He was dying. He knew the feeling. It was a coldness starting in his fingers and toes, creeping inward toward his heart. The pain in his chest was fading, replaced by a heavy, drowning numbness.
He had to send word. He had to let her know he had tried.
He tried to call out to a passing shepherd, but his voice was gone. Only a wheeze came out. The shepherd didn't hear him; he was just a pile of rags in the shade.
Khalid moved his hand. It felt miles away. He reached for his belt. He had no paper. He had no pen.
He saw a scrap of white cloth—a piece of the bandage from his foot that had come loose. He pulled it free.
He needed ink.
He coughed, a weak, wet spasm. He brought his hand to his mouth. When he pulled it away, his fingers were coated in thick, dark crimson.
The ink of the soul, he thought, a faint, delirious smile touching his cracked lips. It was always blood.
He laid the cloth on the flat root of the olive tree. With a trembling finger, he dipped into the blood on his palm.
He wrote. The letters were shaky, jagged, primitive.
I told you I was a traveler without a map.
He dipped his finger again. The blood was cooling, drying sticky on his skin.
But you were the destination all along.
His vision was greying. The blue sky was turning white. He could see Hamza's face. He could see his father. But mostly, he saw her. He saw her in the market, holding the silk. He saw her at the shrine, weeping.
I waited for the rain, he scrawled, his hand heavy as lead.
But I died of thirst.
The hand fell. He could not sign his name. It did not matter. She would know.
He turned his head slightly to look at the city walls one last time. He imagined the gate opening. He imagined her walking out, her arms open, the blue silk dress flowing in the wind.
He reached out with his bloody hand, grasping at the empty air, clutching the imaginary silk.
"Layla," his mind whispered.
The hand dropped. The chest stilled. The eyes remained open, fixed on Damascus, reflecting the blue sky that he had finally, finally caught.