Are We There Yet? [FOT/Chain]

Zubaidah had spent one night in this new home under Battutah’s care, resting from her travels. In the early morning, however, she had found herself awake and sleep would not visit her again. As such, she decided that she would use this well-lit night as best she could, since the moon was shining bright in the skies. Taking care not to disturb Battutah, she went downstairs and gathered some supplies, in case she took longer than expected.

As she prepared, she looked around their new home. A faint memory sprang into her mind, reminded of something which Battutah had said earlier. It seemed as though she could almost remember being here, back when she was a young girl, her father lifting her onto his shoulders. She could almost hear her mother singing, the sound kept safe within the walls, sleeping in the wood away from the dust, as if waiting to be heard again. It brought on memories which she had thought long forgotten, of hugs and laughter that had once coloured her life. Though the floors were bare and the plaster in need of loving care, it seemed more like home than anything she had experienced in the past few years.

A tear fell down her face, emotions spilling from mind into being, as she remembered all these things. She had not realised how much she missed her family, not until she was faced with the memories she had left behind. She cursed herself for leaving her homeland for so long, biting her lip as more tears began dripping down her face. But as her fingers tightening around the spear, she wiped her eyes roughly and slowed her breathing a little. It is not useful to think about what could have been, she mused to herself, I must focus on the here and now. As she slung her gear upon her back, she took up her spear with quivering fingers and walked into the quiet night.

If she had turned around, she would have seen Battutah sitting on the stairs himself, eyes filled with tears as well.

It was morning before she came home, her legs weary from the old town-roads. On her journey, she had tread paths from her childhood, visited temples once busy and seen faces all too familiar. She had tasted a nostalgie stronger than any liquor she had drunk, and she could not shake it from her systems.

But drawing nearer towards Battutah’s house, she noticed something different. A pine-cone wreath had been placed neatly upon the door, just like the ones worn during the Parthevian summer solstice. Around the estate, decorated with purple hyacinths, a fence had been placed as a warding sign. As she came close, she noticed a few statuettes had been placed upon the front-porch, shaped in all manner of animals - cats and goats and bulls.

As she opened the door, however, she almost broke into tears again: on the walls were paintings of the Parthevian court and on the floor were richly-decorated rugs in purple and gold. She could see the once-empty shelves had been filled with her old books, authors she thought long-forgotten preserved within these walls. But most welcoming of all, and most nostalgic, was Battutah standing there with a warm smile on his face, saying,

‘Welcome home, Zubaidah!’