Chapter 12
As far back as Aicha could remember, she and Naima had always been like sisters.
Though their upbringings had differed, both shared a mature outlook on life, and even though she knew Naima had no memory of her life before the Gardens, something about it had clearly aged her.
Perhaps that was why, when they eventually met, Aicha had been so drawn to her.
They were not like the young children and adults that had played in the cobbled streets between homes, never sat on the steps of their stahs discussing clothing and the prospect of marriage.
Their favourite place had always been the docks, creeping beneath them to the small rock pools to collect empty, broken shells.
Their whispered worries about whether life would be different when they were older, or if they would survive, were kept locked in the shadows there.
Yet sunshine forced its way through the gaps of the wood, with the tide lapping at their ankles and, sometimes, even reaching their knees.
Quick flashes of sunlight illuminated their faces, a shell in the palm of their hand with the sunlight reflected against it.
The yells of fishermen and traders above, and the wooden boards were all that separated them from the realities of life in the citadel.
A little existence of their own that was a secret, treasured, and filled with deep love.
Naima had been the first to arrive, Aicha had found her sitting down, legs dangling over the edge.
Her hair was free of a braid and cascaded down her shoulders.
It curtained her face as she looked down at the swirling water below.
This was the first time Aicha had felt the absence of joy at meeting Naima there.
Instead, her excitement was replaced by a melancholy that gripped her chest.
In her throat, a lump fought to embed itself as the whispering thought that this would be the last time they sat like this together repeated itself.
Slowly, and silently, she bent to take a seat beside her friend.
Their shoulders brushed while the wind softly kissed her skin.
Cold enough to cool her, but not enough to chill her, like at nightfall.
When Aicha looked down to both her hands, she watched Naima fiddle with the threaded bracelet she had given her not long ago.
Her fingers fast, almost anxious in how the pads of her thumb and middle fingers rubbed against the fabric.
“I will miss this,” Aicha sighed.
“Me too.”
Naima did not look up from the bracelet between her hands.
“The sunrise may not be as beautiful wherever you go.” Aicha softly shoved at Naima’s shoulder with her own, attempting to feign a casualness she did not feel as she spoke.
“Hmm.” When Naima failed to look up, and instead appeared to not even be listening, Aicha tilted her head towards her.
“Where will you go?” Aicha probed. All she had learned was that there would be a ship waiting for them beyond the citadel walls, and it was Aicha’s job to get them there.
“I’m not entirely sure,” Naima said, her voice soft. “Lala Ilham said it is far enough away that we need not fear our gifts being discovered.”
“Does such a place exist?”
Naima sighed, evidently unsurprised by Aicha’s scepticism. “Lala Ilham claims the sands are white, the trees are tall, and barely cover the sun’s glare. I find that hard to compete with currently.”
Her voice was short, as if suppressing an outburst. It was unlike Naima, Aicha thought.
She surmised that perhaps her nervousness and sadness over leaving had overwhelmed her, distracting her. Aicha didn’t intend for one of their last times together to be filled with overwhelming sadness and silences. Instead, she addressed the situation at hand.
“Have you collected everything you need?” This time, Naima’s fingers stilled, and she looked up to face her with an almost endearingly irate frown embedded between her brows. “Yes. As you said, only important belongings.”
“And you remember what I taught you about swimming?”
“Yes, Aicha.” She bristled, and Aicha could not help but chuckle softly.
“Sorry.”
There was a moment of silence between them, before Naima spoke softly. “I am scared too.”
It was soothing, to know that Naima always had an indication of what she felt. That even when she struggled to identify what she felt herself, her closest friend knew. Aicha was unprepared for the pain that announced itself brutally in her chest, reminding her that soon they would be apart.
“We have spent so long speculating what these days would look like, and now they’re here and it… seems more final than I imagined it—”
“Come with us,” Naima interrupted, turning to face Aicha and pulling her hands into her own.
“What?” Aicha blanched, leaning away from her friend to finally recognise that her eyes were not filled with sorrow, but fear.
A fear that had appeared to ascend into a frenzy, and when she next spoke it was with a rush and impatience, startling Aicha, for she had never seen Naima as anything but gentle and brimming with patience.
“When you get us to the boats, do not return! Come with us on the ship.” Her grip was tight, too tight. It pained Aicha as she felt the joints in her knuckles crack.
Part of Aicha deemed her request silly and dramatic, but the other part—which cared for her friend deeply—felt alarmed at the outburst. “Naima, you know I cannot do that. I have to stay here, with Baba and Samira and Rachid, we must fight to free—”
“All that lies here is death and despair, Aicha!” Naima snapped, eyes wide and panicked.
Aicha pulled at her hands, attempting to free them from Naima’s grip, but she only yanked back. “You do not know that.”
“I do! I’ve seen it!” Naima’s voice had broken, abandoning her customary soft tones, and she yelled. High pitched and with desperation.
The pair froze, with Aicha’s dark eyes narrowing. “What?”
Naima seemed to have realised her mistake. Her guilt was evident in the way her grip lessened, and in the slight hunch of her shoulders. When she spoke, it was with stuttering trepidation.
“I—I am sorry, but… I was afraid… and I had to see for myself.”
Aicha grabbed onto the fabric of her friend’s djilaba, forcing Naima to focus on her. “See what for yourself, Naima?”
“I… I looked into your future.” Naima’s voice was barely above a whisper. She was unable to look at Aicha.
For a brief moment, it felt as if Aicha could no longer breathe. That the beating of her heart stilled and the most discomfiting sensation of falling made its way from her chest to her stomach. She released Naima, shuffling backwards. “… No.”
The memories of Ilham’s knowing looks, and of her nightmares that felt real, flashed into her mind. The unignorable fear that so often burned her stomach resurfaced as Naima began to speak.
“I saw what will befall you if you stay in the citadel.” Naima’s tone was grave, as if what she had seen haunted her even when not in slumber.
Her eyes followed Aicha as she stood, turning away from her.
She stood too, attempting to reach out a hand to Aicha’s wrist. “It will only lead you to pain and death, Aicha.”
“How could you!” Aicha’s outburst was one of rage, shock ebbing away to pave a path for something far more lethal. And seeing an opening, the darkness swept in and fanned the flames of her rage, burning Aicha from the inside. The outburst shocked Naima, and she flinched.
“I had to. A feeling of dread lingered inside me for days when I thought of you. They were warning me of your fate and I had to look—”
“I did not want you to look! I did not want to know!” Aicha’s fingers snagged on the roots of her hair as she attempted to run her hands through it in distress. The curls, tangled and unruly, fought against them. “Did you not think of the repercussions for me?!”
An urge, so potent and visceral, overwhelmed her. An urge to strike Naima, to yank her hair from the roots and scratch her face pushed at the seams of her patience.
Count, Aicha. Count! she pleaded with herself, using what Rachid had taught her. Count!
“I did it so I could save you!” Naima pleaded, gripping Aicha’s tunic, but the contact only enraged her.
“I do not want to be saved!” she screamed, her palms flattening against Naima’s torso as she shoved her away. “I knew the risks of this life; I have always known and accepted it. You knew that, and yet you betrayed me!”
“Aicha, please! I did not—”
“You may not care what awaits you after death, Naima, but I do! This is my home, and I will fight for it. Even if that means death.”
With those words, Aicha turned away from her oldest friend, marching off the docks and ignoring the pleading calls of Naima.
Her chest heaved, she felt the sharp edges of her rage inside, and she forced herself forward, to move away from Naima in case she snapped.
Because it would fade, and calm itself, and she would only feel a horrifying remorse for hurting her.
She carried on, knowing that when her rage subsided, receding into nothingness, another fear would remain.
A persistent presence would hang over her, like a shadow, reminding her that her death was near.
For that, she could not forgive Naima.
The docks had become uncharacteristically quiet, which Aicha had failed to notice upon entering, but now she was palpably aware of it as she left.
Fishermen were at a minimum, and the few she did recognise kept their gazes down and their shoulders hunched.
Trading had all but ceased since the King’s men had begun to abandon the citadel, what was left was merely locals who sailed out to fish, and those were kept on a tight leash of whatever remained under Duarte’s rule.
She felt the presence of someone following her as she walked.
Duarte’s men lacked subtlety, their footing heavy and easy to spot in times of silence.
Her thoughts were interrupted as two guards stood in her way, hands resting on the hilt of their swords in preparation for her defiance. She halted, her still heightened temper only emphasising the impatience and irritation in her eyes and brows as she huffed.
“What do you want?”
“Routine searches for all sand rats in the citadel.”
Neither of the men in front of her were responsible for those words, and Aicha had to turn back around to find Duarte.
She ignored the look of satisfaction that presented itself in his smirk, the malicious mirth in his gaze had long ago stopped appearing threatening to her.
If he wasn’t so powerful, she would have taken him as seriously as a child.
“Since when?” she replied, placing her arms out to stretch as the soldiers behind her yanked on her satchel.
“Since you and your family decided to steal our supplies,” Duarte sneered.
Aicha tilted her head towards him, her anger quickly shifting into satisfaction at his words as a slight smirk spread across her lips.
One her father would be displeased by, but the memory of Fouad’s beaten face had invaded her mind like a bad dream that refused to disappear.
And so, she allowed her ferocity to bleed into her words. “That is a serious accusation, Duarte.”
“One that I know to be true!” he snapped, taking the bag from the man on his right and choosing to rifle through it himself.
“No, you do not. You’re fuelled by your ego and a vendetta against our family. Despite Baba being so gracious in how little he has always charged your men for his services.”
Aicha’s voice took on an edge, implying that the saccharine tone she used was false and instead bitter. When Duarte gave up rifling through her bag, he dropped it to the floor by her feet. She laughed at him, bending to pick it up.
“Nothing, see? Once again you are left looking like a simpleton.”
“Do not test me, rat,” he warned, looming above her in her crouched position.
Something snapped inside her. It might have been a collation of all the times he had accosted and cornered her, shoving at her or yanking on her clothing, spewing taunts and fantasies about how he would enjoy killing her.
The tendrils of rage she fought to suppress had no reason to hide, because here they would be directed at a man who deserved it.
It might have just been in that moment—with the wound of Naima’s betrayal still raw in her chest—the way Duarte stood above her with his shoulders wide and an unearned pride in his stature. Her rage flared and spoke out.
Let me out, let me cut out his eyes.
“You will do best to not test me, weld haram,” she spat, shoving the satchel back onto her shoulder and turning from him.
It was a mistake.
As soon as he had left her line of sight, she missed his advance. He yanked on her hair with one hand, forcing her to stagger back, as his other wrapped around her throat. He dragged her until she was pressed up against the pile of empty fish crates, and slammed her head into the worn wood.
“You think yourself so clever, that your family is always one step ahead of my men and me,” he ground out, voice low and on the edge of descending into an explosion.
Similar to when she allowed the hot water to boil for too long, his face reddened, on the precipice of an outburst. “I will watch you all burn before I let you take my citadel.”
There was something about the way he had made that promise, a look in his eye that demanded attention.
He meant it, his whole being committed to bringing that dream to fruition.
As if, for the first time in his pitiful existence, he was actually now a step ahead of them.
Aicha felt those familiar tendrils of fear nip at her skin, like the cold chill from an oncoming storm in the late evening.
The one that had settled inside her since Naima’s confession had broken her world.
Somehow, in that moment, she knew Duarte would be her end.
“Have a nice day, Duarte.”
She kept her tone steady, unwilling to relinquish the confidence and smugness he perceived her to be holding on to.
When his grip loosened, eventually pushing away from her, Aicha stood to her full height.
Pushing past his shoulder to begin her journey home.
It would only be when she had closed the steel door behind her, cloaked in shadow and safe from prying eyes, that she would allow herself to hunch over.
She’d clutch her chest, struggling for breath as every possible nightmarish scenario of her death overwhelmed her.
Only then would she let her sobs escape.