VoM SPOILER FREE, requested by @secretprotectorchaos <3
Summary: In AlUla, a single melody ties your fate to Basim’s search for his father. Months later at Lion’s Tomb, the same melody reunites you; two ouds, one lullaby and a night where music rises above every answered sorrow.
You pick up your oud, just as you do every morning and make your way toward the heart of the city. AlUla may be small but you’ve carved out a place for yourself here —teaching anyone with enough passion how to coax music out of the instrument you love. Everyone knows you; you’ve become the skilled musician of this little desert city. Sometimes, just for fun, you play for the people wandering through the bazaar. Markets in your homeland have never been only for buying and selling; they’re places of meeting, of stories, of decisions, of life itself. And you know that playing your oud there is its own kind of advertisement for your classes… especially for the children who stop in their tracks, eyes wide, watching your fingers dance across the strings.
Today is no different. On your way you exchange warm greetings with familiar faces and once you reach the center of town, you head straight for your usual spot —shaded, comfortable, with a few people already gathered and waiting for you. With a smile, you begin to play. The sound of your instrument spills into the air, weaving between the sandstone walls and the murmurs of the marketplace. Slowly, more and more people gather around you, drawn by the melody. You keep playing, feeling their appreciative gazes settle on you. These are people who truly understand the beauty of what you offer.
You play a few familiar songs, melodies everyone in AlUla seems to love, and when you reach the final one, you rise to your feet, letting the last notes ring out while standing. As the piece comes to an end, the crowd breaks into warm applause. A few moments later, people begin to drift back into the flow of the marketplace, each returning to their errands.
All except one.
Amid the dispersing crowd, a single man remains where he stands, unmoving as if still caught in the spell of the music. When your eyes meet his, you notice his dark clothing, the sword at his side and the quiet confidence in the way he carries himself. He watches you for a heartbeat, then smiles and steps forward.
AlUla is a small city. Faces become familiar quickly. But this man (about your age) is a stranger. The weapons he carries mark him as a fighter, perhaps a man accustomed to danger… yet that hardly surprises you. Art belongs to everyone, after all.
“Assalamu alaikum, ya sayyedati.” he begins, his voice respectful, his manner composed. “I was passing through the bazaar when I heard your melody. I came closer… and then, truthfully, I lost track of time. Your skill is remarkable.”
You return the smile as you gather your things, sliding your oud back into its leather case. “Thank you. You’re very kind.”
“Allow me,” he offers, stepping closer as if to help.
“No, it’s alright. I don’t have much to carry.” Your answer is gentle but curiosity nudges at you. “You’re not from around here… are you?”
For a brief moment, he hesitates; just a heartbeat of stillness as if he hadn’t expected the question. Then he smiles again, softer this time.
“My name is Basim,” he says. “And you’re right. I’m not from here. I come from Baghdad.”
“Hmm,” you say. “Yes, I had a feeling.” And so it won’t sound rude, you add, “I hope you have a good day.” With that, you turn and start walking toward your home. But you’ve only taken a few steps when Basim catches up to you again, matching your pace.
“You’re from here, aren’t you?” he asks.
“Yes.”
“I…” He starts to speak but waits until the two of you have passed through a cluster of people in the busy marketplace. Only when the noise thins does he lower his voice. “I’m searching for someone.”
You stop. Why you? You glance around, then back at him. “And why do you think I’d be able to find this person for you?”
Basim meets your eyes and says, “Because while you were playing, I heard a woman tell her daughter she’d bring her to you... that you’d teach her the oud, like the others.”
“So?” you ask.
“That means you speak to many people. Young and old. You seem to know this place… and its people.”
His logic is sound. Nothing about it feels dishonest. You offer him a small smile. “AlUla isn’t a big city. Yes, I know a lot of people. My name is y/n.” You point ahead toward a modest building not far away, the place you call home. “I’m usually there. Either teaching or practicing or just getting through my daily work. If you need help and if it’s something I can actually do, I’ll try.”
Basim nods and there’s something in his expression... gratitude, yes but also a faint tired sorrow hidden behind it. Still, he thanks you sincerely… and then turns to go; leaving you standing in the warm breeze of the marketplace, wondering who exactly this stranger from Baghdad is and what kind of person he seeks.
A few days pass and there’s no sign of Basim. You assume he must have found the person he was looking for. Life continues, your routine pulls you along and little by little the memory of that strange meeting in the bazaar begins to fade.
Until one morning.
Just after dawn, a faint sound drifts into your home from the courtyard —soft, delicate, unmistakably professional oud playing. Before you even know what you’re doing, you rise to your feet. There is absolutely no one in all of AlUla who plays with this level of mastery. Who would come into your courtyard at this hour and play with such skill? None of your students are anywhere near this good. Not yet. Not like this. Curiosity pulls you toward the window beside the courtyard. You move quietly, lifting your head just enough to see outside. And the moment your eyes find him, your whole body stiffens.
Basim.
The same man you met in the marketplace… sitting there in your courtyard, playing the oud with a tenderness and precision that steals the breath from your lungs. The melody is heartbreakingly beautiful, a soft lament that seems to soak into the morning air. He’s playing quietly, deliberately so, clearly not wanting to wake you.
Yet you remain frozen for several long moments, listening to every note, letting the sound settle into you like warm light. Eventually, though, you stand up and your shadow stretches across the ground in front of him.
Basim stops playing. He lifts his head, eyes rising to meet yours.
You’re so touched by the music, every note etched into your memory that you find yourself applauding before you even think about it.
Basim laughs softly and rises to his feet.
You walk down the steps, the early dawn light brushing past your shoulders and before he can say a word, you blurt out, “That was incredible! Truly… incredible. I was completely captivated.”
“Thank you.” he replies gently.
“I didn’t know you played the oud,” you say. “Let alone this well.”
“I used to play… a long time ago.” He lowers his gaze for a moment. “And I must apologize. I picked up your instrument without permission. I saw it there and something inside me... something I hadn’t felt in years urged me to try again. I didn’t mean to wake y —”
You cut him off with a quick shake of your head. “No, please, don’t worry about that. You never need to ask permission. I’m happy when someone who truly knows how to play picks up my instrument.”
The sky is still pale, the sun not fully risen but you can feel it —the weight in his mind, the storm behind his calm expression. You remember what he told you in the bazaar.
“So? Did you find the person you were searching for?”
It takes him a little longer than it should to answer. Finally, he says quietly, “No. Not yet.”
“May I ask who exactly you’re looking for?”
And Basim, almost whispering as if afraid even the morning breeze might carry the words, says, “My father. Ishaq.”
Now you understand. The sorrow in his eyes. The heaviness in his voice. How personal this quest truly is.
You offer him a warm, steady smile. “We’ll find him. Don’t worry. You can tell me about him… if you’d like.”
“I know no one else is here...” he murmurs, “but I still… can’t. Not here.”
You think for a moment, then say, “Well, I sometimes go to the Lion’s Tomb to practice. It’s not far by horse. You could tell me on the way.”
Basim considers this, then nods, “That’s a good idea.”
“Or...” you add lightly, “you can write it down for me. Makes it easier for me to remember.”
“That...” he says with a faint smile, “is better.”
It doesn’t take long for Basim to write down everything he knows. While he does, you wash a few pieces of fruit and place them neatly inside a small basket. When it’s time for him to leave, you offer the basket to him. Basim takes only a single apple, thanks you with quiet sincerity and walks away.
But the letter...
The letter refuses to leave your mind. You read it again and again in the days that follow, trying to match the details to anyone you know in AlUla. No matter how hard you think, the image of such a man, someone with these exact traits and this past, never appears in your memory. And a heavy question settles inside you: What if you can’t help him? What if you fail him completely?
Months pass. Not a word from Basim. Over time you’re forced to admit the truth: You’ve failed. You couldn’t remember his father, nor find him. And because Basim himself wrote that you must not ask others, your search ended before it could even begin. Still, the thought of him returns at the quietest moments... his tired eyes, his voice holding a weight too old for his age, the way he played your oud like something half-remembered from a childhood long time ago...
One evening, while at the Lion’s Tomb, you pick up your instrument merely to clear your mind. But without thinking, your fingers begin to play that melody... the one you heard only once, in the soft light of dawn. The one Basim played in your courtyard with such quiet longing. Up here on the hill, near the ancient rock-cut graves, the world feels different at dusk. The light fades slowly. The desert wind hums between the stone walls. It feels as though your only audience is the spirits; silent, invisible, listening.
Then suddenly, you hear some footsteps. Close. Fast. Your heart jumps. For a moment you think of the bandits, this place isn’t always safe at twilight. But then a figure emerges from the shadows. A familiar face. A familiar way of walking. And when he calls your name softly, you know.
Basim has returned.
When Basim finally reaches you, he doesn’t speak. He simply smiles, gentle, restrained but the sorrow behind his eyes is impossible to miss. This man truly lives up to his name; Basim... 'the one who smiles' no matter how heavy life rests on his shoulders.
“It’s been a long time...” you say softly, gesturing toward the empty seat beside you.
He sits down slowly, lowering his gaze to the ground. “It’s a long story...” he murmurs.
Telling him the truth might hurt you but he deserves honesty. “I looked for Ishaq.” you confess. “I thought about him constantly... tried to remember if I’d ever met someone like him. But...” you pause, feeling the weight of the admission, “I couldn’t find him.” You inhale deeply. “I hope... I hope you found some kind of answer on your own.”
Basim lifts his head. His eyes meet yours and in the absolute silence of the tombs, tears slip down his cheeks without a sound.
You move your chair closer, gently placing a hand on his shoulder.
“I found the answer myself.” Basim says at last, before covering his face with both hands. The moment he does, the quiet crying becomes a little heavier, a little less controlled.
You don’t speak. You know better. People need space to empty themselves —through tears, through words or through the silence of their own company. And here, in this lonely place between stone and twilight, he can have all three. So, a thought crosses your mind. You rise without a word and retrieve your own oud, along with the spare one you brought today to check its tuning. Carrying both, you return to him and offer him yours.
Basim wipes his face with the back of his sleeve, then takes the instrument from your hands.
And that is when you notice it... really notice it. His ring finger is missing. Yet despite that, his touch on the instrument is surely graceful. A master’s touch, truly.
“Amazing...” you whisper, a small admiring smile forming on your lips. “You’re missing a finger yet you play better than anyone I’ve ever seen.” For an instant, a thought flickers through your mind, was it taken as punishment for thievery? But you push it away immediately. You don’t judge people like that. You never have. And especially not him. Not Basim.
Basim says softly, “I truly didn’t expect to see you here today... and more than anything, I didn’t expect you to remember the song I played that early morning in your courtyard.”
You laugh lightly, “How did I play it? Was it any good?”
“It was!” he answers without hesitation, “Hearing that melody is what brought me here... up to this hill.”
“Art and music are miracles.” you say, “Maybe the only things we have left from heaven.” You take a seat beside him and continue, “I, too, was captivated by that melody. I watched you from the window... and that’s why I learned to play it. And now that same melody brought you here." you pause for a moment, "Now, I have a suggestion.” you add, eyes bright, “Life may be harsh but today, here and now, night falls but music rises. How about we play it together?”
Basim’s expression softens with genuine happiness. “This melody... it’s called Ishaq’s Lullaby. I learned it from my father. A long time ago.”
And right then, you understand why the song brought him to tears moments earlier. “I see... it’s a very personal melody for you.”
Basim nods, offering a small but sincere smile. You return the smile, say nothing more and simply begin to play. Basim joins you. In the quiet of the night, music becomes the only thing holding your hearts close. You both play the piece several times, letting the melody drift into the darkness.
When it finally ends, you say quietly, “You know, Basim... my oud should be yours.”
He looks at you in surprise but before he can speak, you add, “My oud belongs in the hands of someone who knows how to play it with their heart. You deserve it. Consider it a small gift from me.”
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