and villages under his rule—some say it's because his heart was broken, others say he's simply gone mad. Or both. It's difficult to say, as no one's lived to tell the tale and the guards have been sworn to secrecy.

The only certainty in this mass of confusion and despair is that the grand vizier picks, at random or with prior notice, a consort of marriageable age and stature and summons them to the Sultan's chambers. Come dawn, they are never heard from again.

"Father, I have a request to ask of you," Makoto says one day in the courtyard of their home after a long day of peddling wares to morose faces and thinking, maybe, he ought to do something of it. "Will you grant it to me?"

"Yes, of course."

"Allow me to marry the Sultan."

"Brother, you have to stay still or else I might poke your eye out."

"I apologize," Makoto murmurs, allowing his broad shoulders to settle into a more comfortable and relaxed state as he sits up straighter. It's been an hour since Ran volunteered to apply kohl expertly around his eyes for his wedding the following day. He's been restless.

"I'm just…stunned," he adds, to reassure her, though it sounds like it's for himself.

"Stunned?"

"Your hands," Makoto's lips quirk slightly. "They are surprisingly steady."

"Surprisingly?" Ran swats his shoulder with a laugh, not too put upon by the comment. "Well! You did teach me this so I don't see why you're so surprised," she says, voice soft as she twirls the leaf between her slender fingers.

"Mm."

What's more surprising is this is the same skinny tomboy who played tricks with her twin brother until they both fell asleep in his quarters and had to be carried off to their rooms. The same one he used to sneak and teach how to read, how to barter, how to properly ride a horse, and other things little girls weren't traditionally taught. The beautiful young lady sitting before him, days shy of being able to marry…is his little sister. It is difficult to process and he's not sure he wants to see her as anything else.

Ran hums as she works, dipping the tip of the leaf back into the oil and blowing on it till it turns to soot—the perfect texture—then sliding it, silky soft, evenly over her brother's lashlines. Done, she beams and sits back on her calves, looking satisfied and holds up a small mirror. "What do you think, brother?"

Makoto smiles at his reflection. "Fantastic. I look like a prince."

The radiant look drops from Ran's face suddenly and Makoto wonders if he's offended her. She gathers her things, the leaves and the lamp and the tube of galena, a sullen look coming over her face. Stubborn as ever, she says nothing.

"Ran, what troubles you?"

"I overheard…" She murmurs. "The conversation you had with father when you offered to marry the Sultan… I'm sorry, I didn't mean to eavesdrop."

"Ran…"

The dam breaks and before either of them can react, Ran throws herself into her brother's unexpected embrace, face threatening to stream with tears. "Please, brother. Do not go!"

He strokes her headscarf and the long, dark hair beneath it, soothingly. "Ran," he starts, "I have to—"

"No!" She peels back from him, eyes bloodshot and face splotchy, yet she mulishly refuses to cry openly in front of him. She's always been rebellious. "I've heard rumors, brother. The Sultan. He… Every night…"

The words can't come. Her lower lip is quivering and she's in danger of blubbering.

"Those are simply rumors, sister," he murmurs. "Mere stories. Nothing more."

"Sometimes stories come true, brother. You were the one who told me that."

Makoto doesn't say anything to that.

Ran sniffs and wipes her sleeve across her eyes, smearing her own kohl, but she doesn't seem to mind. Unable to look upon that smudge, Makoto leans in and gingerly swipes it off with his thumb. "Don't cry, sister. I'll protect you—I promise."

"Mm." With a hiccup, Ran nods. "Can you tell me a story?"

"Aren't you too old for that?"

"Brother," Ran sniffs again, body curling comfortably on the pillows, "no one is ever too old for a great story."

Perhaps there is something to that.

That evening, long after Ran retires to her quarters, Makoto scales down along the fig tree in the garden to the ground floor from his window, a dusty old textbook—Homer's Iliad—tucked beneath his arm.

The guard waiting for him outside of his family's home is picking errant feathers out of his blue hair when Makoto approaches him and hands him the book.

The guard looks at it with shining purple eyes. "Praise be, this is in Greek."

"Yes, yes," Makoto whispers, looking this way and that. "And it's yours to keep. The note is tucked inside, also written in Greek—I trust you to read it to him soon. Please."

The guard clutches the book to his chest and nods. "Understood. Forgive me for being so intrusive, but," he pauses to nudge his spectacles up on the bridge of his slender nose, "is there a reason for the haste?"

"It's a matter of life and death, Rei."

"As it always is."

The Sultan's seal on the parchment alongside his is the only evidence Makoto's even been married the following day.

Aside from the festivities, of course.

Strange as it is, it was not uncommon for the Sultan to not attend his own wedding. He was not there, yet his presence was felt in every corner of the bustling hall. One would presume such daily formalities would heavily tax and drain the palace eunuchs and servants, yet they worked faithfully and diligently to ensure his expenses were worth the reception.

Or, as one guard was overheard muttering under his breath: the funeral.

Dancers are brought in for entertainment and Makoto's thoughts are relaxed enough to focus on them. Rather, one in particular.

Nagisa Hazuki—one of Makoto's oldest and dearest friends and, coincidentally, the leader of the most renowned family of dancers in the region. Even such a reputation couldn't protect them. His fearful older sisters fled the realm, never to be seen again. Rather than retire and continue a simpler life, Nagisa continued on with the family business.

A kindred spirit, if Makoto ever knew one.

Nagisa's slow, sultry dances and the sensuous crawl of his stomach muscles demand everyone's attention, and it's easy to see it's more than just bouncy golden curls that earn him his reputation. But there's something else, Makoto notices. Something that dares him to smile in spite of his impending doom should his plan not come to pass.

Nagisa's using a pink scarf and golden zils for his performance.

He received his note.

The party ends at twilight when the Sultan summons for Makoto. The captain of the guard, a towering man with hair and eyes red and gold, like the sun rising at dawn and setting at dusk, meets Makoto in the courtyard to lead him to the king. He takes him through an elaborate maze of gardens and halls, each larger yet emptier than the last. The path looks to be miles long; it feels much shorter.

"Farewell," he bids solemnly once they've arrived before the chambers, and the doors shut behind him with a heavy thud.

The room is expansive, quiet and dim. Not a grain of sand anywhere. Frankincense burns in all four corners, the scent lingers in the air, nothing pungent but sweetly aromatic. A curtain of silk—finer than anything Makoto had ever laid his eyes upon, even during his travels in China—billows in the breeze coming in from the window. Just beyond it, the sun is setting over Iwatobi.

Hard to believe dozens were sent to their deaths from this very room.

The Sultan appears, as if from thin air, somewhere behind Makoto. Tall and with hair the color of wine, with pale skin typical of royal life. He smells of shisha and copper.

Makoto kneels at this man's feet—his Sultan, his husband, a complete stranger whose name he does not know—and bows, forehead touching the floor.

"Rise."

Makoto obeys, gaze steadied on the Sultan's sandals. They're golden, with the toes upturned, pristine with elegant flowing lines. He wonders if he wears them every night or if they're disposed of in favor of new ones each morning.

His robes are discarded, only his billowy pants remain, hanging low on his narrow hips. Despite being only partly dressed, he manages to convey a majestic confidence and an aura of subtle danger all at once. There's a dagger scabbard hanging across his waist, encased in a bejeweled scabbard. Makoto doesn't dare raise his eyes—or lower them below—that.

Is he planning on using it on him, he wonders.

The Sultan thrusts a goblet of something into his hands, half its contents spilling onto Makoto's chest.

Water.

Unimaginably cold and clean. Rarer than even the jewels adorning the Sultan's slender wrists and fingers. "Drink."

It's poisoned, Makoto's panicked mind thinks. He doesn't sip.

The Sultan notices. "Is my water not good enough for you? Drink."

"My king." Left with little else to do while under the watchful eye of the one who controls his fate, Makoto takes a single gulp of the water and waits. Waits for the burn in his chest and throat, for his insides to burn into ash.

Nothing happens.

"If I wanted to kill you," the Sultan murmurs against his neck as he whisks by him, "I would have done so already."

The marriage bed isn't just a bed. It's more of an elaborate display of wealth—numerous pillows and silk sheets, some with gold tassels, of all different sizes and thickness. They're not uncomfortable for Makoto to lay on, although he'd be a fool to think the Sultan takes his comfort into consideration. Still, he likes the way it feels to lay his back on them.

Makoto tries to focus on this sensation as the Sultan quietly disrobes him. He tries not to think about death, or pain—because it reminds him he is still alive—as he stares up at the ceiling and waits for this all to be over.

Something drips slowly onto him, warm and viscous. Oil. The Sultan climbs onto him and Makoto's surprised to discover no stabbing pain, no uncomfortable pressure awaiting him. Just a surge of tight heat sinking down on him that captures the breath straight from his lungs. Unable to tear his eyes away, he watches. His king is on him, naked and rolling his hips, head thrown back in ecstasy, parted mouth revealing serrated teeth that gleam in the sluiced moonlight pouring in through the curtains.

It's beautiful and terrifying all at once.

Spent, the Sultan rolls off of him, trying to catch his breath, and Makoto labors to do the same.

The Sultan is still panting when he pushes himself up onto his elbows moments later and stares down at him. His eyes are wide and open. His pendant, a row of emeralds and a golden hawk lays flat on Makoto's chest. Dark red hair spills around his face and for a brief, dazzling, frightening moment, Makoto thinks everything is all right. He can live with this.

"My king." Slowly, his hand reaches up, cradles that fine cheek. Even in dim candlelight, he can tell the stark differences between his tanned, sunworn skin, and the smooth and pale skin of his husband's.

The Sultan barely nods, allowing him to continue. Makoto licks his lips, strokes his thumb on the curve of his husband's jaw. "...will you honor this dying man's humble request?"

A pause, and then, "Very well. I will consider it."

"Sire, thank you," Makoto allows himself a tiny smile, "I wish to see a dear friend, one last time."

"And this friend?"

"Nagisa. Of the Hazuki family. I've known him since we were children. I feared the dark as a child and he would comfort me until daybreak. I wish to have him do the same for me for a final time."

The Sultan considers it, then shrugs. "As you wish."

Nagisa is sent for and he all but barrels into Makoto's lap when he sees him. Apart from being arguably the realm's greatest dancer, he is also shrewd and clever and an excellent actor. He knows his lines and his cues, and he commits to them. He knows exactly when to nuzzle Makoto's shoulder, when to bat his long lashes and when to praise his friend—a touch too loud, so that the Sultan hears—on his accomplishments and his studies. And when to whine in that dulcet voice of his and beg for a story.

"Like you always told me," Nagisa nudges his forehead against the sharp curve of Makoto's shoulder and rubs. "Pleeeease."

Makoto doesn't answer Nagisa, but turns to the Sultan laying on his side and watching them both with a quirked brow.

"Will your highness permit me to do as my dear friend asks?"

The Sultan shrugs and yawns and waves a hand as he's wont to do numerous times a day, "Willingly."

As he turns to face Nagisa, on the pretenses of getting more comfortable, Makoto smiles. "There once was upon a time, a merchant who possessed great wealth, in land and merchandise..."

"...the genie considered some time and then he said, 'very well, I agree to this, I will listen to your story'..."

Light began to pour into the room along the three bodies laid out on the bed by the time Makoto's tale of the Merchant and the Genie neared its supposed end. As planned, Nagisa sat by and carefully listened, captivated.

So did the Sultan.

"And then?" he prompts, expectant.

"Ah, sire," Makoto murmurs with a sigh, shyly lowering his head and turning toward the window. "It's dawn..."

The moment of truth. The air doesn't leave or enter Makoto's throat as he closely watches the Sultan rise from the bed and affix his keffiyeh.

"You are hereby ordered to return this evening and finish the tale."

"My king." With a relieved exhale, Makoto bows, "Your word is law."

When Nagisa leaves ahead of Makoto, not even the morning sun peeking over the horizon beyond the dunes shines brighter than his smile.

That went too easily.

Makoto knows he shouldn't expect lightning to strike twice.

So, the next evening, when the Sultan summons him, he is still wary. When he rises from his customary kneel the next evening, and the Sultan all but pushes him over toward the bed, and tells him, "I have been waiting for you."

—he is still wary.

"And so I am here, just as my king demands it," Makoto murmurs when he is pinned beneath him.

"I have been restless, eager to know what happens." The robes are torn away with little care to their worth. "You will finish the tale. But first..."

"Yes sire."

Later, when they're in the bed, with barely any space between them, Makoto murmurs the tale of the Old man and the Hind. Only, Makoto doesn't finish it—not in the way the Sultan anticipates. He tells him the old man's tale, and because he knows ending it will mean ending his own life, he leaves the story to hang on the edge of a cliff. A metaphor for his own life, really.

They're interrupted by the shepherd Nitori's sheep outside, their bleats in competition with the singing larks. It's morning.

The Sultan rises from the bed. "Return."

A fortnight of the same continues without incident: Makoto wisely starts a tale and the Sultan, entranced and sprawled out on the pillows like a pampered cat, listens, enwrapped in the way his consort brings worlds and people to life with words.

But a captive audience he is not. And after the third week, he begins to engage his consort with commentaries and drills him with questions.

"The Greek king was a fool—why would he believe the words of a talking head he ordered cut off?"

"The fisherman should have known better. Why release the genie the second time around?"

"If Hassan of Bassorah thinks he can resume control of his love by simply pulling her hair, he shouldn't expect to be happy or even live for very long."

Knowing better than to argue with the man whose word is law, Makoto smoothly glides between the questions, always guiding them back toward his story.

The one that never ends.

The first time Makoto hears the Sultan laugh is in the middle of his reciting the history of Gharib and his brother Ajib. It's a clear and sudden sound, like water splashing in a lake, that makes Makoto's heart skip a beat. Makoto likes it.

He wonders if he can make him laugh again. Or cry.

He resolves, should he live another night, to try.

Many moons pass. Many more stories are woven. Time seeps through Makoto's fingers like grains of sand without his knowing. Before long, life outside of the palace slowly returns to normal.

Through letters and gossip among the palace servants, Makoto learns Nagisa's troupe flourishes despite the absence of his sisters. One guard in particular joins him as a personal bodyguard for travels. Though there's no further evidence linking the dancer to the blue-haired bookworm, Makoto receives a letter from Nagisa asking him to make up a story about a fastidious man obsessed with beauty. Makoto laughs and sends them a copy of Homer's Odyssey instead. In Greek, of course.

Makoto's father's business thrives thanks to his siblings. Ren and Ran have also married—Ren to the daughter of a prolific trader; Ran to a scholar and mapmaker, whom she describes in her letters as "the only man able to keep up with our wits," and with whom she's expecting her first child.

For the first time in months, Makoto is able to breathe without fear of exhaling.

He can stop, he realizes. But there are others besides Ren and Ran. And there are many more stories to tell…

"Have you ever been in love, Makoto?"

The Sultan's purring softly into his hair, though he might as well have come swinging at him with a sword. Makoto tenses, his tongue going numb in his mouth, and he can't respond right away.

"Nevermind," the Sultan murmurs, and rolls over, straddling him. "So, as you were saying—Princess Badoura was disguised as a king and recognized the prince right away?"

Makoto swallows his disappointment.

He wants to tell him the truth. He wants to say, "yes, I am." Instead, he nods and continues on with the tale of a prince who doesn't really know who he is to marry but loves her anyway.

Eventually, the line between Makoto's self-preservation and Makoto indulging himself in entertaining his husband becomes so blurred, he can't be bothered to care. He's not sure exactly how it happened, either. He's not just delaying the inevitable, he realizes. He's growing closer to the Sultan.

He thinks of him throughout the day; he wonders how he's doing and if his duties as the overseer of the realm are taxing him and if so, is there anything he can do to make it better. Does he think of him? Does he look at others? Does he miss him?

Does he love him?

An old friend once told Makoto he's not ruthless enough to be a merchant. Because he's too kind and too giving—if he could, he'd give all his wares away. Makoto agrees he is giving, but doesn't think of himself as kind. He thinks he's selfish; he wants to give the Sultan everything of his so he'd have no where else to look. He doesn't want to even entertain the thought of there being anyone else long after he's gone.

And that's not kind at all.

"The strangest thing happened today," the Sultan begins, trailing one black-painted fingertip down the center of Makoto's exposed chest. The Sultan's skin is unusually cold and damp—he must have been playing in the water again. "I've thought of you all day."

"His Greatness flatters me, but I must insist these stories are not—"

"Not your stories." Prickly teeth slide along his ribs and it takes every ounce of Makoto's self-control to not burst into hysterics. He never knew he was so ticklish. "You."

Makoto can't speak. Not right away. He's not sure what exactly he's feeling. It's a mix of elation and surprise and disbelief. "Forgive me, sire. I do not understand—"

"The story you began yesterday."

Heat rushes up Makoto's throat and cheeks. He remembers the story vividly. "Ah, the tale of Ali with the large member…"

The Sultan purrs against Makoto's navel. The sound reminds him of the many cats that roam freely about the palace and, strangely, spikes pleasure straight from his lower belly down to his loins. "Precisely."

"Yes, what of it, my king?"

The Sultan crawls down until his nose and chin are pressing incessantly into Makoto's lap. "Continue it," he drawls.

"Ah, but my king—"

He draws him into his mouth.

Makoto's toes curl and he hisses through gnashed teeth. Surrendering to the Sultan right then and there sounds perfect for all of two euphoric seconds. But there are stories to tell, and what the Sultan wants, the Sultan gets. He gasps out, his head tilting back. "And Ali, continued on…"

Makoto sees to it the Sultan learns of Aladdin and his wonderful Magic Lamp, the tragic end of Judar and his Brethren, of Sinbad and his Seven Voyages, of Abdullah the Fisherman and Abdullah the Merman (the Sultan's favorite), of Ali Baba and the Forty Thieves, the Barber from Baghdad with six brothers, and many others.

He also tells him of himself, of his expanding family, of his friends. Of his travels and studies. Of the tree in his mother's garden that bears massive figs. He tells him what he's learned on his travels.

He tells him everything. Except that he loves him.

When Makoto has nothing more to say, one thousand nights have already glided by. Dawn comes and instead of waiting for further instruction from the Sultan, Makoto bows and kisses the ground at his feet, much like he did when they first met, and waits for his end.

"Rise."

Of course, Makoto obeys, and he keeps his gaze lowered. He notices the Sultan's shoes—now worn and tattered, the gold dull after having lots its sheen—are the same pair he wore the night they were married.

"My king," he starts, voice strained and trembling, "I—"

"Rin."

Makoto looks up abruptly.

"Rin. It's my name," he says calmly as he takes Makoto's hand into his and leads him beyond the bed, toward the window. He pushes aside the thick curtains and sweeps his hand over the dusty landscape, as if trying to capture it in his palm. "I expect you to call me that from now on."

It's morning and the sun is climbing up the clear sky, yet it feels like a cold current of air is threatening to knock Makoto backwards off his feet.

The Sultan—no, Rin laughs, and it's the same laugh from whenever Makoto told him an especially funny tale. The one that makes his heart sing. "Don't act so surprised. And have the servants gather your things, will you? We are going on a trip, you and I."

"...a trip?" Everything is happening so fast, it's all Makoto can manage. "Where—"

Rin closes the distance between them, his expression raw and excited. He's standing so close, Makoto can see parts of his features that he wouldn't otherwise see in the dark of the bedroom and it feels like he's falling all over again. "I want to see it." Rin looks over his shoulder, out the window. "I want to see what is out there, what you described in your stories. The places, the people. Everything you've given me. I want to see it and I want you there with me, at my side, so that I can give it back to you."

"What is that...?"

Rin kisses him, and as Makoto gasps into his mouth, he pulls back, just barely enough to hear him say, "The world."

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