Chapter 13 #2
Instead of irritation, Aicha marked her father’s look of pride as he focused his gaze on her. “Oh, I am well aware. You are too much like your mother. She had a particular affliction for defending those less fortunate than her, and with a silver tongue.”
She couldn’t respond, even if she had wanted to.
Her throat felt dry and thick with a soft sob.
If she opened her mouth now, it would not be to provide any words.
Fouad sensed this, and Aicha was relieved at his ability to anticipate his daughter’s emotions.
Stepping towards her, his hand settled atop her head, fingers only softly pressing into the scalp.
“I know you feel you must do this, and it was how I raised you to be.” His gaze was fierce, brimming with pride. Warmth bloomed in her chest. “My only wish is that you are vigilant, and ready. This will not be easy.”
“Yes, Baba.” Aicha found her voice, though it sounded unsure. Wavering. She nodded as she cleared her throat.
“Go,” he said, releasing his hold of her. He nodded in the direction of the entryway, dismissing her.
Aicha turned and moved towards the exit.
Halting, she changed her mind at the last moment, swivelling back round to Fouad.
Much to his surprise, she barrelled into him, wrapping her arms around his torso and settling her head into the crook of his neck.
She held him tightly, while Fouad slowly raised his own arms to wrap around her shoulders.
His grip was secure, enveloping Aicha so that the warmth of his hold provided a solace she had rarely felt in the recent days.
It was the safety only a parent could provide, a hold that promised love and to scare away monsters that came to her in the night.
The same hold she had sought when she was a child.
Her worries ceased, her fears receded to the deepest parts of her mind, the oncoming days of uncertainty were forced back.
In that moment, it all seemed so inconsequential, because her father could protect her from all of it.
When she pulled back the curtain, stepping through and allowing it to fall behind her, Aicha was met with only one figure in the darkened hallway.
The faintest slither of light—seeping in through the small gaps from her father’s study—allowed only a glimpse.
Rachid remained still, leaning against the wall.
Though he appeared as a shadow—much like the jinns that Naima spoke of—warmth emanated from him.
His posture relaxed and angled towards Aicha as she came to a stop beside him.
His voice was low, the edges softened so that it comforted Aicha.
“I instructed her to calm herself with a task and grow up.”
“Strange. It is something you would usually tell me to do.”
“The day is not yet over.”
Though she could not see it, Aicha sensed the smile in his words, thankful for his willingness to lighten the once sombre mood that surrounded them. Lightly shoving at his shoulder, she let out a soft laugh. “Samira did not take your order in jest, I presume.”
“My arm may be bruised from a punch.” A huff of amusement escaped through his nose before he paused, and Aicha was only just startled as his fingers wrapped around her wrist. Squeezing it before he released her. “You are doing the noble thing, Aicha.”
His voice felt smooth in her ear, an affection beneath the surface that tasted as sweet as honey. Aicha pulled herself together, pushing away the memories of his warm touch as she straightened ever so slightly.
“I assume you plan on joining me?”
“It’s essential that someone accompanies you to keep you out of trouble.” He stood to his full height, joking for a moment, before his voice sobered. A sincerity he seldom had was infused in his next words. “There is no scenario where I would allow you to walk into danger without me.”
Aicha’s soft intake of breath was audible between them, a reaction he provoked frequently but she refused to make obvious, now glaring between them.
The darkness and their hushed whispers amplifying every shuffle of their feet, twitch of a finger, and the heat that radiated between them.
Her skin felt alight, without a single touch from him, purely based on the power of his gaze in the darkness that surrounded them.
“Perhaps I should speak to Samira,” she breathed, staving off the urge to reach out and touch him.
“She’s forgiven you already,” he stated, though a light pressure on her hip indicated that he urged her in the direction of the workroom. “I’ll give you a moment while I inform Fouad that I am joining you. Then you can tell me all about your ill-prepared plans.”
“Ill-prepared?” Aicha’s voice only rose an inch, but it was enough for her to hear a soft chuckle escape his lips. “May I remind you that my plan on stealing supplies and burning the cistern was a success?”
Unexpectedly, Rachid leaned in close to her, hand coming to cup her cheek with his thumb grazing her cheekbone.
The action so sudden that it momentarily stunned her, she felt his breath kiss her skin, and her heart thudded erratically in her chest. Now, she could make out the gleam of pride in his eyes, one that united with adoration.
“And you were magnificent.”
Samira had been deeply focused on sharpening her blade when Aicha stepped into the workroom.
The only indication that she’d noticed Aicha was a momentary pause before she resumed her task.
The scraping of the blade against whetstone grated on Aicha’s nerves, feeling it ghost against her skin and elicit gooseflesh across her arms.
“You know how much I despise that sound,” she muttered, moving until she stood opposite Samira.
Aicha rested both hands against the workstation, gritting her teeth as Samira only scraped at the blade more vigorously than before.
It was strange, to Aicha, watching her sister become so petulantly angry with her.
To the point that she would deliberately pretend she was not standing before her, in order to emphasise her grievance with her sister.
When they were younger, the roles had been reversed.
Samira had always been a patient and generous sister to Aicha, consistently succumbing to her demands as a small child and handing over whatever possessions she had when Aicha had asked for them.
Appeasement of Aicha had always come easy to Samira.
She knew that it was an overcompensation for their lack of a mother, and for Aicha’s speculations—even as a small child—about whether it had been her own fault that her mother had died in the first place.
Warmth bloomed within Aicha’s chest at the memories. Her sister had always supported her, aggressively so, and disagreeing over this did not feel as important as it once did when she reflected on it. “I can do this, Samira.”
“That’s not my concern.” Samira sighed, halting her actions as she looked up at Aicha.
She fiddled with the blue and orange band around her wrist, her tone growing exasperated.
“This is a plan concocted over the last day, it allows for little time to meticulously plan. It leaves far too many openings for mistakes and diverts attention from what we should be doing. It could kill you.”
“Many things could kill me before the siege. Duarte and his men are particularly fond of us.”
“If this had been weeks ago, I would have been more inclined to help… but not like this.” Samira paced behind the workstation, tucking her short hair behind her ears. A habit of distress she had held on to since her adolescent years. “This feels too sudden, too dangerous.”
Aicha fought a scoff. “You commit dangerous tasks every day, Samira. Each one possibly ending your life should you be caught. This is no different,” she countered.
“Those tasks take weeks of planning and memorising the routines of soldiers. This is so… precarious… dependent on too many unreliable factors.” Samira leaned against the workstation, closer to her sister.
As if pulling her closer to her and slowing her words would insist on its importance and her sense of urgency.
But these were all rationalisations that Aicha had already thought of, avenues of arguments that she had already talked herself out of.
Because the fact would remain the same: she would not let Naima’s life be forfeit for her safety.
“I will not leave Naima and all those women at the hands of men that see them as dangerous. Their death will be certain if I do not help them, whereas my death is only a possibility.” She leaned closer to Samira, placing a hand over her own. “Can you not see, sister? I have to do this.”
Seldom did Samira’s hard gaze ever fade, and even less so into one that resembled softness. It was a look reserved only for Aicha, and the resolve that resided in Aicha’s chest weakened at the look as her sister spoke. “When did you grow up?”
“Around the time you stopped letting me win our duels,” she jested, memories of their battles with wooden weapons resurfacing.
How Samira had feigned injury and taken to the ground, with a little Aicha yelling at the top of her lungs, small arms outstretched into the air.
It originally amused Fouad, his soft chuckles still audible in Aicha’s memories in the present day.
“You knew that?”
“I am not a simpleton, Samira.”
Aicha watched as an amused breath escaped through her elder sister’s nostrils. “I wanted you to feel confident in your capabilities.”
“I know, and I am grateful.” Aicha’s shrug was paired with a smile, one that the sisters only shared between each other.
The smile of a sibling that, in equal parts, adored and was vexed by the other. Silence descended between them, until Samira squeezed Aicha’s hand. “You are the best parts of me, Aicha.”