Chapter 18 #2
The former pulled out a small dagger and began carving into the wood of the table, haphazardly laying out the citadel walls onto it. Aicha was only momentarily startled by the interruption, before continuing.
“We can detonate them to distract them from the gates and sabotage their only way out. If we split into two factions, the second can move towards the gates and open them. The remaining guards may not even stay to fight, for they are nervous about lingering in the citadel this long; they may just run.”
Confidence surged through Aicha, the soft buzz of electricity she felt before a fight thrumming through her fingertips. Rachid nodded, his shoulders set in a way that she knew all too well, an indication that he was ready to stand and leave at that very moment. But he composed himself.
“It is a tenuous plan, you do realise that?” He did not ask to undermine her, but—much like her father would have done—to ensure she had considered all possible outcomes.
He needed her to be certain of this, and his strong grip beneath the table only reinforced the belief that he would follow her regardless.
“It’s the best we have. We cannot leave, we cannot abandon our home.” She paused, and the heavy weight of melancholy roused from its slumber in her chest to remind her it had never left. “It’s what Baba would have wanted.”
“All right.” Rachid nodded, turning away from her, but Aicha did not miss the glint of pride in his gaze.
“Saladin, have Mounir gather whoever remains for a briefing. We need to calculate how many of us there are before we make a decision on who joins me at the docks, or Aicha in attacking the guards at the gates.”
Her head swung back to Rachid. “I’m leading?”
The stunned expression on her face did not go unnoticed by Rachid, and he did not miss a beat as he responded.
“Of course. It was your idea.”
She would have kissed him if they weren’t in front of company.
Losing her trusted dagger and sword had been an inconvenience that Aicha had not accounted for when her day had started.
But Rachid had, he always did, and so with freshly stolen weapons they had solidified their plans.
Less than thirty of them were left. Twenty-five fighters, or those old enough to feel confident in volunteering.
Their odds of success had depleted in a way that Aicha did not think was possible, but strangely, with Rachid by her side, she did not feel so hopeless.
“Will you meet me at the gates?” Her voice, though not loud, cracked the porcelain stillness of the room.
Rachid’s answer came slowly, his mind occupied with tightening the knot in her head wrap. “If all goes well, then yes.”
Rogue curls had sprung free, resting on the sides of her face, and his deft fingers meticulously secured the wrap without pulling on her roots. Something he had done hundreds of times, and always with the same softness.
“What if I fail and I need you?”
A small huff escaped through Rachid’s nostrils, and she wished she could have been facing him to watch the amusement come to life in his eyes. Emphasising how much he believed in her, because—evidently—the concept of her failing was funny.
“You will not fail… but if you need me, I will be there.”
“How will you know? How will you know that I need you?” Her line of questioning bordered on ridiculous, but it was a routine she was familiar with when it came to Rachid.
She needed it, a modicum of familiarity when they were on a cusp of doing something that could end both their lives. Aicha needed a piece of them that would linger in her heart after they parted ways.
His hands had briefly halted at the question, as if startled by it, before he let go.
She felt him place his hands on her shoulders, slowly turning her around so that she faced him.
There was a moment before he spoke, when she simply looked up into his dark eyes.
Eyes that she had stared at countless times, thousands, and found solace in them regardless of the emotions that emitted from them.
Whether he was happy, or irritated, there was an openness.
An unapologetic edge to how vulnerable he chose to be with Aicha.
But in that moment, where she felt suspended in time with him, and as if the outside ceased to exist, she noticed something more…
fragile. Afraid to say anything, or afraid to allow this moment to pass without saying anything, she did not know.
“Aicha, you know this already. Our souls are bound, I feel everything you feel. Your sadness, your anger, your annoyance when I talk too much when we spar.”
She smiled, watching the corner of his lips tug upwards before he released a sigh. He then placed a hand on her chest, above her heart, tender and with the gentleness of someone who carried a coveted, fragile treasure. She realised that to Rachid she was treasured. And fragile.
“Right now, I feel your pain. I feel it fighting for freedom while you piece yourself back together.”
The admission released something in her that had been held at bay for far longer than her grief, giving way to anguish and—inevitably—regret.
Her hands gripped the fabric of his tunic on his chest, pushing herself unbearably close until her nose grazed his chin.
Looking him in the eye pained her too much.
“I wish I had married you.” The words were said with a stone in her throat, a shadow resting heavily on her shoulders as she wondered how long the regret would haunt her.
“In my dreams, you did.” Rachid’s gentle hold became all-encompassing as he placed his chin on her head, holding her in a way that she had previously rarely allowed him to. But only out of fear that she would not want to let go.
“I asked Fouad for permission and received a stern lecture about the importance of loving my wife and treating her as my equal,” he said, voice light and brimming with a nostalgic joy, clear that he had fantasised over it countless times.
“You wore green at the nikkah, like your mother before you, and it brought out the gold of your eyes. Gold like—”
“A lion,” she finished, a laugh escaping between the few traitorous tears that had fallen.
“Yes, beautiful and terrifying like a lion,” he joked. “We would have travelled, perhaps further south to Safi. To see if tislilel truly do reside in their caves and sing as beautifully as the fishermen claim.”
“You would be sorely disappointed, they are not real. A human with the tail of a fish is ridiculous.” Her words were mumbled, unwilling to remove her face from the crook of his neck.
“If Naima and Ilham can see jinns, and look into the future, and influence the decisions of others, it cannot be that far-fetched.”
The thought of Naima caused her stomach to flutter, reminding Aicha how much she missed her friend.
Slowly, dread ebbed into it, the lingering memory of what Naima had predicted of her fate forcing its way to the forefront of her mind.
Through the loss of Fouad and Samira, and the prominent anticipation of their final mission together, the memory had almost disappeared into the darkest recesses of her memory.
Almost. She pulled her head from the sanctuary of Rachid’s chest to gaze up at him, eyes looking over the features she had come to treasure and love.
Her fingers danced across Rachid’s cheekbone, and then to the scar that slid through his left brow.
His hair had grown an inch or two, falling into his eyes ever so slightly.
Taking a lock, and spinning it between her fingers, Aicha took the moment to memorise the feel of his soft strands.
Silken, untainted by sweat and the dirt of the day. She envied him for it. Pushing his hair back and out of his face, she kept her hand resting on the back of his neck. Continuing the fantasy he had started.
“We would have built a home by the seafront, on a cliff’s edge. Nothing but the open sea from our view. No docks, no fishermen, no invading ships with the banners of their king on the horizon.”
Rachid nodded, his smile simultaneously beating with joy and sadness. “Just us.”
The sound of a cleared throat interrupted whatever Aicha had planned to say next.
Both of them turned towards the entryway into Naima’s room, where Saladin stood in apparent discomfort as he kept his gaze on anywhere but the two of them.
The embarrassment came as an amusing reprieve from their shared sadness, and Aicha found it endearing.
“It is time for the briefing,” Saladin said, immediately turning to walk away in order not to prolong their awkward interaction.
A soft laugh escaped Aicha, the first one she had felt compelled to release since returning to the citadel, and discovering the entirety of her life had been burned to ashes.
Looking at Rachid, she realised he did not share her amusement, instead, he stared at her intently.
As if he held a pressing thought at bay.
She had an inkling as to what it was, and so she gave him the space to speak.
“Marry me now,” he said suddenly, gripping her tightly.
Aicha blanched, her eyes widening as Rachid’s gaze darkened his eyes.
“Rachid, we don’t have an—”
“There will be someone in that room who knows how to perform a nikkah.” He was serious, she realised.
“I don’t have anyone to—”
“Sidi Mohammed can be your wali; you know he would deem it an honour to stand in for Fouad.”
The sound of her baba’s name cut deep, like an open wound that would never heal. Rachid’s fingers caressed her softly at the flinch, but his focus never wavered.
“And the mahr?” She asked a final question that she already knew the answer to. One that they both knew was merely a formality.
“My heart,” he said tenderly, “everything that I have ever had and everything that I will ever have.”