Work Text:
The infirmary was quiet, almost peaceful at this time of night. He watched as Nahri carefully stitched the final wound in Jamshid’s back, the final arrow from where the damned Afshin had shot him. From where he had tried to sacrifice himself for his Emir, for the future of Daevabad. For his love. Muntadhir swallowed, his heart tugging as he instead turned his attention back to the work the two women were doing with a care in their touch that Muntadhir was so grateful for. His relationship with the two Deava women, his new fiancé and her mentor, was fraught with tension, but in that moment he could have flung himself at their feet as he listened to the soothing words that they were speaking to Jamshid, despite him still being peacefully asleep and oblivious to the work they were doing.
Finally, as Nisreen took the tray with the six arrows, and Nahri let her hands linger over Jamshid’s back, he got a good look at what saving his life had cost his companion. Six red, jagged wounds were dotted across his back, one in a particularly sinister location on where even Muntadhir knew an integral portion of nerves would be.
And you let him lie here with arrows in his back. You did nothing.
Again he swallowed the urge to throw up at the thought of his own incompetence when it came to protecting the man he loved. The situation wasn’t that clear. Demanding Jamshid be allowed treatment would likely have ended in the deaths of both Pramukh men, or further delays with more long term affects in a cruel reminder of their place. But Muntadhir could not ignore the fact that he had power that he was not able to wield when it was needed most.
Nisreen reappeared with a tray of dressings and instruments for Nahri to begin covering the wounds, before leaving to see to the other patients in the main infirmary. Thankfully, Nahri had given her own private room to Jamshid, for which Muntadhir was grateful as he suspected the privacy would be much needed when Jamshid realised that his wounds would not heal, and that the Banu Nahida was baffled by her inability to even close the relatively small wounds that had done so much damage.
“Is he in pain?” Muntadhir asked, his voice slightly hoarse from sitting silently in the corner of the room as they had worked. He had been insistent that Jamshid should have him there, knowing that using his influence as Emir would do little to bring the healers to agree with him, he instead chose honesty and stated that he wished to see the sacrifice that his companion had made for him. Nisreen had clearly read between the lines, or perhaps she just listened to palace gossip, and she made a careful case to Nahri that Jamshid would most likely be very grateful of the Emir’s presence, particularly as Kaveh was being kept busy at the palace and was not able to stand vigil at his son’s side. They have always been close, Nahri, she had said.
At his words, Nahri turned to him with a severe expression but it softened slightly at what must have been pathetic desperation on his face.
“At the moment no. But he will be,” she admitted. She seemed very bothered by this, he noticed, and she turned back to her patient as she continued. “I can’t heal him using my magic. Thankfully I learned a lot about human remedies in Cairo. These are not as effective but they are keeping him asleep while I work and we can use them as he heals if the pain becomes too much at times. These salves, they will keep out infection, and hopefully dull the pain at the sites.”
Muntadhir nodded, saying nothing more as she continued to work. She finished neatly, setting her instruments on the tray and inspecting her work for a moment before getting up to dispose of her tools. She returned shortly after with a pitcher of water and two cups.
“You are welcome to stay, Emir. I will be next door. He should wake soon, now the arrows are removed. He must stay on his side, understand?” She didn’t wait for him to confirm, instead fixed him with a harsh, judgemental look. He deserved it, and he didn’t challenge her. “I will be in the main infirmary. If he needs us, you must call.” She glared at him again, glancing at Jamshid one more time before leaving and closing the door behind her with a gentle click.
Muntadhir brought the stool over to Jamshid’s other side where he could hold his hands and watch his face. He was grateful that Jamshid’s awakening would be in this quiet, cosy little room, and not with them all crowded around watching him intently. He had spent weeks sat in this position when he could, gripping Jamshid’s hand tightly, almost daring him to wake up, hoping that this brilliant, stubborn man would wake up of his own accord, forcing Nahri to step in and help despite what Ghassan said.
But he hadn’t done that. He had lain on this pallet with arrows meant for Muntadhir in his back, covered in blood and ash, the only sign of life being the too-slow rise and fall of his chest and the determined beat of his pulse. One night Muntadhir had sat with his fingers over it, as he had watched Nahri do countless times, counting and breathing with him and wishing their roles were reversed.
He adopted that familiar position now, his hand holding Jamshid’s much more carefully than he usually would. When Jamshid was first hurt, he had been just as tentative, convinced he would bring more damage just by his touch, until he had slowly built up the confidence to stroke back his hair from his face, to cradle his jaw, to rest their heads on the same pillow in a mimic of how they would lie in his huge bed in the palace, not using up any of the space and preferring to stay intertwined against the cruel city and the people within it that would see them being torn apart.
Now, with progress being made with Jamshid’s treatment, Muntadhir was back to being cautious. This would not be the time to jostle him or wake him before he was ready. So he simply sat, tracing the lines and callouses on his lover’s hands with his own soft, pampered ones. He watched his face, still unchanging and peaceful for now. If he had been religious like Ali he may have had a prayer for him, or more like Zaynab he could have coaxed him using words and poems that would ease him back into wakefulness. But he was not his siblings. He was the Emir, groomed to be cruel and to distance himself, to not let his weakness show. Those dear to him were a weapon to be used against him and so he instead did all he felt he could, and simply sat, watching the elegant lines of Jamshid’s face, and wishing him the most peaceful return that he could have.
When Jamshid did finally awake, and the new political climate was revealed to him, Muntadhir had no doubt in his mind that things would be forever changed between them. Muntadhir was to be married, of course, to the prickly Banu Nahida who looked upon him with such disgust that in his fragile emotional state it made his insides burn with shame. Jamshid would no longer be his guard, and the divide between their respective tribes was deeper than ever. And Muntadhir knew which side Jamshid would be on.
Enough, Muntadhir chided himself. Worry about the future later. His place was here, for now at least, and for now Jamshid’s place of healing did not need to be tainted with political troubles. Nahri had lit some incense, which Muntadhir breathed in deeply to steady himself. Still Jamshid did not move.
It reminded Muntadhir so much of that first night they had spent together. Playful and rebellious at the beginning, the result of a giddy night with a little wine, although not enough for them to write their touches off as a drunken fumbling. They had kissed and nipped at each other, Jamshid hooking his fingers under one of the chains Muntadhir had around his neck. So ornate! He had teased, before promptly stealing it from him and placing it on himself. It had been silly, foolish jesting, until Jamshid had looked at him with a hint of vulnerability that had made his breath catch, and he had pulled him into his arms, traced the elegant line of his jaw with soft fingers, and kissed him more tenderly than he had ever kissed another person. They had found themselves in the Emir’s bed shortly after, occasionally flitting back to their jokes, before taking a pause and sharing a secret smile together. The next morning, Muntadhir awoke early - he had not closed the shutters and the sunlight was streaming in. He would usually be cursing his drunken self for not having the foresight to ask a servant to block out the light, but he had been distracted by other more engaging things.
Speaking of, Jamshid had lain peacefully on his bed, on his back but positioned slightly toward Muntadhir, the sheets covering up to his midriff. The sun was not on his face directly, but the early morning light illuminated the room enough that Muntadhir could study all of the elegant planes of his face, not that he hadn’t done that exact thing the night before, shamelessly so that Jamshid laughed him off and tried to distract him by pulling him close and letting his breath tickle Muntadhir’s throat. He observed that he had never actually been awake early enough, or sober enough, to enjoy this simple act of appreciating someone’s beauty following a night of pleasure. If he had, it would likely have been accompanied by a pounding head and an unsettled stomach, both of which were absent here. Not a drunken tryst then, he noted, but decided not to dwell. It was done, and they would discuss it later. His admiring was short lived, as now Jamshid was waking and he blinked almost bashfully up at his Emir, letting out a nervous little laugh as he rolled onto his side.
“Are you watching me sleep? How strange,” he said playfully, his voice still deep with sleep and his eyes closing again, as though inviting Muntadhir to continue. Or perhaps he felt awkward and unsure of where the consequences of this would leave him now that the spell of the night before was gone.
“You are lovely,” Muntadhir had said, a breathless, almost reverent tone to his voice, and it made Jamshid look up at him in surprise. There was relief there too, Muntadhir noticed. To emphasise his point he took Jamshid’s hand and brought it to his heart, holding it there. “Last night,” he stopped. He didn’t know what he could say.
“It was lovely,” Jamshid smiled, returning his words and making Muntadhir’s heart lighten. “I understand our position,” he said, more serious now. “I am to protect you, and you have your own responsibilities. I have no expectations. But I enjoyed last night. And should there be another night where things align and lead us to your bed, then know that I would not be opposed.” He brought Muntadhir’s hand to his and pressed it gently against his lips, before starting to trace the lines of his hand as he changed the subject to much less dramatic things. The bedroom was a sanctuary, peaceful and warm, uninterrupted. It stayed that way for ten years, both of them understanding the need to play the games of the court, both appearing to have dalliances with others whilst at the same time knowing that truly, in their hearts, they belonged to each other.
Muntadhir wondered if they still would. So much was about to change, and he wondered if Jamshid would ever forgive him for what he had failed to do. He hoped for it, but did not feel he deserved it. It was his turn now to trace Jamshid’s hands, tempted to massage them as he used to after Jamshid came to him aching after a long training session on the bow. He thought fondly of how often that would lead to more, beginning playful but always ending with passionate movement between them. Those delicate touches as they lazily let their hands wander afterwards. Rather than massaging Jamshid’s hands now, he absently traced words and symbols of love into his palm, hoping that they were reaching him, wherever he was. Letting him know that they were ready for him to come back whenever he was able.
Hours passed. Muntadhir was surprised he hadn’t been kicked out yet, although he had heard Nisreen had been called away to attend a birth, so perhaps Nahri was so busy that she had forgotten about him. He wouldn’t remind her. He was where he was supposed to be. Shopfronts began opening, he could hear them outside, the chatter of assistants, gardeners, servants, making their way to their places of work hours before the rest of the city. Still he did not leave Jamshid’s side. He couldn’t even rest.
A twitch in Jamshid’s hand almost startled him, and he glanced down at them. He looked up at his face; his eyebrows were drawn above his still closed eyes, almost in confusion and Muntadhir was glad that the shutters were closed, the morning light likely too bright for Jamshid after so much time in this room.
“Love?” Muntadhir said softly, squeezing his hands again. “Jamshid, can you open your eyes?” He carried on stroking those familiar hands, bringing his head down to kiss the fingertips. Jamshid made a groggy noise, his voice rough from misuse. His eyes opened a crack and his brows furrowed.
“Dhiru?” He croaked, his hands squeezing back as he tried to move.
“It’s me, Jamshid. Stay still, very still. You got hurt. You must stay still,” Muntadhir soothed him, tempted to try to steady him by the shoulder in case he turned and flattened the pillows that were holding him up, but he didn’t want to alarm him and make him attempt to move even more. “Just stay there, love. I’m here.” He brought Jamshid’s hands to his lips and kissed them reverently, beginning that familiar massage now that they appeared to be clenching. In fear or pain it wasn’t clear.
“My back,” Jamshid practically gasped out, squeezing his eyes shut. “It burns.” Muntadhir made a noise that was almost how one would attempt to soothe a wounded animal. He knew that the medicine Nahri would give him would likely send him back into that infernal sleep, and he had overheard her arguing with Nisreen about how best to prevent his pain. The resulting answer was that without that medicine they couldn’t, and with it, Jamshid would never get any better either. The medicine was a very temporary solution to what Jamshid would have to endure for who knew how long.
“You saved me, Jamshid, do you remember?” Muntadhir asked him. He would guide Jamshid to understand why he was in such pain, at least until the Banu Nahida could tell him properly.
Jamshid opened his eyes again, his jaw clenched as he tried to converse through the pain and the fog that must have still been keeping him so drowsy. “The boat,” he breathed. “Dara.” He closed his eyes again, gripping Muntadhir’s hands so tightly. Muntadhir bent his head once more and pressed his lips to them, closing his eyes and willing away the tears that threatened to come at the realisation that for Jamshid, the fall out from that night was only just beginning and that it would be a long time before he was okay again.
“We’re all okay, love. The guard, they went down bravely. They were good men, my father saw their families compensated. Nahri is safe, the Afshin gone. I’m sorry Jamshid, I know you were close,” Muntadhir said.
“He tried to kill you,” Jamshid said, that same hoarse quality to his voice. “Are you okay?”
Muntadhir huffed out an incredulous laugh. “I could ask you the same thing,” he said, raising his head and finally, for what felt like the first time in months, breaking into a smile. “I have been worried sick about my hero of a love, who, like the fool he is, threw himself in front of me without a second thought.” He squeezed his hands. “I owe you my life,” he said. “I will never be able to repay you.”
“You don’t have to. You would do it for me,” he said, and the confidence in his voice made Muntadhir feel sick with shame. You let him lie there for weeks. He would have died for you and you didn’t even fight for him. “My legs... Muntadhir, I can’t move them,” he gasped out, shifting slightly in the attempt and letting out a sharp cry of pain.
“No, you mustn’t move, Jamshid. Enough,” Muntadhir said firmly, but there was nothing in it except worry that more damage would be done. “Nahri will explain your injuries. She is here somewhere. Would you like me to get her?” Jamshid considered for a moment and shook his head.
“How long have I been like this?” He asked.
“A while,” Muntadhir admitted. Now was not the time to hide the truth of the matter. Jamshid deserved to know. “My father would not allow the Banu Nahida to treat you until he had answers for what happened that night. Who had aided the Afshin. It was a warning to your father. Who is safe, by the way. Do not worry for him.” He swallowed, forcing himself to keep meeting Jamshid’s gaze. “I begged him to let them help you, but it seemed to anger him more... I let you down. I cannot tell you how sorry I am, how much I truly loathe how I let this go on so long.” Jamshid was just watching him, his hands squeezing Muntadhir’s ever so slightly as he spoke.
“I understand,” he said quietly, although there was no hiding the resignation in his face. “You think I don’t know how hard the king is to manage? I’ve watched you and my father walk that fine line for years. It’s just unfortunate I was on the wrong side of it this time.” Relief swept over Muntadhir, and he shook his head in disbelief.
“I don’t deserve you,” he said, his voice shaking, and Jamshid smiled.
“We established that years ago, Emir-joon,” he said, their old joke, delivered sadly to him at the sight of him trying to hold himself together, and despite Jamshid being the one unable to move on the pallet, it was clear who between them was the most broken at that moment. “You cannot lie with me?” He asked hopefully.
“I fear if I move from this spot I will face the wrath of your Banu Nahida,” Muntadhir smiled back. He paused and kissed Jamshid’s fingers once more. “And I am so afraid of hurting you that I know not where else to touch,” he admitted, tears coming to his eyes as Jamshid let out a shaky breath, as though the realisation of his situation was finally beginning to become apparent to him.
“Would you like me to get Nahri? She could try to help the pain, explain your injuries-“ he stopped at Jamshid shaking his head.
“Soon. But for now please stay,” he requested. “Tell me more tales of my bravery on the boat.”
Muntadhir rolled his eyes. “Your vanity knows no bounds,” he teased, daring to reach up to brush the back of his knuckles over Jamshid’s cheek, before letting his hand hesitantly rest there. “Add the title of a hero onto it, you’ll have the biggest head in Daevabad.”
“Second only to the great Emir,” Jamshid said, turning his head carefully and pressing a kiss to the inside of Muntadhir’s palm. There they stayed, letting the sounds of the infirmary waking up fill the silence in the room, drinking in those precious moments between Jamshid’s waking and when he would have to understand the extent of the damage to his body. His whole life. For now it was just them, and as Muntadhir began to revert back to the familiar massage of Jamshid’s hands, and Jamshid closed his eyes, focusing on that rather than the pain in his back and disconcerting numbness of his legs, it felt as though somehow, things could possibly, remarkably, be alright.