Chapter 7 #2
“No.” He turned away from her, resuming his work.
Aicha remained there stubbornly, defiance etched into her gaze as she waited in silence.
She could wait him out, irritate him enough by just being there with that look he always said was like her mother’s.
Eventually, using his tongs, he lifted the searing hot sword and placed it onto the anvil, lifting his hammer.
The echo of him beating hard metal erupted in her eardrums. She watched as Fouad hammered into the blade, turned orange by the fire, slowly taking the shape he desired.
It was a delicate yet brutal process that could take hours, days, even months depending on the quality of the steel.
When he paused, flipping the sword onto the other side, she tried again.
“I have been studying the map of the cistern. I believe I have a thorough plan—”
“No, Aicha.” His tone was final. Heat crept up her spine, staining her cheeks as anger poked at her.
“Why do you always trust Samira with tasks, but never me?”
Fouad’s arm paused in the air, his gaze straying from the sword and back to Aicha. He blinked at the speed in which her temper had arisen; usually, he needed to share an opinion—several—or a lecture that would evoke a visceral reaction. This time, his short answers had said it all.
“Aicha—” he started, only to be swiftly interrupted.
“How am I supposed to show you I am just as capable as her if you do not let me?”
He blanched, staring at his youngest daughter for several moments before putting down the hammer, resting the tongs on a workstation beside the anvil, and folding his arms.
“Is that what this is about? Do you feel I favour you less because I give her more responsibility?”
“You do not hide it, Baba.”
A frown settled into his skin, one so deep that the creases between his brows were familiar with it. He looked at Aicha, at the spark of defiance in her eye, inhaling deeply. Aicha almost rolled her eyes at the way he was clearing preparing to make a speech.
“When Samira went on her first smuggling trip she was five and ten. Much too young to be risking her life,” he explained, palm dragging down his face before rubbing at his beard.
A sign that he was thinking deeply about how to phrase his words.
“I made a lot of mistakes with Samira; it made her age far too quickly. I did not want to repeat those mistakes with you.”
Aicha said nothing, but her shoulders released their stiffness, indicating that her anger was subsiding. His words had softened her, but only by a fraction. She hated that he did that so easily, wore her down with words that made her feel guilty.
“You should be able to run to the docks with Naima when you are supposed to do your chores. You should stupidly fall in love with someone I will never approve of. These are things that I have robbed the both of you of.”
Aicha’s gaze softened only slightly, and beneath it simmered irritation.
“You choose now to come to this realisation, Baba? When a siege is days away and war is imminent?”
“I know my timing is not ideal.” A humourless laugh escaped him, his expression unreadable except for the slightest hint of exhaustion.
Fouad barely slept these days. Between maintaining the success of his business and planning for the siege, he kept his hours of rest to a minimum.
A little bit longer, she knew that was what he told himself.
Less than a week, and their family would be free.
“Baba, I have never wanted the life you seem to wish we had. I am content as I am, and so is Samira. This has always been enough.”
When Aicha and Samira had been younger, it was easier to communicate with their father about their feelings.
He had been an affectionate man when they were children, had welcomed their tantrums with open arms and hushed words.
Had told them stories from the Quran, taught them the importance of waking for fajr. He had taught Aicha her first surah, had her reciting it as if it were a song.
Like any children who reached adolescence and adulthood, a chasm had grown between them.
The more independent they became, the more distant he had seemed.
Except for Samira, because the older she became, the more evident her similarities with their baba were.
But it had always been clear, regardless of his lack of affection, that Fouad loved his daughters.
Fiercely and with an intensity that would cause the world to burn if they were hurt. She just needed him to say it.
“Baba, trust me, afak,” Aicha pleaded, taking steps towards him. “I know the routes backwards, I can do this with Samira.”
He stepped away from the anvil, hands coming to rest on his hips as he circled it to move closer to Aicha.
He released a deep sigh, head shaking as if convincing himself of an argument in his head.
“If Rachid is in agreement…” he conceded, pointing a finger in her direction.
“And the moment things become heated you must run. Do you understand? No amount of gunpowder is worth you and your sister’s safety. ”
“Yes, Baba. I will not fail you.” Pride swelled in her chest, and the smallest hint of a smile overtook Fouad’s bearded face.
“You could never fail me, shanewla,” he said, moving forward and patting her head.
Aicha’s stomach warmed at the action, and the nickname.
She would never tire of it. Aicha pulled him in for a hug, wrapping her arms around his middle despite almost reaching his height.
Fouad returned the gesture, encasing his youngest daughter within his arms and inhaling her smell.
He once told her that, in the first weeks following her birth, he had obsessed over her scent, one that was uniquely newborn, and was too afraid to let her go lest she disappear like her mother.
“You used to hug me like this before you went to bed,” he mumbled quietly, and Aicha’s arms tightened around him in response. “Freshly bathed, and in your little gandora. You begged me to leave the lantern on until you fell asleep.”
“And you always did,” Aicha replied, her voice muffled from her spot by his chest.
Aicha made her way out of the smithy shortly after that, with Fouad making it evident that he wished for some time alone to forge before he left to make deliveries.
She returned next door, changing into her gandora with the intention of completing her chores until her sister returned home from her own errands.
Midday brought zuhr prayer, as well as the arrival of Rachid.
She had almost finished packing away her baba’s freshly cleaned clothes when Rachid let himself into her home.
A benefit of being so well acquainted with her baba.
His bare feet were irritatingly non-detectable as he walked across the tiled floor.
She watched him approach, then lean against the archway that led into Fouad’s study and fold his arms as he watched her tidy.
“Please, don’t offer any help,” was what she greeted him with. “It’s exactly what I look for in a prospective husband.”
Rachid tilted his head, a smile teasing his lips as he watched Aicha cock her hip in feigned annoyance at him. When he spoke, it was with the same air of gloating she always hated. “Do I not regularly cook for you?”
“You like cooking,” Aicha waved off, turning away to pack the last of Fouad’s fresh clothing into his trunk. “It doesn’t count.”
“You moan when you bite into my meloui,” he countered, stepping into the room.
“It counts.” Annoyingly, she couldn’t deny it.
He had frustratingly perfected it to have the right balance of flakiness on the outer layer, while maintaining the buttery softness of the inner layers.
It made her mouth water just imagining it. “You’re thinking about it now.”
“You are so irritating.” Aicha turned, folding her arms and staring up at him.
Rachid’s hands came to rest on his hips as that same brow remained high, something that she should not have found as attractive as she did.
“Am I incorrect?” She took in his brown tunic, which looked damp and halfway through drying.
“Morning swim?” she said, changing the subject. If she did not love him, she would have found Rachid’s smirk as grounds to kiss his cheek with her knuckles. Instead, she fought back her own, biting onto her lip. It was useless.
Shaking his head in amusement, he took steps towards her, until they were chest to chest, and he could braid his fingers through her loose hair.
“The tunnel flooded overnight,” he supplied, and Aicha could tell his interest in the subject had waned as his eyes cast over her face, focusing on his own fingers playing with her hair.
They had been storing weapons in the tunnels, and someone always kept watch. Last night had been his and Samira’s turn.
“I suspect a storm is due.” She felt shy in those moments; when she did not need to do anything except exist and watch Rachid marvel at her standing before him.
It made Aicha feel silly, like a young girl with a fleeting crush, and somehow undeserving of the affection.
She felt a flicker of apprehension, that if he stared for too long he would find a flaw that he did not like, simply could not bring himself to like.
Like the way she felt envy at never having been the favourite daughter, or the ugly temper that seemed to become more difficult to ignore with each passing year.
“I suppose the cover of rain will benefit us in the coming days.” His eyes met her own. “I spoke to Fouad.” She knew this was coming, had prepared herself should he disagree.
“And?”
“Leading is not easy,” he said, voice low, “you will be responsible for the entire group.”
“I know.” She nodded. She had spent her whole life watching her baba shoulder responsibility of that magnitude, and the guilt that festered inside him if someone died under his watch.