The way the river water rushes by, never to return. The way the days go by, never to return. The way somebody comes back, but only in a dream.

— Mary Oliver

SOMETHING CRAWLING ON his body breaks his sleep. He jerks up and reaches for it. In the dark, he can only hear the mewling of a cat. Furat puts it down on the floor and lies back. Sleep comes to him quickly.

The second time is when something touches his face. His eyes snap open, ready to attack, before he relaxes. Being trained all his life to look out for any danger and be on his best defenses, he might punch the cat dead and leave Rahaf mourning for it.

Carefully picking the cat up, he places it behind him near Rahaf and tries to go back to sleep. The cat rubs against his back. He ignores it as he drifts away into his dreams. But the dream quickly turns into a nightmare.

The waves leap and crash against his ship. The sky is gray. So is there a storm on his ship. He's chasing after her. But she's getting away. All he wishes for is to save her. To stop her. To not let her go.

He keeps calling her. Maybe he even asks for her forgiveness. But maybe he doesn't deserve it. He knows he isn't worth it. But he doesn't wish for her to punish herself because of him.

She stands at the edge of the ship. She's bleeding. Maybe she stabbed herself. She wants to run away from him.

“Don't jump!”

Farya jumps off his ship.

He wakes up with a gasp. Silence and darkness greet him and choke him. He hurries to sit up. His right hand is trembling and he tries to hold it still with his left. His clothes are sticking to him, suffocating him, and he tugs at his collar. Dragging the blanket off his body, he steps down the bed.

He leaves the chamber and stumbles through the quiet corridors lit by the torches until he steps out of the palace into the courtyard. The morning prayer call is called. Mindless of everything, he makes his way to the rose garden. And unknowing of why and how, he ends up on the bench by the fountain.

The air at dawn makes him shiver. In his disheveled state, he forgot to take his cloak with him. But at least his hand is no more trembling. He rubs his right hand with his left. The prayer call has finished and his shoulder drops. His eyes closed, he lowers his face to the ground.

“I was never your favorite, my Lord. A decade later you still remind me of my sins.”

Furat sits on the bench until the first ray of sun breaks the dawn and the sky turns from black to a deep blue. He hears someone's footsteps. They're coming towards them. Has Rahaf woken up and, having found him missing, has come to look for him?

He's proven wrong when Bassam emerges from behind the bushes. The boy immediately comes to a stop, takes a step back and peers at him.

“Raees?”

Furat hums and Bassam walks towards him, some papers in his hands.

“What are you doing here, raees?” he asks.

“I needed air,” he replies briefly and dismissively, patting the space beside him on the bench. “Why are you up so early?”

Bassam sits down with him. “I was praying.”

“And why are you out here?”

“I was exploring. No one bothers me at this hour.”

Furat smiles at his answer. “You don't like it here?”

“I do. But they ask me questions when I draw.” He presents to him the papers he's carrying. “I've drawn you maps of the palace, as you asked me to. I tried to capture as many details as I could and all the places and things I thought to be particularly important.”

Furat takes the papers from him. He studies them as he moves from one to the next, keenly and patiently. His drawings are subtle and hide details that any unaware and inexperienced eye might miss. These seem merely images of the corridors, halls, courtyard, gardens, and more, which any person might mistake for one's passion for drawing, but he can see how they're linked to one another yet sketched and created in a way to misguide.

“A window?” Furat holds up one of his sketches. “Tell me its significance.”

“This one is close to Ameer Aswad's chamber, the first one down the right corridor. This overlooks the stables and the outer court. I didn't scribble the details so no one may suspect me. But you can remember this by noticing the design of small hawks crafted on top corners of the window glass. This tells us about the soldiers guarding the front of the palace.”

“Excellent.” Furat pats him on the back. “I'm very proud of you, Bassam.”

Bassam beams. “I'm glad to be of service to you.”

“Have you been staying close to Rahaf?”

He nods.

“Did she meet someone I should be aware of?”

“I don't think so, raees.”

“General Marrar?”

“No, but she did meet the caliph yesterday. I don't know if it's of any importance to you, but he asked her if she'd like to stay at the palace with everyone when you've to be away at the sea. He said that that way she wouldn't be alone and since the general's daughter is really fond of her, she'd be happy too.”

Furat ponders over the information. It seems like an innocent request from a brother to his sister, but he doesn't know how to feel about it.

“The Amira is very kind,” Bassam says.

He doesn't acknowledge it or respond to him, too lost in his thoughts.

“I like her, raees.”

This makes his head turn to him. Furat feels his eyebrows twitch. “Don't say that again, Bassam.”

“But she's very kind,” Bassam innocently repeats. “She asked me about myself. She told me that I should feel at home and mention it to her if I need anything. She even gave me my own room and a horse.”

“A man won't like another man complimenting his woman, even if the compliment comes from someone as naive as yourself. And even if his woman is his enemy.”

Bassam blushes and lowers his eyes in embarrassment. A hush falls between them. Furat closes his eyes as he feels a headache coming. He presses against his temples.

“But raees,” Bassam says quietly after a while, “I don't understand why you'd make her your enemy.”

“I didn't do so. Her father did, by slaughtering my people and burning my village,” he answers without opening his eyes.

“But her father is dead and she's not guilty of his crimes.”

This makes Furat look at him again. Bassam is quick to steal his gaze. He swallows and fidgets with the papers in his hands.

“Next you'll ask me what's the fault of Aswad bin Motassem in all of this? So I'll tell you that they're the blood of the man because of whom I and everyone you know on my ship barely made it out alive, while these people lived to their heart's content upon the blessings of the others.”

Bassam doesn't dare to look at him. But Furat has to admire his courage when he dares to say, “Ameer Aswad may be cruel like his father, but I don't think Amira Rahaf is.”

Furat tightens his jaw. He doesn't wish to argue with Bassam, nor does he wish to say a rude word to him. The boy is still too young and too good to dip his fingers in blood and revenge.

“Go,” Furat softly commands. “Finish your drawings. We don't have many days left here.”

Bassam tips his head and looks at him apologetically. Furat gives him a small, reassuring smile. The boy leaves and he's once more on his own.

He looks down at his right hand. It isn't trembling, but he knows it will when his memories come to haunt him again— when his fears resurface. He clenches and unclenches it. It feels perfectly fine to him.

He leaves the garden and makes his way to their chamber. The sky has turned a lighter blue. The birds have woken up and guards on duty have switched. The corridors of the palace are no longer as dark or quiet. But when he arrives at their chamber, it's cold and empty.

“Rahaf?”

The cat on the bed lifts her head at his voice. It's sitting on his side of the bed and Rahaf's side is vacant. She must have gone out looking for him.

“Where is the woman you like?” he asks the cat as if she can answer him. She meows and puts her head back down.

He sighs and goes to sit down on a chair. His headache is growing worse every minute. Furat rests his head against the wall. His eyelids grow heavy and he looks towards the door. He wants to go out after Rahaf, but he feels too exhausted to do so. And before he knows it, sleep takes over him.

AFTER TIRING HERSELF looking for himself everywhere she can, Rahaf decides to return to their chamber and sends Masruq to ask around for him. Her husband worries her sometimes. At first when she woke up and didn't find him beside her, she thought he might’ve gone out for fajr. But when the sun kissed the sky and he didn't return, she decided to go out after him.

Furat confuses her sometimes. Oftentimes she doesn't understand him despite finding him strangely intriguing. Like a mystery she wants to solve but that leaves her restless and questioning every time. Other times, he simply bewitches her and she puts reasons aside. Yet in all his shades she adores him a lot.

When she enters their chamber, she's surprised to find Furat there sitting on a chair. She hurries towards him.

“Furat? Where did you—”

She hushes and stops short in her tracks when she realizes he's sleeping. Something in her chest throbs. What happened? Why is he sleeping on a chair?

She goes to sit on the bed and Mushk crawls on her lap. She pets her as she stares at her husband. He sits peacefully asleep. When her cat meows, Rahaf puts a finger to her lips as if she'll understand her.

Furat groans, making her sit straighter in attention, as he rolls his head against the wall. He must be feeling uncomfortable in that position, Rahaf thinks. Putting Mushk off her lap, she takes a cushion and goes towards him. Gently and carefully, she slips her hand behind his head to adjust it.

Suddenly he grabs her shoulder. Before she has the time to react, Furat sharply tugs her down. She goes crashing into him.

“Ah!” Her nose hits the arch of his eyebrow, making her see colors in pain. “Ya Allah, my nose!”

The cushion falls from her hands. She stumbles back, nursing her nose. Furat looks at her with shocked, wide awake eyes.

“Rahaf?” He quickly gets to his feet. “I thought— God, I'm so sorry. Let me see.”

He holds her hands and removes them from her face. She has to blink back tears against the pain as she lets Furat inspect her nose.

“Is it broken?” she asks and hears him chuckle.

“No, no. Praise be to God, or I couldn't live with the sin.”

He pulls her to himself and presses her head against his chest. Rahaf stiffens. Her breath hitches. Her knees buckle. She feels she might faint. They haven't hugged before now. And suddenly when he has embraced her, she forgets the pain in her nose. Something in her abdomen feels funny and her face warms up.

She can hear his heartbeat beneath her ear. It feels a little fast. He has a hand behind her head and another around her waist. She awkwardly puts her arms around his torso and fists his shirt.

“You shouldn't touch me like that when I sleep, Rahaf. I may seriously hurt you, God forbid.”

“I'm sorry,” she mumbles, requesting in response, “You shouldn't leave our chamber like this. I worry, Furat.”

She hears him chuckle again. “Where will I go but that I'll return to you?”

Her face burns some more. He pulls away and she tries to hide it from him. She wishes he wouldn't pull away. She wishes to stay in his arms a while longer. The thought makes her drown in shame and feel lightheaded at the same time.

Furat reaches to touch her nose. “Does it hurt too much?”

She shakes her head.

“Let's freshen up and have breakfast. I'll make it up to you then,” he suggests.

She perks up. “How so?”

“By taking you somewhere beautiful.”

“Where?”

“To the meadows where Rouzbeh and I race horses. Will you race with me?”

She grins, excited at the thought, and nods at him. “I'll love to, Furat.”

“IS AMEER ZURARAH in his chamber?” Marrar asks the guard outside the vizier’s chamber who tips his head at him.

“Yes, sayyidi.”

The guard knocks on the door before letting him in. But when Marrar enters the chamber, Zurarah bin Hirash is already rushing towards the door with a scroll in his hand. There's a minaret of scrolls behind him on the table. Marrar looks between him and his work table.

“Am I here at the wrong time?”

Zurarah lets out a short laugh and motions for him to come inside. “Not at all. I just needed to personally give this letter to Ameer Aswad. Give me a moment and I'll be back with you.”

“Of course.”

“There are some letters from the governor of Isbiliya. He has some concerns regarding his army and the general. I wanted you to read them.”

Marrar nods and moves towards the table. “Which ones among these?”

Zurarah is already walking out of the door as he answers him, “The ones with the blue threads.”

Marrar looks at the minaret before him. There are scrolls tied with blue threads and there are others in cases with blue threads at the ends. Then there are some with blue so dark he cannot tell them apart from black. He doesn't know if he should just wait for Zurarah to return or if he should look for the said letters himself. Then deciding to just find the letters and read them, he goes to sit on the chair at the table.

Zurarah has separated some scrolls into sets of threes and fours. Marrar goes through the first set in vain, probably because he mistook the black thread for dark blue, and finds the second set of scrolls what he's looking for. He skims through the letters. There are only two of them addressing the issues with the army, the third letter is of no business to him.

As he puts the scrolls back in place, his elbow hits a small pile of books in the corner and they fall off the table. Marrar quickly leans down to pick them up. He gathers the papers that have fallen out of them. But when he opens the book to put the papers back into it, he realizes they're torn pages or letters and the book in his hand is actually a diary. The thought of Zurarah bin Hirash writing a diary makes him smile.

The pages are all dated. Marrar tries to put them back in order. They're all memories about eleven to twelve years old. Some of them are letters, others simply entries. He tries to respect the vizier’s privacy and not read through anything, but putting back a particular page makes him pause. It's a name mentioned on it that catches Marrar’s attention. At first, he thinks of himself to be mistaken and tries to ignore it. But despite his best efforts, his eyes return to the name and he stares at it until he can believe it.

August, 939.
To Zurarah bin Hirash,
From Farya bint Kiyan.

━━━━━━━━━━━━

So, I passed the exam I asked everyone to pray for. And everyone who did, thank you so much.