Chapter Text
Khadija is working the on the pepper poultice for Hassan when the one-armed man visits.
It is not a terribly difficult poultice, and Mehdi had said that the measurements did not need to be precise, but she wants to make sure it is done correctly. Mehdi has been teaching her medicine as well as combat, and she does not want to show him that all his work has meant nothing. Beyond that… Well, Hassan has always been kind to her. She would like to be able to show him some kindness in turn.
“ Mehdi is not in,” Khadija says without turning, focusing on grinding the peppers into a smooth mash. The smell hurts her nose and coats her tongue, but she knows from the time Mehdi accidentally wrenched her shoulder trying to teach her to throw a man twice her size that the sharp-smelling mash is not so sharp on the skin. “If it is something small, I may be able to help you, but if it is something very important, I am afraid--”
The words catch in her throat as she turns, suddenly insensitive and cruel . Khadija has seen many with missing limbs throughout the poor district, begging in the streets and the souk, coming to Mehdi with infections and pains, has been taught through necessity how to treat them. They were warriors, most of them, or workers who had lived through horrible accidents, and all are sensitive to what they no longer have. She ducks her head sharply, bowing from the waist, wincing at the feel of the pepper juice on her hands staining her apron.
The one-armed man waves her off, eyes taking in the humble room. The bed, the fireplace, the table where Mehdi treats his patients-- should Khadija clean it again before Mehdi returns? The man is obsessive about cleanliness, his own and of his workspace, and his habits have been rubbing off, because Khadija does not think she has been so clean her entire life than she has been in her last few weeks here. Even now she feels the need to scrub her hands clean. To scrub the entire room, because the one-armed man seems to be measuring up the place, and Khadija does not wish it to be found wanting.
She… is not sure why. This one-armed man is unassuming, really, wearing plain robes that are perhaps a bit better kept than Khadija sees on people living in this district, hair shorn conventionally short, face on the attractive side of unremarkable. But there is still an air of importance around the man. Not the same as the one that hangs around Mehdi , but still one that makes Khadija attentive .
Or, at the very least, unwilling to give this man her back.
“ Mehdi has stepped out,” she reiterates, more careful with her words now, as the one-armed man continues to stand just within the doorway. “If I can perhaps assist you…”
“Do you know when he will return?” the one-armed man asks, and while his voice has the easy smoothness that is so familiar in Mehdi , there is something sharp beneath. Dangerous. Impatient, a little-- not in a cruel way, just in the way of a man who has so little time and would rather not spend it on explaining himself time and time again.
It makes Khadija think, however-- Mehdi often steps out of the apothecary for one thing or another, but he has never been gone for this long before, at least not since Khadija has been spending most of her time here. He left something early in the morning, after a spar that was so short it only just served as a suitable way to warm up for the day. It is a bit past noon now. Wherever he has gone, it must certainly be for an important reason. Khadija has no idea when he might be back.
The one-armed man gives her a critical look when she admits this. He has very intense eyes, Khadija thinks. She has known many people with eyes as dark as his, but there are dark eyes, and then there are eyes like his-- dark as onyx and sharp as steel. The longer she holds his gaze, the more it seems as though he is seeing right through here. Suddenly she is thankful that she has nothing to hide, because she would not be able to hide anything from the one-armed man.
Finally, he bows his head in a short, polite nod. “Of course. Do you have something for pain?” And Khadija bites back a sigh of relief. Yes, they have plenty for pain. Khadija can do that. Khadija can help.
They settle on a willow bark tincture, because the one-armed man does not want anything that might addle his mind, but his pain is rather pronounced. And though he argues and stalls as politely as he can, there is no doubt that Mehdi is not going to return before they finish their transaction. Though, if it was the one-armed man’s intention to leave an impression, he certainly has, if nothing else than for the amount of coin he has insisted on giving for what Mehdi has always considered a rather common medicine.
Still, the encounter leaves Khadija with a lingering sense of unease that carries through the rest of the afternoon. She sets the poultice aside when she can no longer focus properly-- as simple as it is, Khadija is afraid she will ruin it in her distraction. Instead, she goes through forms behind the house. Practicing alone only strengthens mistakes, Khadija knows, but she makes sure to keep to only the simplest of forms. Nothing more than a good workout, if anything. Just enough to make her sweat.
Just enough to make her exhausted when she stumbles back inside. Just enough that her arms are starting to ache and her legs are starting to feel like jelly. It is a good feeling. The feeling of progress, even if Khadija has to rest her shoulder against the outside wall of the house while she cleans herself up in cold, if clean, water. She even cleans behind her ears, though the water makes her shiver. Mehdi might not actually notice, but Khadija notices. Or, at least, now she does.
What she does not notice, at least until she is pulling some clean robes from the chest Mehdi lets her keep her things in, is that Mehdi has finally returned. With books. Many, many books. Khadija blinks at them in confusion-- medical books, maybe? If so, where did he get them from? They do not have the coin for it, and even if they did, Khadija does not remember many bookstores that sell such texts. Maybe that is why it took him all day to find them.
There are no pictures, Khadija notices as she leans over his shoulder to get a better look. Or, at least, the pictures that are there are few and far between. Usually Khadija can use the pictures to guess her way through what the book is trying to tell her, but she has no idea what these are supposed to be for. That is… a sketch of the city? But there are things wrong. The palace is not as large, and the wall cuts wrong.
Mehdi jumps when Khadija points this out, as though he had not realized she was there. His eyes are strange, pupils all wrong, a silvery-sheen making them seem even more… inhuman . It only lasts a blink, but Khadija is not in the practice of questioning what she sees. She leans back to let him sit up properly, wincing at the cracking of his spine. How long has he been here?
“Ah, sorry,” Mehdi slurs, rubbing at his eyes. He has been taking notes, spread out in between and even underneath some of the heavy books he has been reading. There are many sketches, Khadija realizes. Architecture? But if Mehdi wishes to renovate his home, certainly he does not need inaccurate maps of the other districts. He gestures helplessly to his work. “I was just, uh…”
Khadija shrugs, squinting at one of the other sketches Mehdi has copied-- not very well, but it seems to be… the mosque. But it is all wrong. Too few rooms. And the courtyard is too big. “And see? There. That wall is supposed to open into a garden.” It gets a hum out of Mehdi .
“Yeah, it’s uh. It’s not-- it’s from a couple years ago.” He squints at it, twisting it so that Khadija can see it better. “About ten, I think? I don’t really need this one, but--” He pauses, eyebrows furrowing. Khadija leans away. “You uh. You can’t read, can you?”
No, Khadija can not. She never bothered to learn, and she there was never anyone who bothered to make her learn. It is not even as though she has needed it. But Mehdi makes a face. Not a bad face. Not pitying, either-- Khadija wouldn’t be able to stand it if it were. Just a sad face. A little hurt, even. His shoulders roll again. Not a shrug this time, just a shift, like his skin is crawling beneath his clothes.
“I could uh. I could teach you? If you wanted to learn,” he offers. Maybe a little hesitant, definitely a little awkward. But honest nonetheless. Khadija glares at the squiggles across the paper-- they are so little , they already make her head ache. Mehdi chuckles as he quickly closes what he has open. “Not with these. They’re uh. A little dense. I’ve got some easier books upstairs. Novels, some stories, I might have a Quran somewhere…”
Mehdi trails off, stacking books as he does. His notes are not in the same language as the books. Is Mehdi going to teach her that too?
“If you want,” he says, distracted. There is something familiar about the sketch he is distracted by-- Khadija has walked something like that layout before, but where? She cannot remember. “It’s a variant on English. It wouldn’t do you much good around here. Since it’s not a popular language, though, it’s good to keep notes in that you don’t what other people to read.” Khadija almost reaches for the paper before Mehdi tucks it into the rest of the pile. She is so sure she has seen it before...
Or, her tired mind might be playing tricks on her. Khadija shrugs it off and helps Mehdi carry everything upstairs-- Allah willing , these books are heavy. He cannot have gone far, to have carried these back himself! But the leather is too expensive, the paper thick and smelling old dust and disuse. Khadija does not know of any shops or merchants around here that sell anything of this quality.
Such an enigma, Mehdi . Khadija wishes to know more. And if she must slough through a hundred books and a thousand letters to do so, then she’ll do it.