Written for the LJ comm ygodrabble. Prompt: Back.
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They tread the narrow cobblestone alley carefully, as if not to wake the dead. The air is dry and thin. Nothing like the Japanese seaside.
This used to be a sweets shop, thinks Isis to herself as they near an intersection. The run down building is guarded by a teenager looking too frail for his submachine gun. Rishid nods to him in salute, then ushers his siblings past with practiced caution. Isis lowers her gaze.
She remembers the taste of licorice, its muskiness, the way the long, slick strands would stick to her little fingers.
Soon they reach a busier street, where they pour into the mass of walking tunics and veils. Brown ones, grey ones, faded black ones. On the eroding walls, immaculate black and white propaganda posters, lauding the sacrifices of the nation's martyrs. The crowd thickens in silence as they reach the center of the city.
This clock tower used to be five minutes late. Its hands froze in the middle of the night, and no one bothered to fix it.
At the foot of the tower thrives an open air market nestled between three buildings. Between the vendors' tables, soldiers in green uniforms dot the black human landscape. Most are short. All are younger than Malik.
"Brother, you must have trouble with these two! For me, one woman is enough," jokes one of them. Rishid replies politely, his face calm and friendly. Isis can see the mischievous smile in Malik's eyes through the thin slit of his niqab. The sun glimmers on the tips of his blond eyelashes, contrasting with the dark, creamy lines of kohl underneath them.
On their left, an old man sells white rice in bulk. On their right, a merchant of spices. Their weathered hands speak of prudence and measure. "Paprika," Isis tells Rishid quietly, who in turn tells the old man. She looks away, not eager to see off another portion of her dwindling savings. Of their dwindling savings, now twinkling in the old man's palm.
She feels something hard poking at the soft flesh of her forearm - one of Malik's bracelets, hidden beneath his robes. She follows his gaze to an item sold at the next stand. It gleams like a heap of braided worms, prohibitively priced, inviting.
Without thinking, Isis tugs at the hem of Rishid's tunic. He leans toward her attentively, and between two breaths, she murmurs:
"Licorice."
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Special thanks to safa'at keruth, Lady Blackwell and Azhdarcho.