Samra pressed the warm linen cloth on Fadahunsi's bruises. Most of them were small jagged cuts, skin deep with the flesh around them swelling up. The bleeding had stopped last night, the fever had broken this morning thanks to their doctor's tonic, the deep green that smelt so strongly of garlic she had to stop herself from breathing anytime she fed it to him. Their was no infection that would require amputation, and to his luck none of the swords that touch his skin were dipped in hemlock — unlike his commandants and soldiers. All night he had slipped in and out of consciousness, the pain had only taken over his senses after he met King Zaid.
Samra pressed her lips to his skin, the heat instantly burnt the skin of her lips but she stayed in position. Tears ran of from her cheeks to his tanned skin, soft snore escaping his parted lips. The tent's flap had been lowered to give them privacy and the sheepskin cover prevented light and prying eyes from falling inside. In the corners of the room, oil lamps burned brightly, his skin turning a bright orange the wounds a deeper red. She let her hands wander over his skin, pressing his abdominal muscles with great pain — so much pain her heart could not bead it.
Sobs wrecked through her body as she dragged the cloth across his chest, his body bare safe for the small muslin cloth that covered his loins. There was a thankfulness in her heart, that her husband had not been one of those men that had suffered gravely. These feelings of gratification were followed by immense guilt, for finding joy when many had been widowed. Every second that passed, his skin cooled and his heart beat steadied out. The thick sheets underneath his body had been pushed to one side, the covers thrown into a corner in the middle of the night.
Samra smeared honey onto a piece of bread, cooked on the coal stove that had been put together by the men a long time ago. She brought it to his lips, a copped cup full of cool water, drawn from the oasis near by. Calling his name softly, she clenched her teeth. Pain and fury coursed through her. Her mind ached and her heart had fallen to the pits of her stomach at the sight of casualties and her weak husband. She seethed, saw blistering red and had to fight the urge to kill her uncle — thoughts she thought she was not capable of.
"Fadahunsi?" She whispered.
Sweat trickled down her body, the bright sunlight baked her inside the thick walls of their makeshift abode. He had made sounds that resembled groans, the pain seared through his flesh. A stabbing pain inside his head, followed by the sensations of millions of pins pricking his skin. Shifting around on the thick mattress, he raised his head. His thick hair covered his eyes and with great difficulty he pushed the hair aside. His muscles ached, groaning as he moved.
"Let me help you," his wife whispered.
Placing the bread and water back into the copper tray, she used her upper strength to help him sit upright. Her taut breast pressed against the skin of his bicep. If it were any other moment, he would have melted at her touch, his muscles would have turned to nil and the bones to jelly. He wrapped his other hand around her small shoulders, seeking her support to sit up right. People would laugh, seeing such a small person help him.
"How are you?" She questioned.
Her hands pressed against his sweaty cheeks. Their eyes stared into each other's, hers full of worry and a sheen of tears, many of which had already dried themselves on the supple skin of her cheek. Her thumbs brushed his cheek and the small scar — whimpers escaped her plump lips. Fadhunsi felt the heavy tension inside the air, their breaths were saturated with unsaid words, words that would never materialize. Their was a longing in her touch, as if she could not believe he was here.
"I feel like dying," he spoke with great difficulty.
Samra ignored the careless remark, pressing the glass of water against his lips. He thanked her by softening his hard gaze, gulping the water like a mad man. Most of it dripped down his untamed beard, to his chest. Sighing in contentment, Fadhunsi closed his eyes. He could feel the water stream into his abdomen and veins. The strained vocal cords and throat that felt like sand had been rubbed against it, smoothed out. He breathed deeply, feeling some of the pain relive itself.
"Eat!" Samra spoke up.
Her hands tore the thick bread, it's warmth still radiated, in small recurrent waves. She dipped it into the honey, the white porcelain bread turned golden with the viscous sweetener. Keeping her hand under the bite, she raised it to his lips. Ravenous, he opened his mouth and chewed like a savage. His beard pricked her skin, lips grazed her pink fingertips. The paleness of her palms was still covered in a bit of her henna stain, dark like the blood he had lost on the battlefield.
"Where is my father?" He questioned.
Each of his words was full of pain, his mouth still not used to the stinging sensation just above his upper lip. Samra fiddled with the washcloth in her hand, dipping her fingers into the thick salve she drove them above his wounds.
"Ssss—Samra I asked something". He hissed.
"Fadahunsi I'll tell you but you're not well enough," she kissed the corner of his lips.
"Don't hide the truth from me humdum. Your eyes do not lie from me," he passed her a small smile.
"He—he has been laid to rest with the rest of the men," she answered.
Like a criminal caught red handed, she failed to meet his gaze. She looked around the room finding the cooper plaques that had been placed to a side far more interesting than the disappointed gaze of her husband. She could feel his warm fingers grip her hand tightly. Tears fell from her eyes once more, soft sniffs gripped her completely as she begged for his forgiveness, hunched over his body.
"Why are you apologizing?" He questioned, his voice had a sliver of humor.
"I—I shouldn't have married you. Then he would have been alive," she sobbed.
"Death is inevitable. I'm just upset no one waited for me," he sighed.
"Fadahunsi we waited. You've slipped in and out of consciousness for almost a week now. We couldn't keep his body any longer," she answered.
"A week?" He sounded surprised.
Samra nodded. That week had been the toughest week of her life. His suffering was hers, while he went through deep pain and episodes of nightmares she had been forced to face reality dead in the eye. She had forbid any nurse from coming close to him, instead she nursed him herself. Whenever she ventured beyond the walls of their tent, Samra came face to face with the questioning gazes of their people. They haunted her everywhere, the hollows of their eyes with gaze that stripped her off of everything she had known. They searched for answers to questions, she was their guidance but in that moment her north star was out in the dark battling to return to her sky. So how could she have steered the ship to safety?
"Samra have you even slept in this week?" He questioned.
Fadahunsi's eyes stared at her. Worry seized him in an instant. Her cheeks were more sunk in than they used to be. Her soft fingers had hardened and the crescent shaped lips had been bitten off. Her hair that he was used to seeing decorated with flowers every morning had nothin but dried petals. The curls of her hair knotted and rested behind her back. They lacked their usual luster. Even in the dimly lit room he could see that her skin was paler, the hue gifted to them by the marigold rays of the Sun, all gone.
"I couldn't. I couldn't eat or sleep or drink. You were suffering so how — how could I relish in these luxuries?" She cried into her hands.
This past week Samra had forbid herself from thinking about the events too much. She knew going over the events inside her head would produce a slow killing poison of memories inside her. She would over think to beyond the limits of normalcy. She was afraid to be left alone with her thoughts and so busied herself by taking care of him. Sleep was fitful, with the small cries and groans that escaped Fadahunsi's lips rousing her from them before she could fall into a deep slumber.
"None of this is your fault. How long do you wish to pay for it?" He questioned, concern dripping from his voice.
Reaching out for the discarded sheets, he wrapped them around Samra's body. Completely ignoring the ache in his own body, he held her to his chest. He left kisses on her hair and pulled the tray of food closer to them. Dates and bread were the only inhabitants. A small cup of honey and a jug with a broken lid. The food was nowhere near the status of Samra. It was enough for one person and in his starved state, he had eaten it all.
"What is this Samra?" He frowned.
"There has been a shortage of food," she murmured.
"The food supply from Baghdad should have lasted us years!" His voice filled up with rage.
"Please Fadahunsi don't be angered. Let's ignore all of this, please!" She whimpered.
He pressed his palms against her body, feeling each of her ribs clearly. They had not been married for long but he had lain with her every night since. He knew her body like the back of his hand. Each dip and curve, the moles that littered her dark shoulders, the dimples on her thighs, the acne scars like little crescents that covered the inner most parts of her thighs. Nothing of her flesh was hidden from him, and he could feel the changes with just a gentle touch.
"You've lost so much weight in the week I've been sick. I can feel your ribs Samra!"
"Please Fadahunsi! There is barely enough for the women and soldiers. I had to give my share to the pregnant ladies," she spoke.
He furrowed his eye brows. None of it made sense to him still. The provisions should not have been a problem for the army. His father had asked Alishba to send enough that they could eat hearty meals each evening for two years. Why had it suddenly disappeared?
"Did you leave the tents? To check on these women?" He frowned.
"I did not have the time to. Zumar and Faheel dropped by to keep me updated. The three times I did go, the gazes of the people frightened me," she answered.
Fadahunsi nodded, wiping the tears that fell from his eyes with the pads of his thumb.
"I'd like to go to his grave". He whispered.
Samra nodded. He was fit enough to walk atleast, she thought. Gripping the loose muslin kaftan, that had the least embroidery, she helped him dress up. Tying his hair into a braided bun, she kissed his forehead. He wore his leather sandals, his arm wrapped around her shoulders as she supported him out of the tent. The wind outside was light, the sun almost set. The sky was an azure blue with light streaks of orange and purple. For miles and miles there was no cloud in sight, only the smell of firewood and salted meat. Her stomach rumbling at the aromas. When was the last time she had something other than bread and honey?
King Shah Hassan been buried at the end of the makeshift cemetery. For him a marble grave was erupted. Tiny cacti planted on top, his name etched on to the grave stone with a sharp knife. Fadahunsi controlled the urge to cry. Sinking to his knees in the deep sand, his fingers ran over the name. A tear dripped from his eye onto the cool marble. He rested his head were his father's feet were supposed to be, he kissed the sand gripping some of it and placing it in a vial. They would leave soon, this was his father's last memory that he had.
"خداحافظ پدر، تو را در باغ های بهشت خواهم دید."
[Goodbye Father, I will see you in the gardens of heaven.]
•••
They make me soft