I am a terrible daughter.

It felt like a slam of the fist against the heart, cruel enough to make her unable to keep walking. Ayyur collapsed against a blue and thick rock, as ancient as her name.

She had been walking for three hours now.

Not wanting to stop until she was sure she was far from Grana.

      Murder.

Her father couldn't be behind a murder. Ayyur started softly tapping her chest with her fist, needing to make the air pass. Anxiety had been eating her bones since she left the alley where the veiled man stood. You flew like a coward.

The thought felt like a strike to her cheek. She clenched her jaw, her hand yanking her haik as she pulled her legs against her chest, nuzzling her chin into the small space of her knees. I shouldn't cry, I shouldn't.

Ayyur thought about her father.

Surely he had discovered her empty sheets, the missing haik she always liked to leave near their main entrance, and her flask of olive oil, waiting only to be poured into an opulent bowl. She imagined him without his turban, his pepper hair falling over his shoulders as he rummaged through the different rooms, calling her name, begging her sisters to look where she would be. His heart would spasm in agonising beats, just like the day he lost Fadhma. Ayyur, Ayyur sweet Ayy..

"Oh baba," A sob finally broke.

Teeth plunging into her lower lip, Ayyur tried her best to stop the tears, but they rolled down her cold cheeks, begging her to let them escape. Her feet, swollen and red tucked in the platformed sandals, Ayyur feared if she didn't walk fast enough, the soldiers posted around the city would catch her and send her back home. Ayyur cannot be caught. Never.

The humiliation would be tremendous. A shaming session of dirty looks while they drag her through the streets of Grana, gripping her hair and throwing her at the ground, the noisy neighbours from the Bayzin all lining up to look at her, murmuring to each other.

    A terrible daughter who gave up on her father and escaped her house.

"I didn't escape the house!" Ayyur yelped in guilt, putting her hands in the air but only the wind answered her.

Ayyur nuzzled herself against her haik, putting her hands against her ears. The night's temperature had dropped so low that her legs were shivering and Ayyur felt terribly stupid. She should have packed better.

Well, Ibn Al Tanji should have written this in his rihla, Ayyur thought bitterly, instead of flaunting his privileged genre. A man travelling to the other side of the world should at least have some advice on what to bring.

Ayyur trembled as she slipped down the rock, her hands pushing the bag closer to her stomach, hoping it would bring her more warmth.

"I should think about something warm." She murmured to herself, her eyes closing slowly. She imagined herself back in the kitchen, wearing her favourite tunic.

A washed blue linen with long sleeves,   accompanied by a beautiful black gimp braid called sfifa. She liked to wear it with her late mother's pants old from a jabador set. A white scarf was wrapped around her black, thick hair to prevent it from falling into the food; the sound of her golden bangles clicking each time she grabbed her spices. Her hands were on her hips as she analysed the different utensils she had.

The qidr was a large and heavy cooking pot where she used to cook feasts, screaming for her to use it. She imagined small little hands stretching towards her, throwing a tantrum because Ayyur was about to use the tajine. Maybe, she would use chicken thighs, Walid liked it very much.. Or lamb, Titrit liked sweet lamb very much.

Ayyur's brows furrowed, the cold now a memory as she tried to think of her ingredients. Eggplants, tomatoes, garlic and herbs. She smelled the cilantro to differentiate it from parsley, always confusing them both. Her mother used to scream with frustration when she bought the wrong one.

Taghyoult, Fadhma groaned before again explaining the difference. Cilantro has a tangy flavour, almost like citrus while parsley has this grassy flavour with peppery notes. For young Ayyur, it looked and tasted the same.

Wind swirled around her shrivelled body as she pushed herself deeper into her thoughts. "Olive oil." She muttered to herself as she hopped toward the shell. "Cumin," Ayyur grabbed her pot of spice. "Paprika." She positioned everything on her wooden board before grabbing her knife. She sliced the eggplants, chopped the tomatoes with ease and added the herbs with a humming sound, the ingredients dancing each time Ayyur slammed the blade.

"Now, in the pot." Ayyur pushed the lid with great difficulty. The wood burning under her qidr. She poured a bit of olive oil, smiling as she looked at the substance sizzling and dropped the garlic. With the tip of her fingers, Ayyur dusted the pepper, paprika and cumin before pouring the eggplants and tomatoes. Mixing everything with her wooden spoon, the young cook hummed loudly, already thinking of her father.

"Zaalouk," She muttered to herself. "Baba's favourite." She nodded with happiness as her eyes looked at the pot before pressing her lips together. "Olive oil. It needs more olive oil."

The oil sizzled louder.

Ayyur's eyes opened when she heard a cracking sound, her heart slamming against her chest. Immediately, her hands fumbled with her bag before grabbing her dagger. Alone in the dry mountains of the Sierra Sulayr, she feared facing wild animals. Red foxes, wild boar.. Or worse, men.

"By Anzar," She muttered to herself, her eyes trying to see through the night. Stars were shining but not enough for her to use as light.

With trembling hands, Ayyur leaned back against the rock, her eyes closing for a second before letting out the ugliest scream anyone could make.

She scrambled against the dry soil, the dagger falling from her hands as she tried to get up but her legs were unable to move. Sitting in front of her was a strange figure almost glowing. Wearing a white jellaba made out of wool with black stripes, blue hair braided with silver jewellery, his tanned skin a gift of Tafukt, he stood cross-legged as he gauged Ayyur with a boring expression.

"You're hurting my ears." His tone was so low, almost like he was whispering, his pinky finger picking at his ear. Ayyur noticed his wrists tattooed, a frog symbol accompanied by wavy lines representing the movement of water and the cycle of life.

       Like Ma'.

Ayyur remembered asking questions to her mother, wondering why her mother's skin was permanently marked with black lines that wouldn't budge no matter how much she rubbed her finger against. Fadhma would smile, nuzzling her nose against Ayyur's thick black hair. It is my heritage, of a strong free woman.

The man in front of her looked more like a nuisance than a strong free woman.

"I know I am handsome but let us not lose decorum." He scoffed.

"I am going to scream louder if you.. If you.." Ayyur's back slammed against the rock, her eyes darting around as her hand stretched to grab the knife but before she could, the strange man snapped his fingers.

A torrent of water appeared suddenly, swirling around her like a spider's web. Ayyur's eyes widened, her heart stopped beating for a second. The waves were splashing all over her and yet, none of her clothes was wet as they stood in the mountains surrounding Grana. At day, the mountains were wrapped in a white coat that made the most prominent poets sing of the snowflakes crashing down onto the golden ground. At night, it looked terribly terrifying, a summit waiting for her to die.

The wave wrapped the dagger and brought it to the man who made it bounce in his hand, his expression filled with amusement.

"You also have them here?" He said before approaching Ayyur. "Why does a little girl have a koummya?"

"Who are you?" Ayyur screamed, trying to escape from the lasso of water around her. " I am not a little girl. Give it to me!"

"Who am I?" He leaned toward her with a grin, analysing her face. He noticed the three moles, two identical under her eyes and one on her cheek. Just like Noor. "That's pretty hurtful from someone who called me."

"I didn't call you." Ayyur cursed, jiggling as much as she could. "I didn't call you!"

"You didn't?" He leaned back, his light blue falling on his back, crossing his arms before letting out a warm and loud laugh. "You didn't call Anzar, King of water and Guardian of Amaan?"

He lifted his hands and in a second, several waves rose up behind Anzar. Terrifying like the waves her mother described when she told Ayyur's favourite story, Fadhma's leaving for Grana. The whole ground trembled as the waves slammed against the different rocks abandoned on the ground, waiting to be picked by some quirky knight or destroyed by another explosion from a tiring earth.

Her legs could no longer bear the terror quickly steaming in her blood, her eyes looked up as the waves approached faster, their beautiful blue mixing with the white foam before crashing against Ayyur, engulfing her in Anzar's sea.

Ayyur, sweet Ayyur,

Do not fret and

Bring Anzar's tears,

To Ma',

Sweet, sweet Ayyur

°❀⋆.ೃ࿔*:･°❀⋆.ೃ࿔*:･

Anz.. ANZAR?!

Please welcome our dearest Anzar! I will tell you something. Anzar wasn't supposed to appear but it is a very nice tribute to my first novel I wrote.

Let me tell you, starting from now... THE TALES OF AYYUR IS FINALLY STARTIIIIIING!!!!!!!!!

This chapter is not long, I apologize but the next one is very VERY longer. See you <3

Please like always, tell me your opinions please PLEASE please.