POV Ruqayyah
The next morning, with Salma's permission, Ruqayyah prepared to depart for the Bimaristan. The air carried the faint fragrance of jasmine and the warmth of a morning sun that had only begun to rise above the rooftops of Baghdad. Layla, as lively as ever, was already waiting near the garden gate, her dark eyes sparkling with curiosity and impatience, while several guards followed a few steps behind, their hands resting on the hilts of their short swords, alert yet composed.
"Aisha! Tell me—why are we going to the Bimaristan today?" Layla asked anxiously, her gaze sweeping over Ruqayyah from head to toe. "Are you… unwell? Or has something happened at the palace?"
Ruqayyah paused, weighing her words carefully. She adjusted the folds of her blue gown, letting the sunlight glint softly against the embroidered edge. "Mmm… it is like this," she began, her voice measured and calm. "I wish to observe how patients are treated and how their medicines are prepared. Knowledge such as this may prove useful one day, should circumstances demand it."
Layla nodded slowly, as if absorbing the gravity behind Ruqayyah's words. A faint smile touched her lips. "You're always thinking ahead. I understand. Let's see what the Bimaristan has to offer us today."
Not long after, the litter carrying them arrived at the grand gates of the Bimaristan. Massive wooden doors, polished and reinforced with iron, stood between them and the inner courtyard. Several male attendants, their eyes sharp and discerning, examined Ruqayyah and Layla carefully, noting the guards and the careful placement of the litter poles. Only after the briefest scrutiny did they allow the princesses entry.
Inside, the corridors were dimly lit by hanging oil lamps, their flames flickering against the stone walls. A soft echo of footsteps and distant voices filled the halls. A female physician hurried forward to greet them, her robes simple yet spotless. "Welcome, Princess Aisha. And you must be Princess Layla," she said warmly, offering a small, courteous smile. "I trust your journey here was safe."
Ruqayyah inclined her head with practiced elegance. "Thank you. We wish only to observe—how patients are treated and how medicines are prepared. That is all."
The physician nodded approvingly, gesturing for them to follow. "Of course. We shall show you our procedures and daily routines. Please, come this way."
The princesses walked through the long corridors, passing patient rooms on either side. Wooden shelves lined the walls, stacked neatly with bottles, jars, and bundles of dried herbs. Female physicians moved with quiet efficiency, recording observations in ink on parchment, checking pulse and respiration, and adjusting bandages with skillful precision. The air carried a mingling of scents—herbs, boiled water, and the faint coppery tang of iron instruments.
Suddenly, a commotion arose from one of the patient rooms. A woman was rushed in, her body trembling, her skin flushed a deep crimson. Steam seemed to rise from her face in the cool morning air, and her breathing was labored.
"A high fever," one of the attending physicians said urgently. "The medicine prescribed earlier is not working."
"Her condition is worsening," another added, worry edging his words.
The senior physicians exchanged uneasy glances. Though trained and experienced, they relied heavily on the treatments already laid out, hesitant to deviate from routine.
Ruqayyah stepped closer, her dark eyes scanning the patient's condition, the room, and the movements of the attendants. When she saw a physician reach out without washing his hands, grasping a cloth that appeared unclean, she frowned. Her voice, though calm, carried the authority of someone who would not be ignored.
"Mmm… could you wash your hands first? And please use a clean cloth," she instructed.
The room fell silent. The senior physicians looked at her, brows furrowed.
"Sayyidati Aisha," one of the older physicians said sharply, "this is not our usual practice. We have treated patients for decades. Medicine alone has always sufficed."
Ruqayyah drew a slow breath, steadying herself. Her gaze swept the room, noting the temperature of the patient, the alignment of the bed, and the minor disorders that compounded her illness. "I understand your experience," she said carefully. "But she appears weak. A calm and clean environment aids recovery. Medicine alone is not always sufficient. Small adjustments, performed properly, can make a difference."
Layla glanced nervously at Ruqayyah, her own voice trembling despite her efforts to remain composed. "Aisha! There's no need to worry so much—"
But her words trailed off as the physicians' eyes narrowed at her, assessing her every move. The tension thickened, palpable as incense smoke curling through the corridor.
Then Haidar, one of Ruqayyah's guards, stepped forward. His presence commanded attention without arrogance. "What harm is there in trying?" he asked, calm yet firm. "Why refuse to follow Princess Aisha's advice? Surely her perspective cannot bring detriment to the patient."
Ruqayyah gently raised her hand. "Haidar. Stand back. Restrain yourself."
Haidar bowed slightly, remaining within a respectful distance.
The senior physicians exchanged glances once more. The sight of Ruqayyah accompanied by several guards, her calm authority undeniable, persuaded them. Reluctantly, they began to follow her guidance, washing hands, arranging clean linens, and adjusting the patient's bedding. Each movement was deliberate, as though testing the wisdom behind the instruction, yet also acknowledging that defiance could bring consequences.
Ruqayyah had just stepped back when a tense hush fell over the hall.
Footsteps—measured and deliberate—echoed along the corridor.
Several attendants straightened immediately. The physicians stiffened, their faces paling as if a cold draft had swept through the room. Layla was the first to notice, leaning slightly toward Ruqayyah, her voice low.
"…Someone important is coming," she whispered.
A woman appeared at the far end of the corridor, draped in layers of deep burgundy silk. Gold embroidery traced the edges of her sleeves, delicate yet unmistakably opulent. Her veil was pulled just enough to reveal sharp eyes and a faint, knowing smile.
Behind her walked two attendants and a single personal guard.
"Lady Zafira bint Harun," one of the senior physicians hurriedly announced, bowing. "We did not expect your visit today."
Zafira inclined her head, her gaze piercing directly at Ruqayyah.
"So this is Princess Aisha," she murmured softly—too softly. "I heard whispers, but I did not expect to find you… giving orders here in the Bimaristan."
Her eyes flicked to the physician washing his hands, then to the clean cloth laid out. The smile on her lips sharpened.
Ruqayyah met her gaze steadily. "Lady Zafira. I am merely observing—and offering guidance when a patient's life is at stake."
Zafira chuckled lightly, though warmth did not reach her voice. "How compassionate." She stepped closer, examining the feverish patient as though appraising a prized possession. "Yet this institution existed long before any of us were born. Traditions endure for a reason."
Layla stiffened. "Do you mean that saving a patient's life is at odds with tradition?"
Zafira's eyes narrowed on Layla, amusement flickering across her face. "What I am saying is that untested ideas can be dangerous—especially when proposed by those with influence but without formal training."
Murmurs rippled among the physicians.
Ruqayyah felt it—the creeping shadow of doubt returning.
Is it really this difficult? I only suggested washing hands and using a clean cloth. I'm not moving mountains, she thought quietly.
She pressed her hands together, her voice firm. "Hygiene is no frivolous notion, Lady Zafira. There is no cost, no risk, and it can very well help."
Zafira tilted her head. "Perhaps," she repeated. "And if the patient's condition worsens? Will you take responsibility, Princess?"
The room fell silent.
"I suggest we speak outside," Ruqayyah said, her tone measured. "We risk disturbing the patient here."
Haidar stepped forward half a pace, then stopped.
Ruqayyah glanced once more at the patient—her flushed skin, labored breaths—then back at Zafira.
"If she worsens," Ruqayyah said softly, "I will take responsibility. But if she improves, I hope you will remember that care is more than medicine alone."
For a brief moment, something unreadable flickered across Zafira's face.
Then she smiled.
"Very well," she said calmly. "I shall watch with interest."
Her gaze swept the physicians. "Proceed. As the princess desires."
Zafira stepped back, hands folded before her chest, eyes never leaving Ruqayyah.
Layla swallowed hard. "…She doesn't like you."
Ruqayyah exhaled quietly. "No," she murmured. "She doesn't like losing control."
The physicians resumed their work, their hands moving with careful precision. Ruqayyah hovered nearby, observing, instructing gently when needed, her presence calm but firm. Hour by hour, the patient's fever subsided, color returning to her cheeks. The heavy labored breaths grew steadier.
Zafira lingered at the edge of the room, her expression guarded but attentive. Slowly, she nodded once, imperceptibly at first, then a faint, approving glimmer in her eyes.
Ruqayyah allowed herself a quiet smile, unseen by most. She had defended not only the patient's life but the principle she believed in.
By sunset, the patient slept peacefully, the physicians exchanging relieved glances. Zafira turned to Ruqayyah, voice lower, measured.
"It seems… your methods, Princess, are not without merit."
Ruqayyah inclined her head respectfully. "I am grateful for your acknowledgment, Lady Zafira. Let us hope the patient's recovery continues."
The woman in burgundy smiled once more, enigmatic, as if conceding a small victory while holding countless secrets close.
"Indeed," she murmured. "We shall see."
As she departed, the corridor's tension slowly eased, leaving in its wake a quiet respect—fragile but tangible. Ruqayyah exhaled, finally letting herself relax, the burden of proving her point, if only for today, lifted.
Layla glanced at her, eyes wide. "You really did it."
Ruqayyah allowed a small, wry smile. "Sometimes, all it takes is a clean cloth… and courage."
The day closed on the Bimaristan with a sense of hard-won peace. Outside, the evening breeze carried the scent of jasmine through the courtyard, a gentle reminder that even in the heart of the city, life could be nurtured—and saved—by careful hands and steadfast will.