My Queen's Touch

Her fingertips, encased in gloves, delicately hovered over the lifeless form beside her. She lay beside him, her fingers tracing through his icy skin, feeling the chill that seemed to freeze everything it touched. He lay there, as close to the threshold of death as one could possibly be.

"Curse to eternal sleep? Is that the truth?" Her voice, low and hoarse, barely rose above a whisper. Her blood-red irises fixated on his pallid skin with a peculiar fascination, framed by locks of hair cascading onto the pristine white sheets that cradled their intertwined figures. 

In contrast to his pale complexion and silvery blond hair, her own visage exuded warmth, complementing the fiery hues of her red hair and eyes. It was a stark reminder of their disparate origins, a subtle reflection of the vast chasm that separated their worlds.

"It must be true. Why else would the King of Solyria relinquish such precious ports to us? He must be the last of the bloodline, making the king worry about his lineage," she murmured to herself, her words a solitary soliloquy in the quiet chamber. She knew well enough that the man beside her heard nothing of her musings. Even if he did, he was as lifeless as a fish out of water; his awareness, if any, mattered not.

With deliberate movements, she slowly raised her body, propping herself up on one hand as she regarded him from a slightly elevated vantage point. "I should let him die!! I really wish to do that." She finally said with a little excitement in her voice. "I am going to do that anyway so why wait?" Her voice carried a tone of determination, a glint of resentment flickering briefly in her eyes before she dismissed it with a shake of her head. "Tsk, I can't do that. Not when I am married to him." Her lip quivered slightly at the corner, a dry laugh escaping her lips before she nonchalantly tossed herself to his side, claiming a portion of the blanket that enveloped Dastan. It was an act of indifference, as if she cared little for his condition.

And then, with a subtle shift, she reached for the gloves covering her hands, revealing a pair of calloused palms adorned with cuts and dryness. With a flick of her wrist, she tossed the gloves onto the side table, the sound echoing softly in the dimly lit room. Hugging herself tightly, she felt the roughness of her own skin, a testament to the hardships she had endured.

Finally, she surrendered herself to the embrace of sleep, her breathing steady as she allowed the weight of her decisions and the heaviness of the moment to fade into the darkness.

The clicking of the clock's fasteners grew increasingly insistent, each sound reverberating through the chamber with a persistence that grated on Noori's nerves. She shifted restlessly on the bed, the softness of the mattress failing to provide the comfort she sought. Tossing and turning, her brows furrowed in frustration as she struggled to find a position that offered respite.

In her agitation, she kicked off the stolen blanket that had once covered Dastan, the warmth of the room becoming stifling to her senses. As the fabric of her dress rode up her leg in protest, it revealed a canvas of scars etched onto her ivory skin, some deep, some shallow, each telling a story of battles fought and wounds endured. Her arms, like her sleeves, pulled up as she tossed her hand across Dastan's form, seeking the elusive perfect spot to rest.

Finally, as if by some small miracle, her forehead smoothed, the furrowed lines of frustration giving way to a serene calmness. A soft snore escaped her lips, a gentle melody that mingled with the quiet hum of the room, signalling her surrender to the embrace of sleep.

In the silent hum of her slumber, Noori remained oblivious to a significant development—the man she had unwittingly turned into her pillow showed signs of life, his eyebrows twitching uncomfortably, a subtle indication of consciousness. For those who had attended to Dastan during his four years of motionless existence, this would have been an extraordinary event, but Noori slept on, unaware of the miracle unfolding beneath her touch, a miracle she never wished to occur.

Suddenly, a groan escaped Dastan's lips, his plain forehead glistening with a sheen of sweat as his eyebrows continued their uneasy dance. The soreness in his back gnawed at him, a relentless reminder of his cursed existence. With a herculean effort, he attempted to shift his heavy body for the first time in four years, his breath laboured, his words trapped within as if too exhausted to be spoken.

"Why?" he gasped, the question hanging in the air, heavy with uncertainty and pain. Noori's previously smooth forehead furrowed once again as her ideal sleeping position was disrupted by the faint movements beneath her limbs. With a barely perceptible parting of her eyelids, she peered through the veil of sleep to investigate the disturbance.

Simultaneously, a pair of piercing blue eyes flickered open, their gaze drowsy yet alert. When those eyes met Noori's, there was a moment of profound stillness, as if time itself had paused.

"I thought you were dead!" Noori spoke in her dry hoarse voice but Then, with a jolt, it seemed as though Dastan realised he was not dreaming, and with startling speed, he rose from the bed, his movements infused with newfound vitality.

Seizing the decorative sword adorning the wall behind him in one swift motion, he held it at Noori's throat with a fierce determination. In a voice thick with demand, he demanded answers.

"Who are you?!" Dastan's voice reverberated through the room, sharp and demanding, the sword he held at Noori's throat a menacing presence.

But for Noori, this was nothing new. As a general in her nation's army, she had faced countless life-threatening situations, far more dire than her husband's confused outburst. "It is alright, I am your wife," she reassured him, her tone steady despite the tension in the air.

Dastan's eye twitched in response, his tongue heavy with confusion. The adrenaline rush that had propelled him out of bed began to fade, leaving his limbs feeling leaden and weak.

"You are going to fall, S-sit down," Noori urged, concern lacing her words. Before she could finish her sentence, Dastan's strength waned, his knees buckling beneath him, and the sword slipped from his grasp, clattering loudly to the ground.

With swift reflexes, Noori rose from the bed and caught Dastan before he could fall, supporting his weight as he teetered on the edge of consciousness. With a sigh, she settled him back onto the bed, tucking him in with a tenderness that belied her earlier frustration.

As she lay back down beside him, Noori spoke, her voice tinged with weariness. "I will introduce myself to you now, so that next time when you wake up, you don't hold a sword to my neck. I don't appreciate that. We in the Nuria Empire consider it very offensive. And the last time someone tried to do that i put an arrow through their head so beware." she said with a warning in her voice. 

Dastan's head turned slowly in her direction, his brow furrowed with the effort of understanding as if wanting to fight back, Though he longed to speak, it was clear that he was unable to find the words.

"I am your bride. I married you, well they tricked me into doing that but it still counts, I take marriage seriously." She gave him a serious look, "so we have to stay together and not kill each other until we are useful to each other," Noori explained, her words carrying a weight of obligation and expectation.

"Do you understand?" she asked, her gaze fixed on his face, searching for any sign of comprehension amidst the haze of confusion.