Collaterals

His back to the Princess

He'd never run up a flight of stairs so fast. And with her quarters so vacant, his feet were stomping through the halls, echoing across the walls as he all but flew to her. The staff must be buzzing around her, helping the doctor. Her ladies must be holding her down, combing through her hair, and holding soporific sponges to her nose. Let her pain be bearable, let the doctor's hands be blessed, let her live unharmed, please, oh, please, let her live, and let them wed, and let him take her to his estate where they could live as one—

Khaled stopped dead in his tracts, the hair on the back of his neck stood as his hand flew to the pommel of his sword. 

The hall leading to her room was littered with bodies. 

Khaled looked ahead to the door left ajar at the end of the hall. He proceeded cautiously, jumping from one body to another with enough stealth as not to arouse suspicion. These men were no strangers, no foreigners. Khaled had spent much of his life visiting Ali within these very walls, which meant that he knew the guards, knew their faces, even knew which ones preferred the night shift and which preferred the day. 

He paused, looking to the body leaning on the door, as though it'd collapsed suddenly. 

The Captain. 

The only body whose back was to the Princess's quarters. His eyes were wide, an arrow sticking out the side of his neck, his hand outstretched by his side as though he'd died trying to reach it.

A knot twisted in Khaled's abdomen. 

Slowly, he unsheathed his sword. The Young Lord cringed, biting his closed lips between his teeth as the metal still scraped and clinked. He side-stepped the Captain's body, angling his sword forward as he crept into her quarters.

Through the halls, quickly, quietly: every door was open, every hall was empty, only the ghosts of treachery bearing witness to Khaled's slinking stalk. 

He did not need to push her bedchamber's door open. He only had to step in and stop.

A man stood over her, a bow secured around his hunched back. She was convulsing below him, flailing half-heartedly, hands raised as though to claw at him, only to fail and fall.

Khaled's next steps were faster, which made them louder. 

The man turned to meet him, eyes wide, hands reaching for the pommel of his sword.

His head was on the ground before he could do anything else.

Khaled ran to her, discarding his sword to her side and flinging the pillow away, pulling himself closer to her as she gasped and coughed. That blazing heat met him once more, and he cringed, forcing himself to look at her. Leila's face was red, her eyes fluttering, her lips chafed, her skin matted with grime. He looked down to where the sword was still jutting out of her leg. No one had tended to her. No one had come. Khaled grit his teeth, tears flooding his eyes so he could do nothing but push her hair out of her face, unable to hold her blazing skin for too long. He whispered her name like a prayer, "Leila?"

Leila's mouth began to move, now, as though she were speaking, mouthing words as her head began to sway from one side to another. Khaled's brows tugged in concern, "Yes? Yes, what do you need?"

But she would not speak, moans of pain sounding from her as she blinked. Could she speak, then? Three days of fighting with not a grunt in the face of death, and now– Khaled shook his head, looking around the room. He ran across it, pouring her some water. 

He was gentle as he lifted her head, bringing the cup to her lips, "Drink."

She did not, at first. But Khaled did not relent, letting the water fall into her open mouth. Her neck tensed beneath him, head pushing forward as she drank sloppily, greedily, coughing as her eyes cringed shut. He couldn't help but smile: alive. She was alive. "Yes. Yes, good. Drink."

Only the Young Lord's joy was short-lived. He heard it: the sound of a door, somewhere not too far off. Khaled glanced behind his back before setting her head on the pillow and putting the cup away.

He grabbed his sword, turning his back to the Princess.