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[Ishaba Fatima Khan]

Ishaba noted, and not for the first time in her life, that the walls were much to small to keep in the city. Not that they weren't strong, nor were they thin and useless, but she found that there could never really be a wall to hold in the spirits of Jerusalem. Walls were there to protect people, they were there to keep people out of harm's way, but when it came down to it, there was very little danger that was avoided in the city. Not that no one had expected the walls to do that job; they were there to guard the city from outside attacks while the inside, the world ran wild. What did people expect with the Muslims and the Christians all holed up in one small city together? The walls were bound to be too small to hold them in. So, yes, while no one could get into the walls, that job was done. But, really, would there ever be a wall thick enough to hold out time-long prejudices? Would there be a way to change the thoughts of the people just because a stone fortress was set around them?

Ishaba cradled her basket in her hand, reveling in the noise of the fruit as it rolled in a rickety pattern across the bottom of the bumpy, hard reeds. She had made the basket herself, just a few days ago. Her Christian boy had said it was a fine piece of work. Ishaba felt lucky for her half-niqaab, otherwise the boy would have seen the blush creeping onto her cheeks. She had gone to the market for a few hours, searching for enough food to make to fuel her family after a long thirty days' Ramadan fast. They were celebrating the lesser Eid today, reciting the Takbir in their prayers to Allah. It was a beautiful ritual, the sounds just rolled through the ears, but it felt like this year that they had no meaning. Ishaba always prayed for peace between her people and the Christians. She always prayed for more strength to get through the day, more patience to understand her father's way. She felt selfish for asking her god for so much, but at the moment in time, all Ishaba really needed was strength. She wasn't about to find it in a loaf of bread down by the market, was she?

She placed a hand on the rough wall, running her fingers along its bumpiness, loving the rocky feeling under her hands. The wall was rigid, full of flaws and bumps. Much like herself. It was cold to the touch, as it was early in the morning, and there was hardly any time for the rock to bask in the sun. As she walked around, Ishaba looked at her feet, watching her clothes flap around her ankles. And then she did something grave, she rammed right into someone, dropping her basket and scattering the fruit about her feet. The food rolled dismally on the ground in the dirt. Ishaba covered her mouth in horror, trying to muffle the gasp that was already muffled by the veil in front of her mouth. "My apologies!" she said quietly, casting her gaze at the ground. If it was Christian, she wasn't supposed to look them in the eye, according to her father. If it was a Christian man, she was in for a bad time. She could feel the scars on her face light up like they were in flames. "I wasn't watching my step. Pardon my clumsiness."

[Amir Hisham Ala' al din]

Hisham was wandering around the city doing absolutely nothing but trying to meet as many people as possible. He wanted the commoners of Jerusalem to have a face to go along with his name and gain their respect for not being too proud to journey to their side of the city. He spoke with merchants and beggars alike, giving out alms whenever there was a crowd big enough to witness his "selfless" deeds and listening to complaints with a false expression of sympathy. He couldn't care less about what the people had to say but it comforted them to think they had a ruler who interested in their lives.

After speaking to as many people as possible, the amir decided it was time to return to his lavish palace and bask in the luxury the commoners around him could never even dream of and was walking back to his horse when a veiled figure slammed right into him, knocking him against the wall and spilling the contents of her basket all over the dusty street. For a moment, his temper flared and his blood began to boil but he quickly brushed off his clothes and put his emotions in check. "You should be more careful, sister," he told the young woman, addressing her informally because he could see by her clothing that she was Muslim. He did not offer her his hand, however, to help her to her feet. She was not his kin and it was improper enough to talk to her, he would not cross the line and touch her. Looking around for the man she belonged to, he scowled when he saw no one rushing to her aide and quickly turned his eyes back to her. "Where is your man, sister? You should not be in public without an escort."