Chapter Text
The air inside the makeshift medical tent is ice-cold. Jaheira shivers, and then hisses with pain at the movement, fisting her fingers into the thin sheet draped over her cot.
“Aye, I know,” mumbles Reeda. The young halfling cleric has the tip of her tongue stuck out between her lips, her eyes narrowed with concentration as she delivers another healing spell into the wound in Jaheira’s gut. “If you’d all fallen back and come t’ me when the blow was first struck, this would be hells of a lot easier. Ma’am,” she adds as a distracted afterthought.
Jaheira grunts. “The battle needed finishing,” she mutters through gritted teeth. The attempt at bravado is a little undermined by the bloodloss slurring each word into the next.
“Spoken like a Harper,” Reeda quips dryly, not looking up. “I know damn well there wasn’t even supposed t’ be a fight. Commander Vartan said--”
“Vartan did not know what we were facing.” Jaheira scowls, but she can’t maintain the expression for long. The tent lurches around her as her head sags back against the pillow.
Their little team of Harpers was assigned only to a simple fact-finding mission, investigating reports of bandit attacks on the small farming settlements south of the Chionthar. And simple it seemed, right up until the first arrow caught Kambas in the shoulder. The battle that followed was swift and brutal - and a Harper victory, but a very near one.
“They are not normal bandits,” Jaheira mumbles. The instinct to give a crisp, accurate report is deeply ingrained; even the pain in her abdomen can’t quite blot it out. “Slavers on… on an advance scouting run… There were… skilled mercenaries among them.”
“Must’ve been, t’ puncture you proper.” Reeda tosses her a grin, but her eyes are troubled. “Arvul,” she snaps over her shoulder. “I need somethin’ t’ stem the bleeding, dammitall.”
“Almost done,” Arvul grunts. Jaheira is dimly aware of the half-orc ranger’s considerable bulk hunched in the shadowy corner of the tent, mixing a potion with quick, deft movements.
Reeda rubs a hand down her face. “Good. And then change th’ dressing on Kam’s shoulder and check on Freya’s leg. An’ make sure Mouse is still conscious; I told her not t’ go t’ sleep with that concussion.”
Instinctively Jaheira tries to turn, to check on her injured comrades. The world sways violently again with the attempted motion and her stomach churns with a wave of vertigo that fogs her vision at the edges.
Reeda delivers her a brisk slap on the shoulder without looking up. “Stop stlarning moving, Jaheira! Lie still and worry about yourself for once,” she says sharply. “Gods. Like treatin’ a bunch a’ children.”
Another flare of blue light lashes from her palms over the wound; the pain, although not the dizziness, recedes slightly. The cleric sighs. “That’ll have t’ do. I’m near tapped out, and I still need t’ make sure Frey’s foot doesn’t fall off.” She squints at Jaheira. “Got luckier’n you think, ma’am. Magic or not, a gut wound’s no joke. Need you t’ rest here overnight with a few potions in you, if I’m t’ have you up and runnin’ again by morning.”
“You know… that I prefer sleeping out of doors...” Jaheira mumbles.
Reeda looks at the canvas walls of the tent, which ripple gently in the brisk wind pouring through the valley from the north. Then she turns her head to eye the other semi-conscious Harpers distributed on cots around them. “I think you’ll survive just this once,” she says dryly.
Arvul trudges out of the shadows, holding a vial of dark liquid. Reeda examines it with a critical eye, then grunts, takes it, and shoves it into Jaheira’s hand. “Just lie still, drink this, try not t’ move around too much till that wound’s sealed itself up, aye?” she says briskly. “Done what I can for the pain. And maybe next time, avoid the pointy end of things.” A pause. “Ma’am.”
Jaheira accepts the vial and obediently drinks the licorice-black potion within it. “Nngh… howling hells…” She groans, feeling it burn down her throat, but as it settles in her stomach, the sick, dizzy feeling begins to recede from her brain, replaced by a warm, numb, bone-deep exhaustion.
Reeda studies her for a moment, then lets out a relieved breath. “Right. That looks better. Still with me, ma’am?”
“Mmhmm…” Jaheira replies distantly. The bottle falls from her suddenly nerveless fingers, rolling a few inches on the dirt floor.
“Good.” Reeda straightens up wearily and looks around. “Arvul, let’s-- aw, hells, now what?”
Through the haze of the potion, Jaheira dimly registers the sound of Commander Vartan arguing with someone outside the tent.
“...m-must speak with... P-please... don’t want to...”
“...wait till morning, Khalid... there’ll be...”
“...d-don’t understand... no time...”
Involuntarily, Jaheira’s lips curl in a drowsy smile. Khalid. The young Calishite has been part of the team for nearly a year now, and she has yet to ever see him angry. It is strange to hear him arguing with anyone, let alone with Vartan who is so notoriously hard to provoke.
Reeda sighs. “Dammit, I told him t’ go rest. Thought at least that boy had a lick of sense in this crazy bunch. I’ll go see what th’ matter is.”
Jaheira doesn’t respond. Her eyes drift half-shut as she listens to the muffled voices beyond the tent walls. The potion has started to soothe away some of pain that had been keeping her body rigid with tension, but more importantly, the sound of Khalid’s voice is comforting, suffusing her with the reassuring sense that a friend is nearby.
Khalid is always a comfort, really. He’s an oddity among the strange sharp edges of the Harpers, a gentle soul with a gentle voice. He would solve every problem with words if fate allowed, even as they roll across his tongue so unsteadily - and yet when fighting is called for and the cause is just, he has just as much skill with a blade as any she’s ever seen.
It was Khalid in the fight today who caught her when she fell, who dragged her bleeding from the battlefield when she could no longer stand, and who stood over her and the other wounded, blade up and feet planted, until they were safe. Jaheira was barely conscious at the time - fueled almost entirely by indignant rage at the ambush they had suffered - but she can remember looking up at him, fascinated by the way his eyes glinted in the late-afternoon sun.
She could look at him forever, really. On the road, her eyes often wander to his aquiline profile framed against the green and gold texture of forest underbrush. Her gaze follows him through camp as he hauls loads of firewood with a greater strength than his wiry frame would indicate. She thinks of him at night when the camp is quiet and there is nothing to distract her from the thought of his eyes, his hands, his--
Stlarn it all… she thinks with distant regret. There is a word for what she feels for Khalid, and if she was braver, she would admit it to herself. But what good would it do? She is not a creature of romance and soft things; when the druids let her take a form of her choosing for the first time, she slipped into the talons and wild free flight of a hawk. Among the Harpers, she is a thorn in Commander Vartan’s side more often than not, always arguing, always full of questions he does not want to answer.
Khalid is a gentler touch than she deserves.
If things were different... she thinks wistfully, letting her eyes drift fully closed. Perhaps if things were different, I could give thought to such things... perhaps--
“Jaheira!”
Her eyes shoot open again, just in time to watch Khalid barrel into the tent, all but bowling Reeda over as she tries to block his way.
“Ow! Hells,” the halfling snaps, regaining her balance with an air of exasperation. “Khalid, whatever it is, it can wait until morning!”
“N-no!” Khalid looks wildly around the tent, shaking off Reeda’s attempt to grip his arm. “It c-c-cannot wait. Not n-now… not while she’s…” Tension is drawn through every line of his body, visible even beneath the loose blue tunic that he normally wears to sleep, and his usual warm smile is nowhere to be seen. His eyes are very wide, showing the whites like a frightened animal.
Seeing that terror-soaked expression twisting his features, Jaheira feels a stab of unexpected anxiety, a visceral protective instinct that instantly wipes away the potion’s soporific haze. She sits up, ignoring the wave of pain flooding her torso. “Khalid?”
“Jaheira!” His eyes fix on hers. At once he seems to relax, some of that strained tension easing from his face. Jaheira’s heart skips a beat as the golden brown of his eyes glows with sudden brilliant intensity. “Oh… J-Jaheira…” he whispers, his shoulders slumping, his stammer intensifying. “T-thank the g-g-gods. I-I… I wasn’t sure…”
Reeda groans. “Gods damn it, Khalid,” she mumbles, slapping a hand to her face. “I had just convinced her t’ lie down.”
Khalid ignores her. With several long-legged strides he crosses the tent and falls to his knees at Jaheira’s bedside. His gaze has not left hers for a moment, and he reaches out and takes one of her hands between both of his. His palms are very warm compared to the chill of the night leeching through the tent walls.
“I m-must speak,” he says. The words trip through his stammer, but his voice beneath them is as unwavering and steady as his eyes, vibrant with sincerity. “All n-night I have remembered the t-t-terrible wound you s-suffered from those b-bandits. All n-night I have wrestled with the thought that p-perhaps there was no healing it, that you might b-be gone from us. I c-could not bear it. C-could not bear that you--”
His voice cracks, and he stops abruptly, staring down at her hand clenched between his. His breathing has quickened, his shoulders squaring like a man steeling himself for a leap from a precipice.
“Jaheira...” he finally goes on, and the first tremble enters his voice as he speaks her name. “I love you. There, I have s-said it, and I will stand b-by the words while b-breath remains to me.”
Jaheira stares at him, then looks in bewilderment at the empty potion bottle laying on the floor. This is a dream, she thinks dizzily, her free hand clenching into the thin sheet covering her. The drug has done its work and I am asleep. I am dreaming that he has said this thing.
But she looks up, and he is still there, still watching her, still holding her hand.
When she doesn’t speak, Khalid swallows, flushing a deep red as he looks away. “F-forgive me,” he says softly. “I know-- I know that I have n-no right to hope. I ask n-nothing, only that you know you c-carry my heart. I will g-go, and leave you to your healing.”
It occurs to her briefly to wonder if this is some kind of trick, a joke at her expense, a ploy to make her drop her guard in this weak moment in front of everyone. But even as she has the thought, she dismisses it; it is an unworthy idea. Kambas or Reeda might think of such a thing, or even the Commander in one of his more puckish moments... but not Khalid. Never Khalid. Khalid is always kind, always patient, bursting with sincerity in their hard-edged world. Khalid would not want to hurt her...
...which means that he is telling the truth.
He loves her.
He loves her… as she loves him.
Her heart begins to thump madly in her chest. The emotion, finally acknowledged after so many weeks of denial, hits like an onrushing wave, crashing over her and swallowing her up. For a moment all of the pain and exhaustion are forgotten. She feels as if she is floating a few inches above the bed with dizzying euphoria, only held in place by Khalid’s grip on her hand.
“Wait,” she says. Her voice doesn’t sound like hers, but strangely breathless, as if she has been running without moving from the bed. “Khalid. Don’t go. I--”
She stops, her throat tightening around the words. He looks back at her, and the sudden glimmer of hope in his eyes is enough to take her remaining breath away - but she has suddenly remembered that they are not alone, that other eyes are witness to this moment of vulnerability.
Reeda, standing nearby, has her arms folded, her exasperation quickly fading to a shit-eating grin. Behind her, Arvas is watching the scene play out with a small, bemused smile. Kambas, it seems, has come back to consciousness purely for the purpose of sticking his nose into things, as Jaheira can hear the dragonborn give a weak, teasing whistle from several cots over.
“Malar’s mark,” she mutters hoarsely, slumping back against the pillow behind her. “Will you all cease your staring? Reeda, surely you have lives still in need of saving.”
“Small tent,” Reeda points out casually. “Not my fault there’s no privacy. Besides, we’ve all been waiting for the two of you t’ get a clue for months. Surely we’re owed the grand finale.” Her grin widens as Jaheira glares at her. “You gonna leave the poor boy hanging?”
Khalid has flushed an even deeper shade of crimson at the cleric’s teasing. “This-- I should not have-- I should g-g-go,” he stammers, starting to push himself to his feet. “I should--”
“I love you too,” Jaheira blurts out.
Khalid’s eyes go wide. For a moment, his mouth opens and closes without any sound coming out, as if someone has punched him in the stomach, and he drops back onto his knees at her bedside. “You-- you do?” he finally answers, and this time there is no attempt to hide the tremble in his voice.
Her mouth has gone dry. She did not entirely know she was going to say the words; they came out without her volition, driven by a sudden terror that he would think she did not care, and that he would leave the tent before she had found the courage to reply.
But now she has said it, and there is no taking it back. There could be none even if she wished to, because the pure joy that has lit Khalid’s face is enough to wipe away every bit of doubt she might have had. No one has ever looked at her like that before. No one has ever seen all her sharp edges and still gazed at her with such wonder.
“Yes,” she whispers haltingly, low enough for only him to hear. “Yes. Yes, I do. Khalid… truly I do not believe that I could ever deserve you… but if you wish my heart, it is yours…”
“Oh…” He is still gripping onto one of her hands, and now slowly lifts it. “J-Jaheira, I--” The stammered words trail off to silence again and she feels the soft press of his lips against her knuckles, a gentle touch that makes her breath catch in her throat.
Without thinking, she tries to sit up again, to reach out to him impulsively and cup her palm to his cheek - and the movement slams her directly back into reality as agony stabs through the wound in her gut, sharper than before.
“Hngh,” she groans, sagging backwards to stare at the ceiling. The world again gives an unsettling lurch with the pain and her vision blurs - but this time Khalid is there, his hand still gripping hers, steadying her, warming her.
“Shit,” she hears Reeda say, as if from a great distance. “Damn it. That wound’s going t’ open back up if we’re not careful. Listen, Khalid - that was really cute, and you can stay with her tonight if you want, but you’d better make damn sure she doesn’t do any more of that. ”
And Khalid’s voice, nearer, earnest: “Y-y-yes. I understand. I w-will.”
There’s a slight shifting movement at her side, and then she’s conscious of a warm weight against her as Khalid sits down on the edge of the mattress. His fingertips dance, featherlight, across her forehead, brushing a stray bit of hair aside.
“Is this a dream?” she asks him, her voice thick with pain.
“If it is, I th-think it is mine,” he says with a slight smile. “Reeda says I m-may stay, if you would like…”
“I would… like to kiss you, and be damned to Reeda,” she mumbles vaguely. With adrenaline fading and that comforting warmth against her hip, the potion is starting to reassert itself, numbing the surge of pain, dulling her thoughts and weighing down her tongue in her mouth. “You have confessed, and I feel the same; I should now be able to kiss you as much as I please. That is the way of these things…”
At that, he laughs, and the sound rings like the joyful tolling of a bell in the back of her mind. “Would you have our f-first kiss be in a m-medical cot?” he murmurs teasingly.
“I would have it be wherever I--”
His head dips and his mouth presses to hers, and she forgets whatever she might have been about to say. His kiss is mesmerizingly gentle, a softness that has never before had any place for her. One of her hands fists weakly into the front of his shirt, attempting to deepen the contact, and for a thrilling moment he leans in, one hand cupping her cheek.
But only for a moment. “Careful now,” he murmurs against her lips, catching her wrist and guiding it back to the bed. “I-I am under s-s-strict orders not to let you m-move.”
She makes a soft, disappointed noise as he pulls away, lacking the strength to object any more vehemently. Unconsciousness beckons, her exhaustion and injury finally impossible to ignore. “You will stay?” she whispers, her eyes drifting half-shut.
“I will stay.” He looks down at her with an expression of rapt wonder, his eyes very bright. “Rest, J-Jaheira. Rest, and I will watch over you. And I will b-be waiting when you wake…”