Dhaagey: The Ties that Bind Us

42. vengeance

Author's Note: Helllloooo! Thank you for all the love for the last chapter. It's hard for me to say "sorry for making you cry" because the writer in me is like "oooh yes, made them cry". So we move on! A big part of writing Dhaagey for me has always been exploring Meerab's identity and her role in the feudal system - if she grew up in it rather than outside it. So we explore this a bit as she seeks out her revenge. This chapter is super long (35 pages, 14.5K words) because I felt like being nice, it's also 'safe' for Ramadan. See you on the other side!

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The room was quiet except for the rhythmic beeping of the heart monitor and the low hum of the machines that surrounded him. The sterile air smelled faintly of antiseptic, sharp and cold, yet it could do nothing to mask the scent of him that still lingered—warm spice and the barest trace of smoke from the night that had nearly stolen him away. The night he had fought against death and won. The night she had ripped him from its grasp, refusing to let him go.

Days had passed, but time felt meaningless in this space, a cruel illusion stretching endlessly before her, measured only by the sound of his shallow breaths.

Meerab sat beside him, her body curled into the chair that had become more familiar to her than her own bed. Sleep had been an indulgence she could not afford, not when he lay like this, trapped in a silence that was not his own. Murtasim had never been still. Even in sleep, he shifted, his fingers twitching, his breathing steady and strong. Now, there was nothing but the slow, mechanical rise and fall of his chest, dictated not by will, but by necessity.

Her fingers traced the rough callouses on his hand, the familiar ridges of his knuckles. How many times had she watched these hands move with purpose? How many times had they reached for her, held her, pulled her close? Now, they lay still beneath hers, cold and unmoving. She hesitated for only a moment before threading her fingers through his, squeezing gently, willing him to hold her back. But his hand remained limp.

Meerab exhaled, reaching out with her other hand to push back the dark strands of his hair, longer now, curling slightly at the ends.

He'd hate it.

"Your hair is getting long," she murmured, her voice softer than she had meant it to be. "You better wake up soon, before I decide to cut it myself. You know I'd do it too."

Silence.

Meerab exhaled slowly, her hand still threading through his hair, feeling the softness of it against her fingertips. Why hadn't she done this more? Because this time, it was different. This time, he did not tilt his head into her touch, did not sigh at the sensation. And it terrified her.

"They don't say it to me," she whispered, her voice barely audible over the machines. "But they think you're not going to wake up." She swallowed against the thickness in her throat, shaking her head. "They don't know that you promised me, Murtasim. You promised you wouldn't leave me."

A tear slipped down her cheek, but she brushed it away angrily.

No. No, he would wake up.

"You always keep your promises."

She looked at him then, really looked at him. At the man who was her heart, her home. And she thought of all the things that had been left unfinished, all the dreams that had been spoken in hushed voices, in the safety of the dark.

"We still have things left to do. We have get married again," she whispered, a soft smile tugging at her lips despite the ache in her chest. "Properly this time. With all the rituals, the grand celebration, the moment where you finally get to call me your wife without any hesitation."