The moonlight shone through my balcony doors in brilliant rays that night, illuminating the room in a way I thought impossible. I stared out of the window at my bedside, gawking at the stars as they glimmered in the sky. Bròn had disappeared not long after I’d fallen asleep, but I awoke from a nightmare for the first time since we’d set off on the journey home. My eyes were wet, with hair sticking to my neck from sweating so heavily in my sleep. The only thing keeping me from ruminating on the memories of Shahin carving into my back were those shimmering lights in the dark of night, far beyond my reach. My breathing still shook, and my mind was hazy—dissociated, if anything else, until I heard my door handle twist with a soft click. I turned my head, catching a pair of tired, familiar eyes on a face I hadn’t truly taken the time to observe until that moment. Abyad looked at me with a charming smile that almost made me mad; I couldn’t help but drink his features. A sharp jawline, strong nose, and cheekbones higher than mine looked back at me. His eyes—I could have sworn they were Idris’. If I’d been more capable of thinking, maybe I’d have been able to do the math—but I was in no condition to recognize even the smallest of similarities between his appearance now, and his appearance as a child.

“Did you miss me?” Abyad asked. I brought a hand to my throat, watching him warily as he all but floated towards Idris’ armchair—his armchair. “I hear you haven’t been eating—did you miss me that much?”

That stupid smirk sent me into a fury, especially coupled with his smug tone. My eyes fell to the bedsheets covering me, and I rubbed at my throat as it bobbed.

“I’ve barely been able to move.” I replied, my voice thick with emotion.

Abyad’s smile fell by the time I looked back at him, his eyes filled with concern. He held something in his hand, a jar. The healing salve from the first few nights we’d traveled.

“I forgot to give this to Bròn.” He admitted, his tone now remorseful as his eyes fell to the jar. “I’m sorry.”

I shook my head, and his gaze met mine once more. Looking back, they were the same eyes that met mine in the streets of Mahsul—I was just too starved and traumatized to realize it. The stillness within them lulled me into a sense of calm, bringing me further from the panicked state I’d awoken in. He pursed his lips, setting the jar down on the nightstand before standing from the chair and walking towards the door.

“I’ll be right back.” He murmured.

I sat in that bed for an unknown amount of time before Abyad returned, his sleeves rolled up to expose his vascular forearms, bandages in his right hand. Zaima had been too fearful over the last few days to look at my wounds for very long, though she made sure they were clean. Seeing Abyad with the bandages reminded me of how shoddily she had fashioned the ones I wore as he strode towards me and sat behind me on the bed. He muttered something under his breath in Mahsulah, and I almost yelped as I felt his weight behind me on the mattress.

“Why the doctors didn’t do this is beyond me…” he said, switching tongues to Otlank. “Take your robe off, Hala.”

His words were nothing like Shahin’s, laced with a gentle worry in comparison to a demanding bark. But still, I couldn’t do it. It was too big of a request. I tried to move my hands, yet they never moved from the sheet on top of me. I heard a soft sigh from behind me before Abyad spoke again.

“I understand, this is hard. But you need to take the robe off. No one wants a dead Princess.”

I swallowed harshly and nodded, forcing my hands to move towards the sash keeping my robe in place. Shakily, I began untying and removing the garment. I couldn’t stop my shoulders from trembling and anxiety from rippling my core. My breath sputtered as Abyad’s large, warm hands met the collar of the robe and began peeling the fabric from my back; tears formed in my eyes. This was too much—and just as in the not-so-distant past: there was nothing I could do to stop it. I heard Abyad loose a breath, himself, before I felt the sensation of the bandages Zaima had put on me being unraveled.

This tale has been pilfered from Royal Road. If found on Amazon, kindly file a report.

The room’s tepid temperature hit my skin before his hands began grazing each wound, sending a burning sensation reverberating through me. There was no more silent sobbing, it was full-blown crying. I could hear him apologizing as he’d touch and retouch my back, as his hands smoothed the balm over the cut that stole my worth as an heiress to the throne. No one could know—I couldn’t tell anyone about my inability to bear child. The cries became harsher as the emotional turmoil ate me alive, and my hands came to my face. The pain was a non-sequitur, my hands moved regardless of the pain I was in. It was adrenaline doing it, as if I were capable of anything I willed so long as those endorphins flowed through me.

“Va shazeh…jun ka fakhlah, Themaz…?” I could barely hear him over the cries I loosed. The only word I recognized was the term of endearment, and I tried to calm myself as he continued applying the balm. Finally, his hand drew away. I heard him unravel the fresh roll of bandages, talking to himself in our mother tongue. He began wrapping at the base of my back, tight but not too tight.

“You can’t understand Mahsulah, can you?” He asked as he rounded my stomach.

I shook my head, my lips curled into a frown. I was so glad he couldn’t see my face—I knew he’d have looked at me similarly to the night I begged him not to hurt me in that burnt tree trunk.

“I’m sorry, Princess…” He said with a saddened cadence. I almost burst into tears once more.

“I don’t need your pity.” I snarled, as a few stray tears fell from my eyes.

“You need more than pity, right now.” Abyad shot back. “Inniat ka fakulazeh, Themaz, ana wa frokhshun ne shrefant.” He muttered as he made another lap with the bandages.

“Why do you keep calling me that?” I asked.

“So you do speak Mahsulah?” He asked, his tone almost mocking me.

“I don’t.” I said with an edge. “But I know certain words…you can’t call me Themaz and expect me to ignore it.”

“I see you as a dear friend. Is that better?” He threw his answer in as he tied the bandage taught up at my armpits. I winced. He drew back for a second, before wrapping my shoulder blades with an X-like pattern across my chest.

“Why don’t I remember you, then?” I asked. Surely, I’d have been able to recall such a handsome man being a close friend.

He stayed silent for a long while, and as I was getting ready to chastise him for not answering my question he spoke in a semi-humorous tone.

“Ne kazeh wa trezhan, ana fidiqh ghaab.”

I furrowed my brows, looking at him over my shoulder. He had a soft smile on his lips, but his eyes were pained.

“I can’t understand you.” I said in a pointed tone. He breathed out his nostrils, a laugh, and shook his head.

“Nothing, Princess. You don’t need to recognize me.” He smiled.

I could tell he was lying, and it made my anger boil hotter than the sun’s surface. But I couldn’t scorn such a handsome face. His eyes traveled down, looking at my body with a sullen expression. He muttered something else under his breath, a similar statement to my Father’s: Kazeh mort. My back ached from looking at him for so long, so I had to turn around and look ahead.

“If this is your idea of reteaching me Mahsulah, it’s pretty shitty.” I snarked.

Abyad kept quiet for a second before switching tongues. “You just look so sickly, Hala…I don’t know how you’re still here…”

Raw emotion coated his words, and I’d almost wished I’d forced myself to keep my neck craned to him as he brought the robe up over my shoulders. The way he said my name with such familiarity, I’d take that over him using my title any day. I sighed, wiping my face of the wetness my tears had left once I’d gotten my sleeves back on.

“Call me Hala from now on.” I told him. “I don’t like hearing my title come from your mouth.”