They wandered through the 'Jemaa el-Fnaa' square. The frivolous populace meandered around the stalls in traditional festivities clothing. Bright colored Caftans and Jabadors swirled around Yahya's eyes, like an aurora sky. Groups of people here and there gathered around storytellers and trick performers, The buzzing sounds of laughter and excitement almost drowning out the calls of food and drinks stalls as they invited potential clients to get a taste of Marrakech's famous cuisine.
Yahya bristled. How dare they be this happy, this insouciant, when his father had been robbed of his most basic right? How dare they laugh and dance when his father, who had died for them, had been stripped of his honor.
It was a mistake. It must have been. His father wasn't a coward. And surely not a traitor.
But what can he do? He couldn't just walk up to them and demand they fix their mistake, no matter how much he wanted to do so.
Yahya stilled. Maybe he should.
Jomaira's grip tightened on his arm.
“Want to drink something?” She asked, her brows furrowed in concern. She glanced at the gleaming sun then back to him, her concern deepening at his lack of response.
A body slammed into him and Yahya looked with unseeing eyes as a boy a head shorter than him with ragged clothes and wild black hair apologized profusely for knocking into him. Yahya simply nodded and allowed Jomaira to lead him away.
Yahya leaned on the railing overlooking the huge artificial lake at the center of the Menara gardens. A huge expense of lush green and exotic flowers amidst the harsh climate of the red giant.
The whole place gave off a dream-like feeling. Like he had stepped into a painting that must have required thousands if not million years of attentive care to bring it to its current state of perfection.
A piece of Eden in the desert.
He leaned further, sighing, letting the slight breeze ruffle his hair, though its warmth brought him no comfort. His eyes fixed on the lake's glittering surface and the swirling ripples as kids competed with each other in skipping stones, their jarring laughter squeezing the breath out of his chest.
Jomaira had gone to get something for them to drink. Some pink concoction the merchant insisted was healthy and would help clear muddled minds.
Though, he doubted anything would ease the tightness in his heart.
“Beautiful isn't it?”
Yahya turned to the voice. A middle aged man with light golden skin and dark hair. His gray eyes seemed empty and cold, their emptiness startling Yahya as they fixed on him. There was something strange about him, though Yahya couldn't put his finger on it.
“Do you think they know how much was sacrificed for them to enjoy this?” The man asked, his voice eerie despite its gentleness.
His father’s image popped at the front of his mind. 'No match found' dancing mockingly over the data screen. Yahya blinked furiously to chase the image away, fury gripping his insides anew.
Yahya huffed. He bit his lip to stop words of rage to spill from his dry throat. It felt like he had been screaming, yelling. Though he hadn't said a word for hours, not since the memorial stone. It felt like days or years away.
Shadows shifted over the man's face, cloaking it in darkness. Despite the scorching sun battering down on them, sunrays seemed unable to touch the stranger's skin.
A sense of unease gripped Yahya's chest, and a voice at the back of his mind screamed at him to leave. To run.
“Would you?” The man asked.
He turned his head, searching for Jomaira amongst the crowd, relief washing over him at her sight, waiting in line in front of a crowded stall shielded by palm tree fronds.
“Would you?” The man asked again.
“What?” Yahya croaked, his throat protesting. He glanced back at Jomaira and debated whether to join her at the waiting queue.
“Sacrifice yourself for them.” The man said gently, too gently for the words’ threatening nature.
Yahya snapped his head towards him but the man was gone.
Author’s note:
Hi guys, thanks for reading! :)
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