Chapter 216: ...Father?

The forward base was a cave.

It was a shallow one, low mouth in a hillside, hidden behind a curtain of dry thornbushes. The Faraja had dug it out and shored up the roof with timber, and placed lanterns along the walls.

Cots stood in rows, cookfires smoked in their corners while the refugees filed in and found places to sit, filling the air with the soft shuffle of people who had walked too far.

Malik stepped through the opening with trepidation.

He kept his head down and his shoulders hunched.

The rag covered his face, his hair hung over the rest of it, and he did his best to make himself small.

It was not hard.

He had lost nearly all of his muscle, not regaining it even after his Ascention, the rest was only bone.

He scanned the cave for one face.

Dunya was not there.

The relief that went through him was so strong that he nearly stumbled.

If she had been here, she would have known.

She would have taken one look at him and seen straight through the skin and the scars to what lay underneath.

But she was not here. And perhaps, on second thought, it could be a little harder for her to recognize him.

Epecially after what he had gone through.

Malik let out a breath, then he saw something that made the breath stop in his chest.

The Mother of Devil’s Maw.

His wife, Layla.

She sat at the far end of the cave.

’...why is she here?’

She was on a low stool near the back wall, where the lantern-light was dimmest. Her white-and-purple hair had been pulled back in a simple knot, and she wore a plain gray dress that hung loose across her shoulders.

Layla looked thinner and tired in a way that no amount of sleep would fix.

Beside her, on a folded blanket, sat a young woman.

Amal.

She was sitting with her knees drawn up and her chin on her arms, and she was watching the people come and go.

Her golden eyes followed each one, slowly, without any interest. She did not blink much, looking like a doll that someone had propped against a wall.

Malik stood at the entrance with his heart pounding against his ribs.

He had not expected this at all.

Eden was far to the north, he was sure that his wife and daughter were inside it. He had pictured them deep underground, behind a hundred doors, safe.

He had not pictured them here, at the edge of the world, in a cave with a dirt floor and a leaking roof.

Malik was stuck in place, unable to look away.

Thus, he watched from afar.

He watched Layla lean over and say something to the girl. He watched Amal not answer. He watched Layla take a small cup of water from a passing soldier and hold it to her daughter’s lips, patiently, and he watched the girl take one sip without looking away for even a moment.

Every part of him wanted to cross the cave.

He could not.

Angels were searching for him.

The Order had not confirmed his death.

There had been no body, only a scorched hill and an arm, and they would not rest until they had counted the pieces.

If they found him now, they would find everyone he stood near.

Layla. Amal. Safira.

Every soul in this cave.

He had to get his strength back first. He had to climb, and he had to burn, and he had to end them.

Only then could he walk across that floor.

Malik sighed, very softly, and turned around.

He took three steps toward the entrance.

"Excuse me..."

But a quiet voice stopped him.

"Excuse me, sir. Do I know you?"

Layla.

She was talking to him, having noticed his stare.

Malik stood at the mouth of the cave with the wind at his back, every muscle in his body screaming ar him to run.

He could have escaped then and there.

A single step would have taken him out of the light. A single breath of fire would have carried him over the hill. He had the strength for it. He had the speed.

But... his body would not move.

Malik slowly turned around to face his wife.

He walked back across the cave towards the stool at the far end, each step feeling heavier than the last.

Many thoughts went through his head, and none of them stayed.

He stopped a few paces from her.

She looked up at him.

Her purple eyes searched his face above the rag.

They moved across the thin white hair, the hollow cheeks, the empty sleeve. She was frowning faintly, as if trying to catch a word on the tip of her tongue.

"Do I know you?"

She asked again.

Malik did not answer.

He could not, his throat had locked shut.

The Sultan stood in front of his wife with his mouth hidden behind a strip of cloth and simply looked at her.

Lantern-light caught the gray in her dress, a faint hollow under her eyes, and small calluses on her fingers from the many nights she had held her husband’s hand.

"He’s a traveler."

Safira appeared at his side.

She laid a light hand on Malik’s good arm, as though they had known each other for years.

"We found him on the road. He has been through a great deal, and he doesn’t speak much. I’m sorry if he startled you."

"Oh..."

Layla looked away, and then back, but her eyes did not leave his face.

"He seems... familiar."

"Many people do these days."

Safira’s reply was gentle.

Malik stood very still while they talked.

They spoke softly and he did not catch every word.

He caught a few. Eden. Three weeks. The others. And stared at them both while trying to hold his face blank behind the cloth.

"I keep thinking I will turn around and he will be standing there."

A single tear slid down Layla’s cheek.

"Hm."

It was a small sound, half laugh and half breath, and she wiped the tear away quickly with the back of her wrist.

"Ah. Sorry. I..."

Safira shook her head.

"Don’t apologize."

"I know it’s foolish."

"It isn’t."

"I know he’s..."

Layla swallowed.

"I know what Sinbad brought back. I know what I saw. But part of me keeps..."

"He’s still alive."

Safira said it with the same calm certainty that she had used on that crowd of a hundred frightened people.

"He wouldn’t lie."

"I know..."

Layla whispered.

"I know, I know. But..."

She did not finish, pressing her lips together and looking down at her hands.

Malik felt the whole cave go quiet around him.

He could hear his own pulse, the soft crackle of a cookfire, and the slow breath of a girl on a blanket two feet away.

Malik could not take it any longer.

Turning away, he gave Safira the smallest nod, and she let go of his arm.

He walked away from the stool, from his wife and her tears, and every step took the air out of him.

He passed Amal.

She did not look at him, staring at the empty air, her small fingers curled loosely around her knees, as still as she had been for days.

He walked by her without turning his head.

Yet even then...

"...Father?"

It was only a murmur, no louder than a breath.

It was the first word she had said in weeks, and nobody in that cave heard it but him.

Malik did not stop.

His hand closed into a fist at his side.

His jaw locked behind the rag, his eyes burned, and he walked on towards the mouth of the cave with the whole weight of the world pressing on his back.

’I am sorry...’

It was a word he forced himself to ignore.

’But I cannot risk your lives any further.’