Well, here I am again. Lemme tell you, writing these days is like pulling teeth; it's been very hard to sit down and put together a cohesive story. I want to write- I always do- but translating my thoughts into written word has become very difficult. It makes me sad.
Still, I've got work to do and by golly I'm gonna do it.
So, a few warnings for this story. Firstly, my friend requested this, kinda. What she asked me to write was an mpreg Arslan/Elam story. What she's getting is a secretlyfemale!Arslan story featuring Elam as an awesome best friend, because I'm just not comfortable writing slash and mpreg. I figured a way around that is that Arslan is a girl, but was brainwashed by Andragoras early on to think that 'he' is a disfigured boy, a prince. Considering their need for an heir, I was hoping it's not too far-fetched that they'd pull that crap with the first kid who looks like it could be theirs.
The pronouns are gonna be confusing. He thinks of himself as a boy. Because this many years later he doesn't even realize he's not. So it's kinda mpreg, since he is pregnant. There. Loophole. Also, it was such an interesting concept to write.
Big warning: I HAVE NOT READ THE MANGA! I HAVE ONLY WATCHED THE ANIME! BE WARNED! I don't have the time to read the manga :'( Still, please don't judge me too harshly on things I can't know from the anime alone- because I know the anime is incomplete and doesn't cover a lot of original source material.
This is an AU (since I don't know what happens after Arslan decides to march to his father's aid at Ecbatana) where Arslan and company win back the kingdom, but Andragoras and Tahamine don't survive. This is mostly me being lazy and not wanting to deal with those assholes and what they'd do to the situation. We're keeping things as simple as we can here. So Arslan is King of Pars at 15. I intensely Googled what to make Daryun in this post-battle world, but Google hast failed me and we're just gonna stick with him being a marzban again.
The story is gonna be oddly paced. At first I just kinda put it together as a little pastime, but then my imagination got more involved and I had to add more. The language is weird, too, since I want to include modern wording to keep it not-boring, but I don't wanna make it too modern. OC names are taken from the Turkish or Persian sections of baby-name sites, because I'm gonna base this on Arslan's name being Turkish or in some iterations, Persian.
The pregnancy is based off of my friend's rather unique experience. The birth is of my own creation, and has been the hardest thing to write. I've tried to be as medically accurate as possible, but I'm sure I'm wrong in plenty of places. Again, please don't be too harsh.
Anyway, if that all hasn't scared you off, enjoy!
He tried to never, ever think of it. It was a completely off-limits topic for thought or, gods forbid, discussion.
Somehow, in the span of less than two months, all of his fears- all of his insecurities- had become his life. Powerless, taken advantage of, weak and unable to save himself.
After That Time, it was much easier for him to sympathize with the slaves he was so intent on freeing.
Still, even when every instinct told him to lock it all away, sometimes he couldn't stop his thoughts from roaming to where they shouldn't- similar to when his tongue grew a mind of its own and ran over a cut on his lip whenever he wasn't thinking about it.
When he did dare to tread along that treacherous path, his first memory of That Time was the worst one.
They came for him at night. Of course they did- the boy-king of Pars, shoulders sometimes nearly buckling under the new weight of being ruler, would be perceivably more vulnerable and thus be more enthusiastically protected by the ones he was blessed to call his friends. During the day it would be impossible to separate him from them.
But nighttime, with its added hiding places and lulling sense of security, was a different case entirely. If Daryun was to guard him all day, he could not also stand watch over his chambers all night. Thus logic dictated that palace guards, normal but loyal, would have to do this job. And because they were not Daryun, they weren't nearly as well-trained to detect the man called Amir as he snuck into Arslan's chambers through the window.
Arslan wasn't able to fight him off. Even though being a light sleeper allowed the young king to detect the attacker, he was barely able to lunge for his dagger before a cloth was suddenly pressed to his face. After inhaling just once, Arslan was unconscious.
He woke in a covered wagon. His arms and legs were bound. Regardless, Arslan forced himself upright, contorting his limbs this way and that in the hopes of wriggling free. At fifteen years old, he was still small in stature and was hoping to use this to his advantage.
However, he couldn't escape his bonds. The ropes were tight, biting into the soft flesh of his wrists and ankles.
He was without boots, and wearing only his sleeping shift. His hair was loose and tangled and falling in his face, to his irritation and Amir's amusement.
When he tired himself out, he demanded answers of the infuriatingly cocky man sitting opposite him on a cushion.
Amir, his kidnapper, spoke in a language Arslan had never heard before- but while the words were unknown, the tone of answer implied he had understood the questions and was simply unable to reply in anything but his own language.
When Arslan demanded to know the man's motivations, Amir broke right through the boy's mask of bravado and leaned in close, reaching out and lifting up a lock of the young king's white hair with an air of admiration, making the boy squirm and fruitlessly try to cringe away. Again, the man's tone communicated what his words could not- and this time it was such a familiar tone that Arslan knew without translation what the man had said: "Because you are beautiful."
It wasn't an interpretation based on vanity, but on an embarrassing history of being told variances of that exact phrase. Because what the new king lacked in physical power, he apparently made up for with exotic (and shamefully effeminate) looks- looks that had been subject to comment from peasants and nobles alike for as long as Arslan could remember.
Then- and this is the part of the memory that he specifically wished he could block out- the man leaned even closer, hand drifting to the neckline of his gown. Before Arslan could do more than gasp, and despite the boy trying his best to lean away as far as he could, the other hand came up and the shift was ripped down the middle, exposing his torso and his greatest shame.
The day before had been a trying, completely exhausting one, full of meetings and training and more meetings and issues that needed to be dealt with right that second. He had fallen into bed after minimal preparations and without bothering to remove his bandages.
Now said bandages were on display for the man who, emboldened by the discovery and with a sharp smirk, reached for them with a 'what-have-we-here' tone on his tongue. Arslan fought harder than ever before, shouting with a hoarse voice until he was begging, pleading for the man to leave him alone. Pathetic. And you're supposed to be a king they can be proud of?
There, in the back of a covered travelling merchant's cart, Amir became the only other living person to know Arslan's secret. What was most horrifying about it, though, was how sickeningly pleased he was to learn it.
The next weeks were blurred with the sheer trauma of it all, and for that, at least, he could be thankful. He knew intellectually what had happened- kidnapped, sold, used, rescued. But actually reliving those memories was something he wasn't sure he could overcome- a special kind of torment.
Sometimes trivial things that vaguely stirred up a memory could send him into a fit, or at least make his heart race and his chest constrict painfully. And all he could do was curse himself for how weak he was.
He threw his everything into moving forward, and becoming the king his people deserved. One day he would be strong, and mighty, and all of the things a king was supposed to be.
He'd just have to work himself harder and harder until that happened.
The following months were hard on his body.
He went through phases of voracious hunger interspersed with no appetite at all. The near daily vomiting that closely followed was doubly unpleasant, but generally occurred early in the morning and was gone by the time he needed to leave his chambers. Only once did it happen later in the day, and he was able to dismiss it as a passing illness without raising too much alarm. When this horrible phase ended, it was replaced with a constant tiredness that pulled at his very bones and must have meant that he was overworking himself again- although he wasn't going to cut back on his daily progress anytime soon, not when he was finally starting to get a hold on what being king entailed. No, he would simply have to force himself to stay alert and pay attention, and hopefully the weariness wouldn't end up costing him.
Out of all of this chaos, there was one thing he consistently couldn't explain away- and that was the shifting feeling inside of his stomach. It started several months after his return to Ecbatana, and happened often enough that he developed an anxiety in the recesses of his mind over what could be causing it.
There was no pattern to how it felt; sometimes it was a jab, sometimes it was a rolling feeling, sometimes it was a fluttering. He could set his hand upon his stomach and watch the impacts gently nudge it. They would come and go in hours-long increments.
However, they were very weak. Strange, and uncomfortable, but never painful or powerful enough to warrant much attention. He had gotten rather good at tuning them out.
After many weeks of this, he'd grown accustomed to it and never made mention to anyone.
The day started as always- Arslan was awakened and dressed by Hayal. He was drowsy and a bit sore that morning, but he went about his day all the same; he met with his advisors, and then with citizens with concerns, and by midday he was in the courtyard, sword in hand and body coated in sweat.
Breathing- while much easier in the last few days than it had been in a while- was a struggle now, and each block and strike drained more stamina than it should have. Embarrassed, the boy did not bring this to Daryun's attention and forced his aching, shaky body to obey his commands.
He's going to aim for my side this time, he analyzed, and moved to block accordingly. He was barely keeping his weapon in his hands.
Clang!
The king was disarmed, falling backwards and landing on his backside, entire body jolted by the impact. His sword noisily hit the ground several feet away.
He vaguely registered the approaching sound of boots clipping the ground. "Highness, are you well?" Daryun asked, kneeling beside him with a concerned look. After closer examination, the man decided, "It's clear you've come down with something- you're shaking, and we've hardly begun."
"I'm fine," Arslan asserted, even as his face stayed screwed up in pain and he rubbed at his aching back. The impact with the ground must have jarred his body worse than he'd thought, because his lower back was cramping up in a secondary wave of pain. It lasted a few seconds longer and then disappeared, allowing the boy some relief. He raised his head and forced his eyes open, meeting his guardian's gaze.
Daryun looked unconvinced, offering the young king a hand. "Come- training is over for today."
Arslan was quite tempted to halfheartedly scold him for giving orders to his king, but in the end he couldn't argue with his body's fervent agreement; he accepted the help up, acquiescing with a tired sigh.
To his astonishing good fortune, Lord Ayhan had to cancel his visit to the castle, making him the third to do so; Arslan read the note, delivered by loyal Azrael, explaining that the man's youngest son had come back from Gilan several days early with a new wife in tow, and he couldn't help the amused smile pulling at his lips.
"People never cease to confuse me," he admitted to his winged companion. Azrael tittered from his perch on Arslan's shoulder.
Taking in a breath of dry summer air, the boy sent the falcon off with a message of his own and continued his path to his chambers, glad to realize that, with this final cancellation, he now had a whole afternoon with no kingly obligations to attend to.
Maybe some rest is in order.
He stood quietly while Hayal removed his armor and outer tunic, then requested she help remove his jewelry as well. She was just unclasping his necklace when he was overtaken by a wave of heat; he pulled his undertunic off as well, politely dismissing her after she'd put it away.
His chest had been in discomfort for the past week, and he again had to loosen his bandages to try and alleviate some of it- it helped very little, but he was unwilling to loosen them further lest it give too much away- his day wasn't completely over, after all.
He untied his hair, pulled off his boots, then climbed into his bed, which suddenly seemed too firm for his aching muscles to appreciate. Still, he managed to fall asleep relatively quickly.
The boy barely got any sleep, however, before he was awakened by that same cramping pain in his back from earlier, only slightly more powerful than before. It wasn't unbearable, but it was still strong and strange. His muscles tensed up without his intent and stayed that way.
Grimacing, he rolled onto his side and curled up, waiting it out.
...thirty-one… thirty-two… thirty-three...
Finally it left him and he let out a sigh. I'm starting to think I should be concerned.
Still, muscle cramps were no reason to raise any alarm amongst his staff and his friends- Elam in particular. The other boy often took it upon himself to tend Arslan's wounds and treat his illnesses, both to be of help to the king and to apply the skills he was learning with his master, and his time could be much better spent.
Also, the mere thought of the others fretting over him was enough to make Arslan uncomfortable.
I refuse to be the burden I once was.
He wasn't a helpless child anymore- he was sixteen, he was the king of Pars, and he had his father's legacy to live up to. His kingdom could not afford a single mistake or shortcoming on his part, and his loyal friends didn't deserve to carry his weight forever. He was determined to better himself in every possible way, and he wouldn't stop this quest until he could fight for himself, until he could rule on his own, until he was truly a king.
His people often regarded him as a young boy taking on more than he could handle- there was hardly malice in this, but all the same he wanted to earn their respect so he could stop feeling like an imposter each time he sat upon his father's throne.
With these anxious thoughts circling in his mind, the young king rolled onto his other side and fell asleep once more.
Well, let me know what you think! Next chapter will be up on Friday!