Chapter 7 #3
“I know you know.” Rachid’s eyes closed, his lips pressing into the crown of her head for a moment. “It’s why I need you to understand that if anything goes wrong, you cannot let it consume you.”
She looked up at him, unsure whether she was thankful he understood her so deeply or frustrated that he anticipated her lack of emotional control so easily.
“Do not let it feed your rage.”
Shame enveloped her, and she struggled to keep it at bay as he watched her closely, until he placed a tender kiss on the corner of her lips. The warmth of it soothed her, cooling the burning ache inside.
“I’ll be back tonight with a few others to discuss plans,” he said, releasing her and stepping away. “Make sure your sister sleeps. She was in an unbearable mood the entire night.”
She chuckled softly, and the tension eased from her shoulders. “I will be sure to use those exact words.”
Rachid stood at the archway, his back to Aicha.
He seemed to be hesitating, as if deciding one last thing before leaving.
Abruptly, Rachid turned back and took large, quick steps towards her.
His arms circled her waist, and despite being taken by surprise, Aicha gripped onto his shoulders as his lips crashed to her own.
It was the kiss of a man who hungered for his lover’s taste, and Aicha felt the fire in her veins burst into an inferno.
Her skin hummed as his fingertips pressed into the small of her back, gripping onto her flesh as if she would disappear.
He pried her mouth open with his lips as her fingers weaved into his hair, damp with sweat and seawater, his tongue hot as gravity abandoned her and his hold became a crutch.
He held on to her with a tightness that had Aicha unwilling to let him go, and confident that if she buckled he would hold her up.
Always. Burning away the insecurity that constantly seemed ready to strike.
When they parted, Rachid’s chest heaved, his voice ragged and aching for something more. “You are never anything short of spectacular.”
By the time Aicha had made some fresh atay, Samira had joined her in their father’s meeting room.
In the absence of her family, she had begun forming a plan of how to approach the raid.
Marking points of entry and escape onto the map on her parchment, noting the timeframe they would have between patrols.
When Samira walked in, she spent a short period in silence reading over Aicha’s notes, until a soft hum of appreciation escaped her.
A swell of validation formed in Aicha’s chest.
“Naima said they leave before dawn?” Samira enquired, tucking her short hair behind her ears.
She kept it to just below the chin, making it easier to pull back and hide beneath a hood.
It allowed her to be mistaken for a boy much more easily, and slip through undetected.
Especially since she was shorter than Aicha.
Though Aicha resembled their mother much more, she had inherited Fouad’s height, with Samira’s inheritance of attributes being the opposite.
When dressed appropriately, Samira looked like a young boy running errands.
Not a young woman with an array of swords.
“Yes. They load their armoury onto a horse carriage and return to the docks,” Aicha supplied.
“Preparing to leave any day now, I presume,” Samira said, her gaze briefly moving up to Aicha. “All these years of planning, and it will be over in a matter of days. I cannot quite believe it.”
She released a sigh, planting her elbows on the table, as Aicha rested her chin in her hand opposite her. “It feels as if we blinked and a lifetime passed us by,” Aicha mused, then grinned broadly.
“Do you remember the first time Baba handed us swords?” Samira chuckled and shook her head at the memory. “You could barely balance the weight of a wooden one within your palm, every time you swung your footing wavered.”
“As if you were any different when Baba gave you your first steel sword,” Aicha countered. “It was a new adjustment, after spending years with a weapon that could not split skin.”
With only four years between the sisters, Aicha had not been far behind Samira with training, and yet Samira was by far the superior fighter.
Her skill with a sword was unmatched, her balance near perfect, with a precision that left some of the more seasoned warriors envious.
With her slim physique and short stature, she had the ability to move faster, and silently.
Fouad had once said that in another life, she would have made an exceptional assassin.
One who could move in darkness, and disappear like smoke.
It was why she had become such an exceptional smuggler.
Aicha’s fingers wrapped a stray curl around her index finger, sitting back in her seat to survey the hand-drawn map of the citadel. “Baba looked so proud the first time I disarmed him.”
“I think winning a battle brings him more joy than the thought of either of us marrying.” Samira chuckled, and Aicha’s smile grew bigger.
“The only man in the citadel to not wish his daughters to be wed.”
“He would be lonely without us,” Samira said, and her voice lowered slightly. “I only wish he would finally admit to taking a liking to Zeena Hafidi.”
“The fisherman’s widow?” Aicha’s voice rose, eyebrows raising towards her hairline. “She’s so quiet, I never would have guessed.”
“I suppose he wishes for a quiet life after this.” Samira’s face changed from amusement to one of seriousness. “When will you tell him of Rachid?”
Aicha opened her mouth to once again deny what her sister insinuated, the act second nature to her by then.
Only something stopped her, an unrecognisable look in her sister’s eye caused a discomfort deep within her.
It wasn’t accusatory, but did possess a level of expectation that she should not lie.
Aicha surmised that the time for lying was over.
“When I agree to marry him.”
Samira fixed her with a stare. “Do you want to marry him?”
“I want Rachid,” Aicha said.
“But do you want to marry him?” Samira’s tone indicated that she already knew the answer, but wished to hear Aicha speak it.
“Yes.” She nodded, before pausing. “Marriage serves me no purpose, but it is what Rachid wants,” Aicha relented, and the softness in Samira’s gaze became visible.
“What is it you fear so much, little sister?”
Aicha sighed. “Marriage does not give me much, except the expectation of childbearing. I do not want that, I have never wanted that, Samira.”
“Rachid would never force you to be a mother; he treasures the ground you walk on as if Allah blessed you himself.” Samira’s tone was soft.
“Now he does,” Aicha countered. “But when we have done our part in this siege? When our lives become quieter, and dull with monotony. Will he not become restless? Will he not begin to crave fatherhood?”
“You cannot predict what any of us will desire in the coming years, but you can always count on how much he loves you. You have always been enough for him, Aicha.”
“And you know that for certain?” Aicha snorted, and Samira took that moment to fix her with a look.
“You both have always thought yourselves so secretive and careful, but I’ve seen the way you look at each other. I saw the look in his eye the first time you beat him in a duel; he fell in love on that day.”
Aicha’s cheeks reddened. Her incessant need to surpass her baba’s expectations with her combat skills meant she continued to return to Rachid for a rematch, until she beat him.
Silence passed between the sisters, amusement coating the air now that Samira had brought up the memory. She reached a hand over to Aicha’s, encasing it within her own and squeezing softly.
“You will not end up like Mama, Aicha.”
Aicha stilled, unwilling to look her sister directly in the eye.
It was foolish for her to think that Samira would not sense where her fear stemmed from, nor that she would not understand that fear.
Aicha squeezed her grip on her sister’s hand, eventually moving her gaze so that she stared back at her.
Their baba spoke of their mother so fondly, with so much longing that had nowhere to go, trapped in his chest and words.
Guilt always churned in her stomach when he did so, because she was plagued by the constant thought that, if it hadn’t been for her birth, her mama would still be alive.
It was a silly thought, she knew, to blame herself—a baby—for something so completely out of her control. But Aicha couldn’t help it.
“It would only be fair, as I took her from the world.”
“No,” Samira shot out, her tone forced and harsh. “No you did not. You are not responsible for Mama’s death. No one was. It was as Allah willed, as is everyone’s fate. You were a baby; no one could hold you responsible for that.”
Aicha wondered how both Samira and their father accepted Allah’s will so easily. How, when things hurt the most, they took comfort in knowing it was planned.
“I took her from you and Baba.” Aicha’s voice was soft, and she looked at Samira in a way that she was sure reminded Samira of how young Aicha truly was.
Sometimes, Aicha wondered whether Samira often forgot, as many would, how much Aicha had been left to her own devices.
She knew she was stubborn, brash and at times irritatingly argumentative.
Adamant in being taken more seriously, and wanting more responsibility.
It created the illusion that she was able to depend on herself, and it was a trait that Fouad had encouraged in both daughters.
Self-reliance. Aicha still needed her, though, needed the guidance an elder sister provided.
Needed the reassurance and comfort of an elder sibling that any baby in the family would seek.
“No,” Samira said again, this time with less severity, and more confidence. “No, she gave us you.”
She knew there was little Samira remembered of their mother, because time had cruelly faded each memory.
But Samira had always told Aicha that her hugs had been the best. And though specific memories were gone, she’d tell Aicha all about how vivid the sound of their mother’s voice still was—particularly when she argued with Fouad.
The cadence of her laugh, or the huff of annoyance when their baba irritated her.
Things that would seem so inconsequential to others became stories Aicha coveted, like little, delicate, pretty shells she uncovered beneath the wet sand on the beach.
Aicha would never have the real thing, no tangible memory of those laughs and no faint idea of what she smelled like.
She was resentful at the world, and herself, for it.
She didn’t know how to explain that to Samira.
To explain that she felt as if she were the architect of her own sadness.
Both sisters added their second hands to embrace over the table, and Samira shared a reassuring smile with her. Aicha returned it, eventually releasing her as she looked back to the citadel’s maps.
“We’ll need a look-out,” Samira added, reaching over to point out the path towards the docks. “One to watch for the shift change at the docks, and any surrounding the patrolling areas.”
Aicha nodded. “Zubair has already agreed to give us Zayn and Muna. One will watch the docks, and the other will monitor the surrounding routes.”
Zubair wanted the twins’ lives to be free of the burden of taking a life. Instead, they were spotters, signalling when soldiers would be nearing a group and alerting them subtly enough to scatter. Both were fast, which meant they were difficult to capture.
“The entry hatch will be locked, but we can send someone in through the cistern by rope,” Samira advised.
“You are going to do that, and I will follow you,” Aicha said confidently, “then we can unlock the hatch from within, and allow Rachid and the others to enter.”
Samira’s head titled, a grin slowly spreading across her face. “You’ve planned it all already?”
“I had to convince Baba I was capable of doing it.” She shrugged, embracing the flare of pride over Samira’s smile.
“This has to be quick,” Samira advised, and Aicha nodded in understanding. “We cannot become overconfident or gluttonous with what we find.”
Aicha knew this was Samira’s area of expertise. Smuggling came with caution and the ability to gauge when things were better left behind. If Samira told her to cut her losses, she would do so without question.