Several months had passed since Wazir Al-Fadl returned to Baghdad, yet the traces of their journey from Merv still felt fresh. That afternoon, Muhammad ibn al-Fadl, her elder brother recently returned from official duties in Khurasan, came not empty-handed. He carried a gift that embodied the very soul of his sister: Aisha's beloved horse, left behind with the logistical convoy on their previous journey.
In the palace courtyard bathed in the warm glow of the late sun stood a graceful black horse. Its coat gleamed deep as polished onyx, contrasting sharply with the golden saddle and silver embroidery that caught the amber light. A servant led the animal to the center of the courtyard with solemn reverence, as if the horse itself knew it was the companion of a high-born princess.
Muhammad stood tall by a marble pillar, the aura of an Abbasid nobleman and military officer radiating from his confident stance and flowing kaftan. A thin smile touched his lips as he glanced toward Ruqayyah, who froze at the threshold of the hall.
"Mount, Aisha. It has been too long since you last rode, back when we returned from Merv," Muhammad said warmly, his voice carrying the subtle authority of an older brother accustomed to giving commands.
Ruqayyah swallowed hard. Her feet, clad in soft leather shoes, felt weak beneath her. She stepped closer, yet the instant her hand touched the horse's smooth neck, it stiffened. She nearly choked on a piece of date she had just eaten, eyes locked on the towering creature—something she had only ever seen on television screens or from a distance at expensive riding estates in her previous world.
"Hah… how… how am I supposed to do this?" she whispered, nearly inaudible. Her palms were slick with cold sweat. She had never dared touch a sacrificial goat at the pesantren, let alone mount a pulsing black beast with muscles rippling beneath her fingers.
The warmth radiating from the horse's body reached her, mingling with the scent of fresh leather and grain, sharpening her awareness of the utterly surreal situation.
Muhammad's brows drew together at her hesitation. A flicker of confusion crossed his otherwise firm features. "What is this, Aisha? You used to leap onto the saddle even before the servant finished adjusting the stirrups. Father often joked that his only daughter was far nimbler and braver than the young officers in the barracks."
Ruqayyah forced a thin, defensive smile—the same one she used in the dormitory when unwilling to indulge the nosy inquiries of other students. She tried to recall the movements of horseback riding she had seen. Tentatively, she approached the horse's left side, lifting her leg with awkward, almost comical motions. The layered silk of her skirt hindered her, threatening to trip her entirely if Muhammad's steady hand had not caught her arm.
"Subhanallah, Aisha!" Muhammad exclaimed, his surprise barely restrained. "Have you truly forgotten? Or did your head take too hard a blow the other day?"
"Mmm… perhaps it is because I have lain in bed too long since that incident. My joints… feel stiff and alien," she replied, offering a careful excuse.
Muhammad did not immediately believe her. He studied her intently, as if attempting to pierce the veil of secrets behind her eyes. Ruqayyah returned his gaze with a flat mask of composure, honed over years of navigating hypocrisy in her old world. After a pause that stretched unbearably, Muhammad's expression softened slightly.
"Very well," he said more gently, though curiosity still lingered in his eyes. "I shall stand beside you. Hold the reins firmly; hesitate not. Let your brother guide you in recalling what has always been your natural grace."
He stepped closer, reaching to guide her fingers to the coarse leather. Yet Ruqayyah instinctively withdrew her hand. A pang of guilt twisted in her chest. In her former world, she had always maintained distance from men not her mahram—and though Muhammad was her brother by law, her mind still instinctively perceived him as a stranger.
Muhammad looked at her once more and shook his head. "Aisha… you recoil as if I am some stranger seeking to wed you. And yet I am the very one whose beard you used to tug as a child!" he said, stepping back with a wry shake of his head.
Ruqayyah forced a brief, brittle laugh. A small relief washed over her, even as she realized she had taken a subtle risk in keeping her distance.
In the courtyard, the servants struggled to maintain their composure. Zahra, her personal attendant, covered her mouth with a veil to stifle a laugh. Maryam, carrying a water jug, nearly spilled it while holding back amusement at seeing the usually agile princess moving like a clumsy tortoise.
Before Ruqayyah could regain her balance, Layla appeared on the rear veranda, her cheerful aura radiating fully. She clapped softly, calling out, "If Princess Aisha does not wish her brother to guide her, then I shall! I am far more patient, gentler, and do not tease!"
The servants chuckled quietly, while Muhammad shook his head toward the sky, a thin smile gracing his lips. "Ah, so someone is jealous because she has yet to master the horse herself," he teased lightly.
Layla stuck out her tongue mischievously before stepping toward the horse. "Come, Princess. Ignore him. Hold the reins properly—the horse is gentle. If Akhi Muhammad tries to intimidate you, I shall guide you."
Ruqayyah exhaled a deep, steadying breath. The weight of Muhammad's scrutinizing gaze lessened slightly. With Layla's assistance holding the saddle, Ruqayyah began positioning her feet in the stirrups. The black horse shifted slightly, snorting a small puff of air, steam curling from its nostrils. She felt a rush of fear mixed with a strange thrill.
"Straighten your back, do not slouch," Layla instructed gently, adjusting Ruqayyah's hand on the reins. "Do not look down at the horse's legs—focus ahead, toward the swing of that olive branch. Trust your horse; it knows you better than you know yourself right now."
Ruqayyah nodded, concentrating on the movement of the branch before her. She matched her body to the rhythm of the horse's breath, finding balance in its steady motion.
Muhammad leaned against the marble pillar, arms crossed, a faintly teasing smirk on his face.
Gradually, the black horse began to step forward, following the servant's lead. Small, measured steps. Ruqayyah allowed her hips to move in tandem with the animal's back, letting its rhythm guide her.
"Yes… just like that! You're finding the rhythm, Aisha!" Layla whispered gleefully, clapping softly.
A small sense of victory bloomed within Ruqayyah. The golden sunlight of the late afternoon wrapped the palace courtyard in a warm embrace, turning the moment into something almost magical.