Tethering her stallion to a highly jutted rock, fogged with the mist in the valleys of Cipla, Firdaus sat down and took a huge sigh of relief. The moments becoming memories, flashes all down to her throat from her eyes. She said to herself, I could’ve done better, ye! She sees the mountains far away located, standing still. The fog is everywhere around her eyes, but the mountain seems clear, clear and strong she murmured. She takes a look at the stallion, tilts her head back a little more so that there is enough rest to her back, against the soddy part of the rock. She slips her hand beneath the rock, put atop the horse’s hooves and whispers, “Are you hungry? Has he given you any food since three days”. He moves back and forth with his silky mane all over the rock, “I think I got the answer”, said Firdaus. “You look like him”, she continued. “Brave with rich looks, charming with gestures and always armoured”,”Did he teach you to be?”, she got more anxious thinking what if she gets an answer. Kneeling forward, she rested her hands on her left ankle, twisting her leg.
Taking the journal out of her vest, Firdaus gasps a thin line of air. She rolls her fingers on the cover of the journal made of leather, hard and strong, rusty. She imagines how he might have been now, seeing her holding his journal, trying to open it. “It would’ve been deadly”, she murmurs with a slight laugh on her face. She remembers how she used to run out of her house every time there was a roadshow from the King’s place. The King, Queen and their beloved son, hopping on a carriage with a stallion at it’s head, running across the villages to greet their people. “I used to wait for the festival, every single time”, she remembers and smile. “Mother hated it when I grew older, so I stopped going. But I never missed asking Esra, how it went. If he saw the prince, everything about the festival, he acted like my spy”, sighs.
The journal reminded her of his tones, his touch, his vocals, his seriousness at the end of the day, sitting down beside the river’s calmness, always finding a spot to jot down every single piece of event that happened during the day. “How hard you would always try to get me into the palace”, she chuckles. “The memories that we created are precious. I don’t think I could’ve survived without them”, speaking with a deeply saddened voice. She runs her finger down on the deeply encrypted letters atop the journal which is clearly distinguished throughout the markings on the cover. “What did I do to lose you? “
“Where are you…”, crying softly, “…Zakir”.