love, like rain, does not
choose the grass
on which
it falls
– proverb
EYES TRAINED ON THE SPARRING knights in his far peripheral, Hussam shifted his weight, sand and pebble crunching under the weight of leather sandals as he ambles toward the stables. Penetrating rays trickle over the landscape to kiss the bronzy olive of his skin. Lifting a hand to his head, he unfurled the pistachio green ghutra, a cooling breeze warming the sweat collecting at his nape.
His freed hand remains on the massive beast walking beside him as a calm washes over him. Wisps of Qadr's long, free-flowing mane swayed slightly in the air after a furious gallop. His thick obsidian pelt resembled pure raw silk with a strong gloss that glistened even darker under the sun. Instinctively, the beast lowered his head to brush it against the crook of Hussam's neck. The callous, yet gentle hand of his master fell to caress the bridge of his nostrils and Qadr leaned in to the touch, content.
Hussam's smile is faint but obvious. "I should not spoil you so much."
No sooner had they reached the stables did the stallion suddenly rear up on his hind legs and lashed out with his front hoofs with a sharp neigh—flinging the contents on the saddle. A soaring arrow had struck the nearby tree, giving him a fright. Grasping the reins, Hussam pulled down hard on the leather noseband until Qadr's front feet returned to the ground. He then placed a strong palm on his head, adding decent pressure.
Qadr did not yield.
"Easy, boy. Easy." he said, stroking his underbelly. The stallion finally eased up, nuzzling him. Hussam smoothed his horse's forelocks before loosening the bridle. He removed the saddle to prevent any soreness and further irritation. It was why Hussam trekked to the village on foot. The journey back from patrolling the outskirts had worn his companion, and it was critical he restores stamina.
Just as he closed the shed, a sudden tug of Hussam's sleeve caused his head to jerk downward. Eyes wide with wonder, a small boy peered up at him expectantly, not at all phased by his imposing height.
"May I assist you, my prince?"
Rarely did Hussam surprise easily, if at all, and the brazen youngster piqued his interest. The boy deepened the base in his voice to sound more manly, however his boyish timbre had yet to mature. His head full of hair, chest out, and a toothless grin only marked his innocence.
An innocence Hussam treasured. "How old are you?"
"Ummi says I will be ten summers, but father says age does not make the man."
Hussam wouldn't admit it, but he liked his answer. He liked it a lot, in fact. Maybe too much. He quirked an amused brow. "Is that so?"
"Yes, my prince," he eagerly nods his reply.
"What is your name?"
"Ahmed, my prince."
"Very well, Ahmed. Is your mother aware that you are here?"
"Na'am!" He nods again with that feverish zeal; giddy at the mere idea of serving his leader. He did not bat an eye in his presence. "It was she who told me to aid you instead of Nizam. My brother is not feeling well."
"One might think otherwise." Hussan voiced, murmuring a silent prayer for the boy's speedy health and protection.
Surely no sane mother would send her child into the lion's den. Nizam, his horse-keeper, was Ahmed's brother, he'd just learned. It made all the sense then why the brave boy stood before a man—a cold-blooded brute—most mothers would kiss away from his nightmares.
"Huh? One might what, my prince?"
"It is nothing." Turning to grab the fallen goods from the ground, he hands Ahmed a basket filled with spices and vegetables he'd purchased at the market, along with a bouquet for his mother. Not too heavy, something his scrawny arms could bear.
Hussam had made plans to visit his mother and could have delivered them himself, but was too modest a man to enter any female quarters. "Deliver these to the housekeeper and make sure the kitchenmaids receive them."
"And after?" Ahmed asks, plainly sulking at the thought of not working with horses mountains his size. "What would you have me do after I deliver them?"
Brazen and relentless. Hussam grinned. "I shall teach you a few tricks later, in sha allah," he said pointing to the slew of horses in the stables. Not Qadr. Never his stallion.
His eyes widen. "Haqqan!?"
"Only if your mother consents." He supplied, patting his head. "Yallah, run along now."
"A beautiful flower... for a beautiful flower."
The breathless gasp reaches his ears first, brown eyes lighting with pleasure of the unexpected. "Oh, my son!" Umm Hussam cried as her frantic hands search his face for any scars. She was astute, petite, and no more voluptuous than any woman who had birthed eight souls. Her strong arms wrap around her son tightly whilst her head cocoons his chest.
"Assalamu alaikum, mother." Hussam hugs her back, engulfing her in his arms. When she kissed his cheek, he closed his eyes savoring the fresh scent of jasmine and coconut infusing her curls. A familiar scent. The scent of paradise on earth.
The scent of home.
Through the haze of his cumbrous thoughts comes his mother's voice, light and soothing. "Wa alaikum assalam. Ya Allah, how I have missed you."
Hussam's eyes darkened at the tear ruining her cheek. With a shake of his head, he wipes it, smiling, "Not nearly as much as I have missed you." She lifts her forehead, and he places a chaste kiss in the center. "Forgive me for not visiting you sooner as no excuse could suffice," he says waving the bundle of red roses. She had forgotten all about it in her burst of elation. "I'd hoped to make it better."
She takes the flowers, grinning as she inhales the sweet aroma of the velvety petals. "They are beautiful." Her eyes squint in a knowing glint. "Are they your attempt at making it better?"
"Depends."
"On what?"
"Whether it is working."
She chuckles heartily, swatting a stem on his chest. She moves past him to place the roses in water before leaving to grab a dallah. "I nearly went mad in the months of your absence. It did not help your brothers' sanity."
Hussam hadn't seen a trace of the wild animals as the palace was eerily still. There weren't a soul on earth he could entrust in his mother's care other than his siblings. Those boys would sacrifice their life for their mother, just as Hussam would burn himself alive. "The palace is quite peaceful today."
"One could hear crickets." She concedes. "I assume your men informed you of Bakr. Mukhtar, Safi, and Majid have gone to visit their uncle, and Allah only knows where Tariq has fled."
Umm Hussam spoke of her only brother. "And Fuad?"
"My heart? He is dead to the world."
Little mouse, as Hussam called him—the youngest of two sets of twins—was far too timid in the company of others and much preferred to remain with his mother, sound asleep. "I am here now, there is no need to fret."
As expected, it was unlike his mother to not worry. "Bakr said you have not eaten."
Stubborn woman.
"I have not. I can now that I've seen your face."
She rolls her eyes, a smile overtaking her delicate features. "Qahwa?" He was not thirsty, but took the cup of freshly brewed coffee for her joy. She then left only to return with Kabsah. His favorite dish.
"Mother, you do not have—"
"You are starving. I can see it in your eyes, son. They are empty, but your head is full. Have you rested?"
"Yes mother, I am well rested." He offers, taking a seat on the kilim as he drinks in the luxurious space. Golden curtains drape the windows, the sunlight pouring through making it that much richer. Quaint paintings line ivory walls, and the surplus of mirrors magnify every inch of opulence. Hussam did not much care for any of it, although he had quite a knack for indulging his mother.
"Your father is asleep."
His gaze shifts, confused. Before he can put a morsel to his mouth Umm Hussam utters "The eyes do not lie, my son. You are a troubled man who wishes to make amends with his father. Am I wrong?"
He was at a loss for words. She knew him too well, and it hadn't dawned on him until this moment. "I'm afraid not."
His mother hummed in thought. "But understand this, there is nothing to amend. My husband is many things, but a fool is not one of them. He does not possess the heart to remain angry at his son."
Hussam wanted to believe that, oh how he wished to. However, he saw more to his father than most people and had reasons to believe otherwise. He learned of the man beneath the mask. The man who had suffered realities capable of even rotting the souls of saintly men—of igniting fires and drying oceans. The man who had killed his own flesh to defend his spouse's honors.
His beloved mother accepted the untarnished parts of his soul. She was privy to the most salvageable parts, parts that were not so rotten. The parts Sheikh Ma'ruf reserved for his family. She knew of the husband and father. The venerable leader. The pious servant who feared the wrath of his lord more than the clutches of death itself.
Hussam, however, confronted every face of his father's.
He silently disagrees, however, keen to indulge his mother's whims. He would not question a Queen in her own palace, much less the King who still drew breath in the adjacent room. Besides, he valued his life.
"Mother," He starts finally noshing on his food. "I ponder you have knowledge of something I do not."
Her shapely brows knit. "What would make you think such?"
He gestured around him at the sublime meal, then looked straight at her. She always knew the way to her sons—Food. "You said it yourself, no? The eyes do not lie? Tell me then, mother, what is it you do not want me to know?"
Realization sunk as Umm Hussam grinned to herself. "You are your father's child." His lips remain hushed until she utters. "I cannot say for certain she is still there, but I have sent my handmaid to the infirmary."
Hussam paused suddenly, hoping he had not heard right. "She?"
"Yes."
It was his turn to frown. "Mother, we allow no women there. Not even the royal servants."
"I am aware of that, however, she has considerable knowledge on wounds and herbs. It was she who saved Aabid's wife. And yet again, aids another one of your knights. If not for her, Ali would have surely succumbed to death."
"Still, mother." His voice is firmer. "Our laws are not made to be bent."
"You are angry with me."
Disappointed? Perhaps. Angry? Never. His mother was merely being just that... a pining mother. It was his knights he itched to admonish. Since when had they become gutless?
Losing an appetite that had never quite returned, Hussam rinsed his hand in the bowl of water beside him, and rose to his full height. He bent down to hug his mother once more before cupping her face in the U of his large palms. "Nothing could make me angry with you." He fled the room like a brute with a purpose.
"What brings a woman to these quarters?" Hussam barked at the royal guard and knight stationed by the door of the infirmary.
Inside sat the woman in question with her back to them, treating Ali's injuries—silent, but acutely aware of his presence. It had not even occurred to Hussam to disclose her name, which vexed him more than it should have. He seethed, rage pulsing through his veins at the incompetence of his knights.
Stupefied, the knight stammered, "Ya Amir, she insisted—"
"She? She has no say in lawful matters. You are a knight; you dare to insult me with such feeble courage?"
It was a lesson Hussam believed he'd instilled well in his men; the very lesson Abbas had etched into his memory. Excuses are the cowardly man's disguise, a real man is only as good as his word.
The guard's resolve crumbles to ashes. "No, sheikh. Forgive my—"
"Is that it?" Hussam goads, eyes burning holes through him. "Have I groomed my men into cowards? Into spineless worms?"
All at once, a distinctly feminine voice shatters the tension. "They may be your men, Sheikh, but they are our people too," The woman voices evenly. "Their lives mean much to us as they do you."
If the relief on his knight's face was any clue, she'd just saved his life.
Hussam reluctantly withdraws his frosty glare, entering the sterile space. Wooden cabinets store medicinal herbs, and fresh linens line the walls. Either side of the room stations twelve rows of cots. On the floor rests a platter of bloodied linens, needles, mortar and pestle, a vessel of water and vials that store blood.
His eyes thoughtlessly travel to the woman cloaked in black, bare eyes keen on her patient. She is kneeling beside the cot and her deft hands suture the gaping gash that starts at Ali's shoulder blade and runs past his biceps to the juncture of his elbow. Soaking a cloth in water, she cleanses the wound before swathing it with a clean bandage.
Hussam could not recall a time one had tended a wound so... masterly.
Curious, his steps draw closer to observe her skill. His stare inadvertently settles on her brows fused in focus. Or was it pity? Hussam scowled, dropping his gaze. The muscle in his jaws flex in annoyance even as a slosh of water told him she was washing her hands.
"Is the lady not discouraged?"
"No more than your men," she retorts. Avoiding his glare, she spares a glance to the terrified young knight outside, then looks down at an anxious Ali on the cot all the while collecting filthy gauzes and tossing them into an empty bowl. "The wound shall heal in a month. Maybe two. You must replace the bandages every six hours to prevent it from festering."
"What of Zeeb?" Ali anxiously voices.
The woman visibly winces. "Your sister lives, alhamdulilah. I will care for her in your stead." Her eyes speak of a silent oath as Ali nods in gratitude.
She rose at once, bowl in hand, then turned, only to collide into his solid chest. Hussam's frame blocked the door, unwavering. His scowl remained, but his nerves soared, shooting an unfamiliar bolt through his body. His heart gutted at the blow. He could hardly blink.
Those eyes... he'd seen them before.
The brownish, sea-green pools—enslave his attention as he drowns in their depths, rapt. Like a dazed fool, they lose him in a drunken stupor; her eyes more intoxicating than wine.
"And my name is Aisha, should you wish to use it."
A/N: Translations in comment section!
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