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“Ali, stay still!” Nahri’s sharp voice came from behind him, and Ali immediately stopped fidgeting at the command in her tone.
He didn’t know why he’d let Nahri cut his hair. Sure, his curls were outgrown after weeks without paying a visit to his barber back in Daevabad, and his beard was in no better condition, but he was fine with it. The fact that Nahri had noticed and decided to do something about it made a twinge of self-awareness – not entirely bad, but not quite good – settle inside his mind.
They’d been traveling down the Nile for just a few hours, when they’d stumbled upon ruins of what looked like an ancient village by the shore, and decided to stop to light a fire and heat the beans that Yaqub had sent for their first day of journey.
The sun had still been high in the sky, and Ali had stridden towards the shore to dive into the river’s water and clear his mind, while Nahri had stayed by the fallen columns as the responsible for the fire. Usually they had quick and well-humored banters about those things, but this time Ali had granted Nahri the great honor of lighting the fire without any objection. He had gladly – and silently – thanked Nahri for not making any jesting remark about how he couldn’t light a fire without his magic, for he was still slightly embarrassed about that. With his magic gone, he felt like a child again, like he still hadn’t learned the simplest and easiest tasks that were required to survive. If his ideas for a new Daevabad worked out, he definitely would vote to implement basic survival skills as obligatory lessons for young djinn at their schools. Well, if they manage to take their city back.
Shaking off negative thoughts from his mind, Ali had taken off his shirt, left it folded near his shawl on top of a nearby rock, and jumped into the water.
The water was cool against his skin, and he’d felt relief flood through him. Ali had missed swimming. It always calmed him when his mind was disturbed, and after everything that had happened back in Daevabad, he certainly had been in desperate need of this comfort. After a couple of wide strokes up the river, he’d dived downward, seeking that increasing pressure of the water against his body the deeper he swam, opening his eyes and marveling at the sight of ruins carved with pictograms jutting out of the riverbed. When his muscles had started to ache, Ali erupted from the surface of the river and looked back.
The calm water was glowing, reflecting the bright light from the sun, big in the sky right in front of him. From his spot, he had to squeeze his eyes to search for the ruins where he’d left Nahri. She had been crouched near a tall column, completely shaded by the sun, and as she’d straightened and stepped forward, he could only glimpse her slim figure, even tinier from the distance. His heart had started to beat faster at the sight of her, and he’d adverted his eyes, taking in the scenery that the river bathed in sunlight provided.
Scrubby bushes lined both shores of the Nile, reeds darting out of its bank, the water speeding up near the rocks from the ruins. He could see the dark line in the horizon where the Nile continued far from his field of vision. What a beautiful place. Ali’s eyes had darted again towards Nahri’s lean silhouette. With a beautiful view. He’d felt the sudden urge to come back to those rocks, to her.
And so he had returned.
After pulling himself up from the water, Ali had started to dry his curls, trying to puff them a bit before going back to the columns where he’d last seen Nahri. Stop acting like an idiot, he’d thought, but still patted his outgrown beard self-consciously. Then he’d seen movement out of the corner of his eye and turned quickly.
Nahri had approached him with a sharp, glistening blade lifted on one hand, a mischievous smile brightening her face and making him gulp with anticipation.
“What is this?” he’d asked, his voice wary – much to her delight, apparently, because Nahri’s smile had widened.
“Time to makeover,” she’d answered, looking more frightening than ever. Ali took a step back, approaching the river. “I want to try something on you.”
“What–“ His eyes had widened as they surveyed the blade again. Did she reconsider his suggestion of plucking the seal out of his heart? Back then, Ali had meant what he said, but in that moment, seeing Nahri eagerly walk towards him with such a tool in her hand, he wasn’t so sure about it anymore. At least, Ali would need more time to prepare himself – and pray for God to let him live to fight another day. “What do you mean?”
Nahri’s shoulders had slumped, and she’d let out an exasperated huff. “I just want to cut your hair, Ali. Not kill you.” She stared at him pointedly. “Stop being so obtuse.”
He was baffled. “I am not bein-“
“Will you let me cut your hair or not?” Those deep black eyes had turned soft, and a tiny smile appeared in the corner of her mouth. Ali had suddenly forgotten how to breathe. The thought of her hands on his scalp was a temptation – something he could not allow himself to think about.
But could he really deny her anything?
And that’s how Ali found himself seated on a small rock, amongst the ruins of an ancient village near the shore of the Nile, with Nahri standing behind him.
Her hands worked slowly, as if she wasn’t sure what she was doing. Ali could feel his curls being stretched by her hands at the nape of his neck, the blade cutting them tightly. He thought about asking her if she’d done this before, but then he realized that he didn’t care. Appearance had been a delicate subject to him – a tug inside his chest every time he looked at his reflection and noticed that his only Geziri trace was his eyes –, but now, sailing down the Nile towards Shefala, he felt especially proud of his tight curls, a heritance from his Amma. And by the way Nahri’s hands were moving with such tenderness, so much care, as if he was one of her patients – again –, he knew that he would like the result nonetheless.
The sun was going down by the horizon, casting an orange glow at the river, and he could see their shadows intertwined on the rocks below him, her small frame curved and her head bent near his neck. Ali was very aware of the heat irradiating from her body, so close to his, which combined with the bright rays of the nearby sunset made him feel burning inside. One inch backwards and his shoulders would be touching her. This is not appropriate, he reproved the thought. She’s Muntadhir’s widow. There wasn’t a single day gone by without Ali having to remind himself that she was not his.
He had to put some more space between them. Catching sight of the shore right below him, Ali started to lean towards the water. Also, it wouldn’t hurt to take a look at whatever she was doing in his head.
But as soon as he moved forward, Nahri’s free hand closed around his shoulder and pulled him back with such force he slammed into her body.
“Why are you running away from me?” Nahri snapped, annoyed. Her hand was warm on his shoulder, keeping him pressed against her. “I’m trying to work here. Please cooperate.”
“I just want to see my reflect–”
“No,” she cut him off abruptly, squeezing his shoulder. “Don’t spy yet.”
So much for keeping his distance. Ali sighed as she drove her attention back to his nape. He’d just have to think about something else.
No use, though. Memories of her guarded smile, her careful voice speaking to him in Arabic, her unexpected laugh whenever he said something surprisingly funny had haunted him all the way to Am Gezira, and back to Daevabad. And now they were making new memories, although mixed with grief and fear, and he knew those too would haunt him if they were ever pulled apart again. He could only wish they wouldn’t.
Nahri’s hands started to caress his neck, brushing off the little hairs clung to his skin. Ali shivered.
“It tickles,” he mumbled, a weak attempt to conceal his shameful reaction to her touch. His voice was embarrassingly hoarse, and he cleared his throat to continue. “I don’t like that.”
“You’re squeamish and ticklish?” Nahri laughed. “Now that’s something I didn’t know about you.”
“Probably the only thing,” Ali said before he could stop himself. Nahri knew his dreams, his fears, what made him happy and what could break his heart. She had seen him laugh, and cry, and ask for help, and she never turned away from him – not even during those tough weeks after his return to Daevabad, despite her claims. She was his best friend.
But these words are a lie, Ali noticed, unnerved. Nahri didn’t know how deeply he had fallen for her.
“Where did you get this blade again?” he blurted out, desperate to change the subject. His nerves were definitely getting the best of him.
“On the street.” Ali opened his mouth to protest, because who knows for what it was used, but Nahri shushed him quickly. “I am joking, al Qahtani. It was inside Yaqub’s bag. Maybe he knew you needed a haircut.”
“He couldn’t even see me!”
“Stop moving your head,” Nahri hissed, and his mouth shut closed. “You shouldn’t disobey me when I have my blade so close to your neck.”
Ali laughed, despite her warning.
“I wouldn’t notice,” he replied, unwanted honesty pouring from his mouth yet again. “In fact, you are one of the few people I trust with a blade so near my neck” he completed, and then froze, realizing his words. God have mercy, why wouldn’t he just shut up?
A weird silence stretched between them. Ali felt her move behind him, and he turned slightly to see Nahri reaching down to grab the scissors from inside her bag and dampen her left hand on a small bowl of water. When she turned back to him, he quickly returned to his position, embarrassed and nervous. Ali asked himself if he’d talked too much, if he’d broken the fragile yet persistent trust they had built, so precious to him.
But then Nahri spoke.
"I'm glad."
He knew for certain that she hadn’t missed how his heart seemed to skip a beat at the warm sound of her voice.
“So.” Nahri said. “You certainly had your hair cut back in Daevabad. Did you do it yourself?” She ran her fingers through his hair, wetting his curls. Ali kept his gaze forward, on the sunset pouring into the horizon, its reflection lighting the Nile, and tried to focus on her question.
“No,” he answered. “I had a barber back at the Citadel.”
"Tell me about him.” Nahri’s fingers were now stretching the hair on top of his head, trimming its ends with her scissors. “I'm sure you couldn't care less about haircut, so I imagine he would do whatever he wanted with your hair?"
“His name is Haroon.” Ali replied, thoughtfully. “His shop was in the Ayaanle Quarter, but he used to stop by the Citadel once in a month. Amma’s orders.” He let out a short laugh, which felt so wrong in his mouth, and soon became a gasp.
“He has a family. A big one.” A sudden wave of nostalgia ripped through his soul, and tears prickled his eyes. “When I returned to the palace to become Qaid, I started visiting his shop once a month. I used to play with his children before I left, take them candies from the palace’s kitchens.”
Ali fell silent, a deep sadness rising in his chest. He felt Nahri going still behind him, heard her breathe in as she bent down to put the scissors back inside the bag.
“You sound very fond of him,” she said.
“He’s a great man. I wonder if…” Ali choked on his words. He wondered if he had survived the destruction that Manizheh had inflicted on Daevabad. Ali took a deep breath. He felt awful for forgetting about him. For almost forgetting about all of those that he for sure lost that night, and all of those that he could have lost without knowing it.
“I’m sorry,” he blurted out, closing his eyes as if it could stop the images of his friends’ bodies spread around the beach, dust and rubble covering them. “I didn’t mean to burden you with all this.”
“Don’t apologize,” Nahri rested her hand on his shoulder, giving it a gentle squeeze. “Thank you for sharing this with me.”
He swallowed and nodded in return, his gaze falling to his feet.
“Did he take care of your hair since you were a child?” she asked as her fingers returned to his hair, wiping the loose ends she had cut off. If her hands were careful before, now they were even gentler – almost like she was trying to comfort him. But this combined with the memories her question was awakening made him shrink, a painful tug in his chest.
“No,” Ali rasped. “Only after I turned 12. Wajed used to cut my hair when I was a child.”
“Ghassan’s Qaid?” she asked, a bit surprised.
“Yes.”
Remembrances of his time as a boy flooded his mind, evoked by the sound of his uncle’s name. When Ali was first dropped by the majestic Citadel at the age of 5 to start his training, Wajed used to stay beside his bedroll until he fell asleep, despite his father’s orders to tough him up. After Ali grew a bit older, he stopped. It had been a lonely time for him then, all those years sleeping alone on the hard floor, but he felt comfort in knowing that Wajed would always be there, at the yard, the next morning. And whenever the Qaid called him to his personal office, on the upper floor of the building, Ali would know it was time for a new haircut. Wajed would sit on a chair across from his desk, and motion for a wide-eyed Alizayd to sit on the cushions in front of him. Come, little one. Then, as he shaved Ali’s hair, he would tell Ali stories of his own childhood at the Citadel. Don’t tell anyone I’ve been giving you ideas, Wajed would say, after whispering to Ali where exactly was located a secret passage towards the kitchens, so that Ali could sneak in for food whenever he felt hungry. Ali, however, only had used the passageway once – after waking up from a bad nightmare, his stomach had growled and he couldn’t sleep again. When he’d returned to his cell, regret and shame had clung to him like an obsessive enemy, and he never snuck away from his cell again. He was always the one to follow rules.
Until he wasn’t anymore.
He wondered where Wajed was. Was he okay? Was he alive? The last time Ali heard of his uncle, he had just taken the Citadel, invaded Wajed’s office, claimed as his. Wajed was to escort Jamshid to be held hostage in a safe place, but Ali didn’t know where Ghassan had sent him.
Not for the first time since they’d left Daevabad, Ali considered the outcome of those he loved. Wajed. Zaynab. Aqisa. Lubayd. Abba. Dhiru. Three of them dead already. He had no clue as to where Wajed and Aqisa had gone, and Zaynab was still stuck in Daevabad. Is she?, his traitorous mind went to a much darker place then what he was ready for. Or was she captured? And, again, not for the first time, he considered if everything was his fault. If his choice of dividing his father’s allies somehow had affected the fate of his family. If he had never taken the Citadel, would they have been more prepared for such attack?
No. Stop thinking like this. Ali was getting lost in his own grief again, and if his mind didn’t stop dwelling on the worst possible scenarios now, he wasn’t sure he could walk out of it whole.
Ali noticed that he’d gone quiet for too long, but Nahri didn’t seem to mind or wait for him to continue his sad ramblings. He knew that she was respecting his silence and trying to give him some comfort. Her hands were still touching his hair, although much slower, and he suspected there were no more little hairs for her to brush off. Suddenly his previous nervousness with her touch seemed foolish. They had so much to worry about already.
Still, Ali felt like he should say something more. He wanted her to know how important Wajed was to him.
“Wajed taught me everything I know. And he also used to take care of my hair, although he would just shave it because it was easier.” A broken laugh escaped his lips. “He all but raised me.” Then he corrected himself. “I mean, he’s not my father, but...”
“I know what you mean.” Her voice was tight, as if she was on the verge of tears.
Ali was about to ask what she meant, but then he understood. Nisreen. The healer that had been Nahri’s mentor – and the only motherly figure Nahri ever had. Killed by an extremist shafit group at the Navasatem parade. A sick feeling began to pool in Ali’s stomach. He was too focused on his own misery and grief to be careful about any triggering thoughts for Nahri.
She continued. “Sometimes Nisreen would help me getting dressed or comb my hair and I–“ she choked. “I guess I’ve never had someone who took care of me like that before.”
He could hear her shaky breath, feel her trembling fingers on his scalp. “Nahri…” Ali tried to turn around, but her hands gripped his shoulders, a quiet plea for him not to move.
“I’m fine.” Her voice was low and full of sorrow. “It’s just…” she trailed off.
Ali wanted to hug her, to tell her that everything was going to be okay. Except that he didn’t know if it would.
Instead, he reached out and wrapped his hand around hers, still resting on his shoulder. “I understand.”
“I miss her,” Nahri whispered, and her tone was so broken that his heart twitched. He didn’t want her to feel like this. She didn’t deserve any kind of sadness. “Despite everything, I miss her.”
“Of course you do. She was part of your life.” Ali tried not to think about his Abba, about the sight of his cold and beaten body spread on the cold floor of the pavilion, dried blood pouring out of his mouth, ears, and nose. He too knew what it was like to feel disappointed by a parent, but still love them anyway. “I am sorry, Nahri,” he said, tears clouding his vision. “I am so, so sorry.”
Nahri remained silent for a while. Then her thumb began to slowly caress his fingers. “Thank you,” she whispered, so soft that he almost thought he was imagining it.
Ali smiled, a rush of tenderness filling him up again.
“I should be the one apologizing,” she said, untangling their hands and reaching out to grab her shawl. “I turned this about me.”
“No,” Ali hurried. “Not at all. Please, don’t feel like you have to hide yourself from me.”
She started to dry his head, enfolding his hair. “Okay.”
Ali waited patiently, already sorrowful that soon she would stop touching his hair. He found that he very much enjoyed the feeling.
“Okay,” Nahri repeated, and took a step back. “I think I’m done.”
When Ali stood up and turned around to look at her, Nahri was wiping her eyes. She raised her head, eyes finding his hair, and a small grin curved on her mouth. “Go check it out.”
Ali walked to the edge of the ruins, where the river had pooled between smaller rocks. The sun almost fully down, and everything around him was shining in a beautiful orange. He stared at his own face reflected on the water, and held his breath.
His hair was cut short near his neck, almost fading into his skin, and was gradually longer higher up towards the top of his head, where his wild curls remained almost untouched. It was different than anything anyone had ever done in his hair.
He liked it. He liked it very much.
“You know,” Ali mused. “You were right before. I never really cared about how my hair looked like.” Nobody ever saw it, anyway, for he always kept his hair covered by his turban. But now, admiring Nahri’s work, he really liked what he saw. Ali wondered if she’d liked it too.
Still caught up in his reflection, Ali nearly missed Nahri approaching him. She stood right beside him, close enough to touch. Their eyes met through the water.
“You look beautiful,” Nahri whispered, soft and slow. She moved her hand up to touch his scalp – a sparkle of joy lightened up his face, he could feel it – but stopped suddenly, and retrieved her arm, a blush crawling up her cheeks, her eyes breaking contact with his in their reflection. Ali quickly diverted his own.
She cleared her throat. “Did you like it?”
“Yes,” he answered, genuinely surprised. “It’s... different than what I’m used to.”
She hummed in response, and he turned to look at her. The light was shimmering in her dark hair.
“How did you learn this?” Ali was truly curious. Did she use to cut hair in Cairo as well?
“I didn’t. I was just testing on you.” Nahri lifted one eyebrow. “Just in case we’re banned from Daevabad and need to survive on our own in some remote human village.”
Ali laughed, relieved that some of their light banter had returned.
“But as a barber? What about healing?”
“I like to keep my options open.” She winked at him, and Ali remembered his own words to her at the library, so many years ago, when everything was just a bit easier.
“I guess you would be stuck with the work, and I could excel at cooking for you.” Ali smiled widely at her.
Again he felt startled by how easy it was to plan different futures with her. Too easy. It also felt… intimate. This thought alone made Ali feel breathless, and he was sure that he looked like an idiot. Stop this. Nahri could easily read other people. She had done it to him before. He didn’t want her to know that he was so captivated by her just yet. Maybe she already knows, an unwelcome corner of his mind whispered to him. Maybe she’s waiting for you to do something about it. Or maybe she just doesn’t feel the same.
No. He was allowing himself to dwell in his own doubts and be distracted from their true goal. Daevabad first. Everything else could wait.
“You need to start training as fast as possible, then.” Nahri turned away, heading for their supplies. “Otherwise you’ll poison us at your first attempt of making tea.”
“Nahri.” He called after her, reaching for her hand without thinking it further. Wrong, that same treacherous corner of his mind mused. This is wrong. But why did it have to feel so right?
When Nahri turned around and looked back at him, he gave her a soft smile. “Thank you.”
At first, Ali didn’t know why he had let Nahri cut his hair.
But then she smiled back.
Not her mischievous smile, meant for banter and filled with sarcasm, but her full-toothed smile, wide and warm and welcoming and so rare nowadays, that lightened up her face and made Ali’s heart thunder louder inside his chest.
Oh, he thought, wonderstruck by how the sunlight bathed her hair, her eyes. That’s why.