Chapter 4 #3
“I remember when you turned eight, and Baba finally gave you a steel sword.” Samira’s breathing did not appear laboured, despite the repetitive movements of both hands. “You only took three years to mature your skills enough to use one.”
“One year less than you,” Aicha countered, though not with smugness. “You still beat me in that first duel.”
“Because you were too impatient to win,” Samira added, “but despite that your swordsmanship has always developed faster than my own.”
Aicha did not respond as she swivelled and blocked Samira’s sword.
Anticipating an attack and gauging a weak spot came as naturally to her as walking.
It frustrated her that she still lost duels with her father despite that, and it was clear to Aicha that Samira sensed that. Just like an elder sister always would.
“There is a reason Baba has never wished for a son,” Samira finalised, before Aicha dodged another slow attack, and ended their practice by softly pressing the tip of her blade against her sister’s clavicle, winning their faux duel.
“Remember that when he strikes you with his blade.” Samira’s knuckles lightly knocked against Aicha’s chin with her final words—their own small sign of encouragement that was birthed in their formative years—before she stepped out of the ring and Fouad stepped in.
“Begin!” Fouad’s tone was void of fatherly affection, a cold persona he shifted into with ease when training his daughters.
Aicha inhaled deeply, anticipation buzzing beneath her skin as they readied themselves.
The only sound, apart from Aicha’s heavy breathing, was the soft lapping of waves as they were drawn onto the shore.
Fouad stood across from her, his dark beard, peppered with grey hairs, occasionally appearing lighter in the sunlight. Almost red.
Fouad’s sword rested lazily at his side, eyes hard as he waited for Aicha to resume her stance.
Breathing in once more, she drew her sword up to her side, angling her feet away from her father as she took on a defensive stance.
Never make the first strike, that had been his first rule.
A desperation gnawed at her from the inside, like the deep ache of hunger: to make her baba proud.
To be as good as her sister. To be as trusted as everyone else was to carry out tasks without a fear she would only cause ruin.
In their last fight, a bruise had formed on her cheekbone where Fouad had smashed the hilt of his sword to swing her off balance.
A badge of shame for not blocking as effectively as she should have.
Never expect a fair opponent, he had said.
That was also the first time his sword had sliced at her skin, leaving a scar across her stomach.
As always, he struck first, his sword swinging clockwise.
Aicha used her right forearm to block his wrist. Shoving into him with force from her shoulder, her height almost matching his own meant he felt the weight of her push.
He stumbled backwards, grunting before adjusting to her weight.
She wouldn’t allow herself to feel the flicker of pride at it, because it would be short-lived. Like every time before that.
Instead, Aicha swiftly turned to elbow him in the chest, winding him.
When she stepped back, he had raised his sword at her with less control, still recapturing his breath from the blow.
She blocked as he switched sword hands. A skill that did not come with ease to his daughters.
Aicha had seconds to jump back as the tip of his sword sliced at her, missing her skin by a fraction.
She placed her weight into her next strike, watching as Fouad used both hands as he blocked, and Aicha could have almost smiled at being right.
She punched him squarely in the nose. The satisfaction flowed through her veins so fast, not even cold, sliced watermelon could have tasted as good in that moment.
Though her fist throbbed with the pain, as if she had broken a knuckle, she continued.
Fouad reeled back and cupped his nose for a second when she kicked at his knees.
He fell onto one, while Aicha knocked his own weapon from his grip.
And when Aicha had placed her sword in the crevice between his neck and shoulder, ready for him to concede, he did the opposite.
The dagger pulled from his boot was now lodged in her thigh.
“Aghhhh!” She released the frustration and fury that burned through her chest and up into her throat until it choked her, swept away with rage.
Rage that could have been for herself, but felt easier to direct on her baba.
Pulling her sword from her grasp, and shoving her to the sand, Fouad dug the tip into Aicha’s neck. Only just drawing blood.
“Not good enough. You hesitate to hurt me. Really hurt me.” He sighed, and Aicha couldn’t stand it. “You’ll be ready when you stick a blade into me, shanewla.”
The last line was said with a hint of tenderness, along with the nickname he had affectionately gifted her when she was a child.
Fouad’s eyes remained hard, though. Hardness that crawled beneath her skin and festered like a disease, one which would continue to eat away at her for the coming days.
Because he was right. With a force she did not expect, she shoved the sword away from her chest. There was a brief flicker, one that would later horrify her, where she felt compelled to rip out the dagger from her thigh and slash it across his face.
“Cutting you down is not the same as cutting down one of them,” she bit out, ignoring her baba’s hand when she eventually pushed herself up to stand.
She snatched her sword, no longer able to bear looking at him.
She had never been able to conceal her emotions, and instead paraded them across her face.
She hated the idea of looking him in the eye and risking the possibility that he would see just how much she despised losing.
There was a deep crease between her brows, a glint in her eyes that could match a burning inferno, and prominent tightness in her jaw.
Just like her mother. But unlike her mother, something dark and twisted resided in her gut.
“I’d be inclined to agree if you were not yet to make a kill.” The statement cut her deeper than any of his daggers could. Aicha had half a mind to throw her sword at his face, but Fouad had moved on from her, casting his eyes to his eldest. “You’re next.”
Samira had been crouched in the sand, the tip of her sword wedged into it, and gripping onto the hilt so that she could continue to balance.
When Aicha stepped away from Fouad’s makeshift combat ring, she passed Samira.
The elder sister took Aicha’s hand, squeezing tightly before she leaned in close to her.
“Calm yourself; remember what I said. Take a walk and return with your mind clear.”
“I suppose you find my methods a tad too harsh?” Fouad’s voice disturbed Aicha’s musings, and she turned away from the view of the sunrise to watch her baba approach her.
Bare feet sinking into the sand, he didn’t appear remorseful, and that served to annoy her more.
He had that look in his eye, the one often distributed only to Aicha, when he found her to be a nuisance or a little dramatic in her complaints.
Usually, she would admit he was right to do so.
But not this time. Aicha knew she leaned towards dramatics in certain situations, but she had never—not once—behaved that way with her father in training.
When she was with him, she fought harder to be taken seriously, and he still seemed to simply view her as his unserious daughter. His lesser daughter.
He grunted when she didn’t answer, instead choosing to return her gaze on the sea.
“Perhaps I deserved that.” He paused, settling beside her in the sand, knees drawn up. “Samira has claimed that I must speak to you differently, that I should stop teaching you with the same methods that I teach her.”
If there was a question within his statement, it was not clear to Aicha.
He seldom asked for her opinion on anything, so she did not believe him to be doing so now.
Yet, the lingering silence following his words indicated he wanted her to at least say something.
She just didn’t know what. He had evidently felt some level of guilt; he wouldn’t have sat beside her if he didn’t.
Her thigh ached, despite the tightened strips of torn fabric she’d wrapped around it.
The idea of her baba stitching together the very wound he gave her later on burned shame into her skin.
It reignited her anger all over again, so much so that she didn’t even want to look at him. Still, he went on.
“It is not gentleness that will make you a better soldier, Aicha. I am harsh only when it is important.” The tenderness in his tone belied all that he had just claimed.
But something about it deflated any of the lingering fury that had been so insistent in staying, as if her baba’s voice was a cold compress placed on a scorching forehead.
It cleared her mind, enough to make that unruly, cruel bitterness recede into the deepest crevices inside her and to momentarily stun her with the violence it had wanted her to express. She hated that about herself.
That, sometimes, her anger was its own entity, and powerful enough to confiscate control from her. Powerful enough to have her on the verge of striking her own baba out of revenge.
“I know,” she eventually said, hand cradling her thigh and watching the red stain on her wrap slowly grow in size.
A beat of silence passed between them.
“I’m not weak,” she said, and wished it hadn’t sounded so pathetic.
She felt the stillness settle between them, and she knew her baba was choosing his next words carefully. “I never claimed you were, Aicha.”
“I’ll make my first kill.” It was said with confidence, because Aicha knew it to be true.
She saw him nod out of the corner of her eye.
“You will.”